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.

3. Chapter 3

1883

XXI.

'Lucy, my dear,' said her mother, coming into the drawing room with a note in her hand, 'Lucy, what do you think of this invitation? Mrs. Alton wishes us to dine with them next week.'

Lucy Beltrane took the note and examined it. 'Mrs. Alton? Oh, I remember, her husband is that tiresome diplomat, we met them at Lady Deville's ball. I should decline it if I were you. He is not very high up in the Foreign Ministry, and she talks far too much.'

Lucy gave the note back to her mother, and resumed her stitching, but very shortly she became aware that Lady Beltrane had sat down on the opposite end of the sofa, with a look of doubt and hesitation. 'Mamma?' Lucy said at last.

'Really, my dear, you know how much I trust your judgement, but in this case …'

'In this case what?'

'In this case, perhaps you are not aware of all of the facts. Mrs. Alton has a brother who is well off, and single, and he is sure to be there too.'

'All the more reason. I don't want to meet any gentlemen. I have met far too many already. Sometimes it seems to me there are no gentlemen in the whole of England with whom I am unacquainted.'

'And then,' said Lady Beltrane, as if her daughter had not spoken, 'your papa wishes to enlist Mr. Alton's help with something he is doing in Parliament.'

Lucy set aside her work and frowned at her mother. 'You might have told me that at first, instead of asking for my opinion in that devious way. Of course we must go if Papa wishes it. Why did you not say so?'

'I thought you would say we should go. I did not know you would object,' said Lady Beltrane weakly.

Lucy frowned again, and clicked her tongue, and took up her work, and no more was said on that subject.

The evening of Mrs. Alton's dinner coincided with that of the Duchess of Merton's ball, and it was on the latter rather than the former that Lucy dwelt as she prepared herself. The ball was to be a very splendid one, and in former years she would have been aflutter with nervous excitement at the prospect of the music and the lights and the many fine young men who would be there. But she had attended too many balls. She had begun when she was eighteen, and now she was twenty-three, and none of the fine young men belonged to her as yet. Her mother often reminded her of how much she had been admired when she first came out, and could recite the names of the five or six gentlemen who had been her most ardent suitors; but when it came to the point, none of them had proposed marriage,and for some time now she had comforted herself more with remembrances of past glories than with expectations of glories to come. She could not understand how girls younger than she, with smaller fortunes and larger noses, were successful where she continued to fail. Her two elder sisters were well married, and her three female cousins also, and it was only on account of Lucy that her mother continued spending the season in London. At two or three in the morning, concealing her yawns as she spoke with some silly young fop at the end of a ball, Lucy would catch a glimpse of her mamma, asleep on a chair in the corner, and would feel a mixture of pity and resentment. Her mother ought to be allowed to rest, but then, so should Lucy be allowed to rest. She sometimes felt that all of her family's difficulties would be solved if she, Lucy, ran away to America, to be heard from no more.

Mr. and Mrs. Alton lived in Gloucester Square, and Lucy was surprised at the size and elegance of their house. 'Mr. Alton's family were great merchants in Devonshire,' whispered her mother as they mounted the stairs to the drawing room.

Very soon they were being announced by the butler, and Mrs. Alton came forward to greet them. Lucy's father, Sir Phillip, almost immediately walked away to speak with Mr. Alton, and Mrs. Alton had to welcome other guests, and so Lucy and Lady Beltrane found themselves at leisure to look about. The room was large and well proportioned, rather plainly furnished – too plainly for Lucy's taste – but handsome in an unassuming way; about ten other people were standing about, and without consciously deciding to do so, Lucy began searching for Mrs. Alton's brother. She found two likely candidates and was watching them covertly, for clues to help her decide which one was the actual man, when Mrs. Alton suddenly appeared before her with a third man at her side. 'Lady Beltrane, may I present my brother, Mr. Matthew Hartfield? Matthew, this is Lady Beltrane, and her daughter Miss Lucy Beltrane.'

Mr. Hartfield shook hands with each of them in turn, and everyone said 'how do you do,' and then Mrs. Alton said, 'Matthew will take you down to dinner, Miss Beltrane, if you please.' Lucy bowed slightly, in token of acceptance, and then Mrs. Alton went away and Lady Beltrane shortly followed her, saying she wanted to speak to her old acquaintance Mrs. Smithson. Lucy and Mr. Hartfield were therefore left alone, and Lucy's five years of experience in London society enabled her to remain calm and demure, waiting for him to speak rather than striving to fill the momentary silence. She watched him in the meantime. Without being elderly or even middle aged, he was much older than she, with black hair beginning to turn grey at the temples, and wrinkles round his eyes; but the eyes themselves were sharp, his gaze roving about the room before coming back to her as he spoke. 'I was at Oxford with a Laurence Beltrane,' he said. 'Perhaps he is a relation of yours?'

'Oh yes – my cousin,' Lucy replied. 'He is married now and lives in Yorkshire.'

'Yorkshire – does your family have property there?'

'No, but his wife does.'

There the conversation stopped for a few moments, and Lucy was attempting to recall what she knew about Yorkshire, when Mr. Hartfield said, 'I should be happy to see Mr. Beltrane again, because he borrowed a collection I had of the plays of Aristophanes, and I don't believe he ever gave it back. I suppose it is in Yorkshire at this moment.'

'I shall write to him directly I return home, and ask him to send it back to you. Have you been missing it all this time?' As she said this, she recollected that her cousin Laurence was twelve years older than she, and Mr Hartfield's vague outlines began to become sharper in her mind.

'I hadn't thought of it in years. But now that I have been reminded, I find I cannot do without it. I shall lie sleepless in the small hours, longing for it.'

Lucy could not help but laugh at that, and she promised to do her best to induce her cousin to return Mr. Hartfield's property; and then he said a few words about Oxford, and she said a few words about London, and about the theatres; and then he asked her if she had been to seeIolanthe, and she said she had not but her mamma was taking her the next week, and then it was time to go down to dinner. At table they were, of course, seated next to each other, and Lucy found that she conversed much more easily with him than she did with the gentleman on her left, who was a bishop, and talked to her about the Evangelicals in a droning, censorious way, as if he held Lucy herself responsible for their lowering influence on the Church. Afterwards, at the ball and later in her own bedroom, she could not recall what she and Mr. Hartfield had talked about; they seemed to have ranged about so widely in their conversation that it was impossible to characterise it. Nevertheless she had enjoyed it very much, and she had heard with disappointment that he was not staying in his sister's house, and was only in London for another three days.

Her mother asked her about him, of course. 'He was at Oxford with Cousin Laurence – he's ever so old,' said Lucy. 'He is going away back to his estate in three days. It's no good talking to me about him.'

'But the two of you seemed to be getting on so well.'

'One is compelled to talk to one's neighbour at dinner. He couldn't help that.'

'Oh, Lucy.'

'Oh, Mamma. I do wish you would not take this kind of thing so much to heart. Why cannot I give up the idea of being married, and live at home with you and Papa?'

'You shouldn't like to live with us always, should you?' said Lady Beltrane, showing that she, in her way, was capable of keen perception; and there the matter ended for the time.

In spite of her words to her mother, Lucy half expected Mr. Hartfield to call upon them before he left the city, but two of his three remaining days went by, and he did not the third day, however, they encountered each other in the park, where Lucy and her mother were taking their daily drive in their open carriage. They were proceeding slowly, in and out of the trees' shade, when they saw another carriage approaching theirs. Lady Beltrane leaned forward and strained her eyes. 'I do believe it is Mrs. Alton,' she said. Lucy looked as well, and next to Mrs. Alton's carriage she saw Mr. Hartfield, riding a bay horse. As the two carriages encountered one another, they stopped, and Mrs. Alton and Lady Beltrane spoke to one another. Lucy was on the other side of her mother from Mrs. Alton and took little part in the conversation; she watched Mr. Hartfield from under her bonnet, again noticing the sharp eyes, and noticing as well how easily he sat his horse, as if the beast was part of him or he part of it. 'A thorough countryman,' she said to herself, attempting to cast scorn upon him in her mind; but it was no use; her enjoyment of the other evening came back to her, along with a most unaccustomed feeling of nervousness. After a few minutes he moved his horse round so he could speak with her, and said as he touched his hat, 'I am glad to see you, Miss Beltrane, for entirely selfish reasons. I must remind you of your promise to retrieve my Aristophanes for me.'

'I don't know that I promised to retrieve it. I promised to try.'

'You said you would write to your cousin.'

'I did say that, but I doubt a letter from me would have much effect. He last saw me when I was eight years old. Far better for you to visit him yourself, or have your solicitor write him a few stern words. Papa says that succeeds when nothing else will.'

Mr. Hartfield smiled, making Lucy realise that he had never done so in her presence before. 'Your papa has many disputes, has he?'

'Oh, yes. I believe quarrelling is the only thing in life that he really enjoys.'

'How singular – because for my part, I have determined never to quarrel with anyone at all, if I can help it.'

'Some quarreling is inevitable, and even salutary, I should have thought.'

'Inevitable, yes. Salutary, no.'

At this moment, just as Lucy was preparing herself to reply, her mother and Mrs. Alton discovered that they had said all that needed to be said, and the carriages were moving on; but Mrs. Alton put out her hand toward the Beltranes, and said, 'Mind you come and see me – come to tea next Tuesday.'

Lady Beltrane bid them good-day, and she and Lucy trundled onward in silence; and then the elder lady turned to the younger and said, 'Well then! You see I was right.'

'Oh, Mamma. Right about what? They could not go past us and not say a word.'

'But she asked us specially to call.'

'If you are thinking of Mr. Hartfield, he is leaving town tomorrow.'

'Nevertheless, we shall call on her next week and see – see the lay of the land.'

'The lay of the land? Mamma, you are absurd.' But Lucy was secretly happy to have even this tenuous connection with him. They would not see him, but perhaps they would hear something of him. Perhaps he would return to London before the end of the season.

Lucy and her mother duly called upon Mrs. Alton the following Tuesday, finding her amidst a great many people, and a great many teacups. They seated themselves and Lucy looked about the room; she was surprised to see her old acquaintance Alice Creighton seated on a sofa on the other side. Lucy got up at once to go to her, forgetting at the moment all her interest in Mr. Hartfield and her desire to ingratiate herself with Mr. Hartfield's sister. 'I did not know you were in London,' she said, seating herself next to Alice.

'Oh yes, but only for a few more weeks, then we go to Ramsgate to my Aunt Cecilia. For my part, I did not know you were acquainted with the Altons.'

'They are really Papa's acquaintances,' said Lucy; 'Mr. Alton is connected with something very dull that he is doing in Parliament. They invited us to dinner last week.'

'I see.'

'How do you know them?'

'Mamma was acquainted somehow with Mr. Alton's mother, down in the country; and every time we find ourselves in London, we call on them.'

'Is Mrs. Creighton here?' asked Lucy, looking about.

'No, poor dear, she is at home with a cough and a bad headache. A return of her old complaint, I fear.'

Lucy turned her mouth down and shook her head, expressing her sympathy, and there was a short pause. Lucy was recollecting what she had heard in reference to Alice, since their last meeting; Alice's uncle, a childless bachelor, had died, and when his will was read it was discovered that he had left nothing to his niece. It had been expected all along that he would bequeath to her, if not all his fortune, at least sufficient to give her a respectable income; for poor Alice (for so Lucy invariably referred to her in her thoughts) was plain, and no one expected that she would marry. She was her parents' only child, but her father had died some years ago, leaving no property behind; and this uncle's partiality for her had always been spoken of as great good luck and a certain way for her out of poverty. Lucy had heard of all this when the uncle died, and now remembered it with a pang of conscience; for she had not written to her old friend, being wholly preoccupied at the time with attempting to induce the only son of an earl to propose marriage to her. The gentleman had declined to do so, and Lucy had been angry with him, and with herself for her failure, and somehow the note to her friend had never got itself written. And what would it have said? She would have been commiserating with Alice on the loss of her uncle's fortune, not on the loss of the man himself, and that seemed a shabby sentiment to commit to paper. And still she could not think what she ought to say, now that the two of them were together. There was nothing in the other girl's dress or countenance that she could find to compliment; and her mother's illness was of such long endurance and so unchanging in its symptoms and effects that Lucy did not want to inquire about it. So she sat, looking idly about the room, until Alice said, 'Mrs. Alton's drawing room is always full, I find. She seems to know an infinite number of people and entertains them in great crowds, and they come and go just as they please.'

'They seem an odd family altogether,' said Lucy, artfully. 'I met her brother at dinner the other evening, and he talked to me about Aristophanes and all kinds of things.'

'Mr. Hartfield, you mean? Yes, I notice he always says just what comes uppermost, without regarding the audience or the occasion. But I think at heart he is very kind, and so is Mrs. Alton when she can give you her attention. She sent over a salve the other week, when poor Mamma had such a bad cough in her chest.'

Lucy found that Mrs. Creighton's illness could be avoided no longer. 'She is still suffering, you said? Has she not found a doctor who can help her?'

Alice shook her head. 'No, I believe she has seen six or seven of them just this year, or rather they have seen her, and they all say different things and prescribe different medicine; and the end result is, she is no better off than before, and sometimes worse. She bid me ask Mrs. Alton for the name of a doctor she has mentioned before – someone she knows down in Somerset where her family live – who is supposed to be very wonderful. I shall have to ask her soon, I must be going home.'

Alice's chance came within a few minutes; a pair of ladies left Mrs. Alton's side, and she was temporarily alone among her teacups. Lucy watched her friend cross the room and seat herself next to the hostess and speak to her, and then soon Alice came back, looking pleased; but before Lucy could hear the results of her inquiry, Lady Beltrane came bustling up to them and gave Lucy's collar a twitch and her bonnet strings a tug, and regarded the results half fondly, half critically. Then she noticed the other girl. 'Oh, Miss Creighton, I did not see you at first,' she said. 'How do you do? How is your poor mamma?'

'She bears up very well, ma'am,' replied Alice. 'And Mrs. Alton has just made me a kind offer to introduce her to a doctor she knows, who is supposed to be very wise in these cases.'

'Ah,' said Lady Beltrane; and Lucy could tell that she was vainly searching her memory for the particular kind of illness Mrs. Creighton suffered from, apart from the general affliction of not having enough money. Lucy could not recollect either, but for the first time this mysterious condition had proven to be useful, for now Alice, and through her Lucy, had a connection with the Hartfields in Somerset.

'Did Mrs. Alton tell you the doctor's name?' Lucy asked. 'And how are you to be introduced, if he is down in the country and you are here?'

'His name is Mirabelle, Dr. Mirabelle. And he is to be in town next week, she says, coming up with his wife for a month, or I think two months, and she says she will have us over to tea to meet him. She is really amazingly kind! She has taken such an interest in poor Mamma.'

'Ah,' said Lady Beltrane again. She was looking in a distracted way about the room, seeking other acquaintances.

'Dear Lucy, I am so glad to have seen you,' said Alice, 'but now I must go, and tell Mamma the good news. Lady Beltrane, please give Sir Phillip my very kind regards.' And she went away, and shortly thereafter Lucy and her mother went away also, having thanked Mrs. Alton for her hospitality. Lucy was not very well satisfied with the afternoon's work. She had not exchanged above ten words with Mrs. Alton, nor heard anything about her brother except for the information Alice had provided – and this information had brought with it an unpleasant feeling, because Alice seemed to know him rather well, better than Lucy herself did. And her mother had been of no assistance in improving the occasion; she had taken Lucy away too early, and now there was no knowing when they might be invited back again.

On the days following their visit to Mrs. Alton, they drove in the park, but did not catch a glimpse of her. This was extremely vexing, and Lucy found herself wishing that she had obtained the address of Alice's lodgings, so that she might call upon her and hear about – about what, precisely? Her mother's health, of course, and when they were to go and meet the doctor, and how Mrs. Alton comported herself on that occasion – for she had developed a great curiosity in regard to Mrs. Alton, as a kind of proxy for her brother. This feeling became so strong with her that she was driven at last to seek intelligence from her father, going to him in his study before dinner for this purpose.

'Ah, my dear,' he said, putting his newspaper aside. 'I was sure that you and your mother were dining out.'

'No, Papa, we are at home and I am glad you are at home too. We never see you, I think.'

Sir Phillip made a kind of rumble of agreement or commiseration, and then Lucy sat herself down on a stool near his knees, and clasped her hands together and looked up into his face. She had not been speaking the truth to Mr. Hartfield when she called her father quarrelsome; indeed, it had been some years since Lucy had said anything to a man that she truly believed or felt, apart from the most trivial commonplaces. She had unconsciously learnt to fit herself to each occasion as it arose, saying what must be said to flatter or beguile the gentleman with whom she found herself, uttering absurdities because she knew they were expected from young ladies. Describing Sir Phillip as disputatious had been one such absurdity, for he was the most amenable and friendly of men, fond of his wife and daughters, fond of a good dinner and a glass of madeira afterwards, and ready to be of service to anybody as long as he could do so without much trouble to himself. At this moment he smiled kindly upon Lucy and patted her cheek. 'Well, my dear?'

'Papa,' Lucy began, 'I should like to know your true opinion of our new acquaintances, the Altons.'

'Should you indeed?' said Sir Phillip. 'They are very respectable people, as I am sure your mother has told you. Otherwise she would not visit them.'

'But she is visiting them because you and Mr. Alton are acquainted, is that not so?'

'I suppose so. Yes, I believe I met him through Lord Rowley, in connection with that Dutch matter.'

'Dutch matter?'

'Yes, a trade agreement … really, my dear, this kind of thing would bore you frightfully. At any rate I have found Mr. Alton to be quite clever, and quite the gentleman as well. As to his wife, you must really consult your mother.'

'They are from Somerset, are they not?'

Sir Phillip paused to think. 'Mrs. Alton's family live there, I think. I am not so sure about Mr. Alton. I seem to recollect he spoke of his family being from Devonshire. Why do you ask?'

Lucy paused in her turn, weighing her next words carefully. She knew that her father would go on providing information so long as her questions necessitated no serious reflection from him. In such a way, all her life, she had induced him to explain many matters and agree to many schemes, merely by leading him on, small step by small step. But the gong for dinner would sound at any moment, and she had few chances to speak with him. She had no time to be subtle. So she said, 'I ask because I should like to know more about Mrs. Alton's brother, Mr. Hartfield. I sat next him at dinner at their house, you know, and then he spoke to us when we were in the park. I do not know whether I should – supposing he is paying particular attention to me, which I know is not very likely – I do not know whether I should be justified in accepting it.'

'Nothing likelier in the world than that he should pay you attention,' said Sir Phillip, patting her cheek again. 'I cannot say I have observed it myself, but then I am so very slow in these matters. What does your mother say?'

'I fear Mamma is inclined to make too much of it,' said Lucy, 'as she does whenever a gentleman notices me at all. I am sure he is merely being polite. But supposing he is not …'

'Supposing he is not, you would like to be prepared? Well, I know nothing against him, though to be sure I know nothingforhim either, on such slight acquaintance as we have had hitherto. Nothing easier in the world than to find out more. Someone at my club is bound to know him.'

'Can you ask about him without – without drawing attention to me?'

'Of course, have no fear. In the meantime you must allow your mamma to advise you on how to behave yourself, should you find yourself in company with him again.'

Lucy was here obliged to explain that Mr. Hartfield was not presently in London; she added that his sister expected his return before the end of the season, for saying which she certainly had no authority; but as she told herself later, it was probable that he would come back. Sir Phillip said that he quite understood, and again told her not to disturb herself; and then the gong sounded and they went in to dinner.

Then a few days ensued in which Lucy was in painful suspense, uncertain as to whether she had been wise or not in confiding to this extent in her father. She thought he understood what she had asked him to do, and she thought that he would do his best to comply with her wishes. She credited him with more tact and discretion than the normal run of gentlemen. Nevertheless she was uncertain. Could he ask his questions in the proper manner, seeing that the fact of his asking was likely to come to the notice of the Altons, and through them to the notice of Mr. Hartfield? Would he be sufficiently adroit that he could inquire into Mr. Hartfield's character and antecedents, and not cause his interlocuters to recollect that he, Sir Phillip, had a marriageable daughter?

And what did she want to discover? She had no doubt in her own mind that Mr. Hartfield's position in life was all that it should be, in regard to money and family. She liked the man for himself and felt that he liked her. She would not have spoken to her father at all if there had not been some additional source of unease, some feeling of a mystery about him, or his family or circumstances. She could not trace the source of her unease – perhaps a word or two he had dropped, or the difference between their respective ages – though even that was nothing, as she had known many matches where the difference was far greater. Was it merely a desire to draw closer to him in some way? She was honest enough with herself to admit that this was part of her motivation, reasoning further that she needed more facts in order to fight her battle successfully. While she awaited what her father had to say, she tried to resolve that she would receive whatever news he brought her with at least outward indifference.

XXI.

Like most human creatures, Lucy found it difficult to wait and do nothing; therefore she wrote a note to Alice Creighton, asking her to tea. She had discovered Alice's address in London by recourse to a mutual acquaintance of theirs, a Mrs. Tolliver, who lived in obscurity somewhere beyond Connaught Square and whose main enjoyment in life came from receiving visits from her acquaintances and discovering all she could about their circumstances and prospects, this knowledge then serving to bring to her other acquaintances who were in search of such intelligence. Lucy had had occasion to visit Mrs. Tolliver several times before, and the two understood each other so well that Lucy had not even swallowed her first cup of tea before she had received a scrap of paper on which Alice's, or rather Mrs. Creighton's, address was written in pencil. 'Poor dear Alice,' said Mrs. Tolliver, 'she is the best girl in the world, I cannot tell why no gentleman has appreciated her merits sufficiently to marry her.'

'Yes, she is as good as gold,' Lucy said, calculating in the meantime how much longer courtesy required her to remain before she could escape.

'And then her mother suffers so horribly. I do not believe she has had a day of sound health since Alice was four years old.'

'What is it Mrs. Creighton suffers from, exactly?'

'A nervous complaint and weak lungs,' said Mrs. Tolliver, with an air of finality, as if there was nothing more to be said on that subject, so that Lucy could not ask for more information but had to content herself with first nodding her head and then shaking it, with a solemn air.

Alice came in answer to her summons, and Lucy found it easy to lead the conversation round to the last occasion on which they had last seen one another, namely the tea at Mrs. Alton's. By a lucky chance, Lady Beltrane had gone to bed with a headache, so the two girls were alone; Lucy felt that Alice was more at her ease and likely to become confidential. 'And did you meet this wonderful doctor?' Lucy asked her friend.

'Yes, we went to tea and he was there. He and dear Mamma had a long chat and he came to see her the very next day. I believe he has helped her tremendously.'

'That is wonderful indeed. Will he remain long in town?'

'I believe they are to return to Somerset in a few weeks. But I am very hopeful that by then Mamma shall be so far improved as to need no more medical advice.'

Lucy raised her eyebrows at this, but said nothing; Alice was forever expressing such hopes and forever encountering disappointment, and yet her past disappointments did nothing to prevent future hopes. After a moment or two, Alice continued: 'Dr. Mirabelle – that is his name – had his wife with him of course, and she is very charming as well. I believe she was governess to Mrs. Alton's niece.'

'Her niece? Mr. Hartfield has a daughter …?'

'No, this girl is the daughter of their other brother, Mr. Charles Hartfield, who died some years ago. That is how Mr. Hartfield came to be the squire. Or rather, they call him the squire but I believe he is only the guardian of the little boy who is the real heir.'

'Ah,' said Lucy. 'And he – the present Mr. Hartfield I mean – he has never been married?'

'No indeed. I believe the family consider him altogether dedicated to his duties to the estate.' Alice looked doubtful for the first time. 'At least so I have heard. I had it from our Nancy, who is acquainted with Mrs. Alton's cook.'

'Ah,' said Lucy again. She felt herself to be in very deep waters. Alice had mentioned so many different names and relationships that she did not quite know what to think. She supposed she would be compelled to rely upon her father's information to help her distinguish the truth from what might, after all, be no more than servants' gossip.

As it happened, that very evening Lucy again found Sir Phillip in his study before dinner. 'Well, my dear?' he said as she seated herself near to him.

'Well, Papa?'

'Mr. Matthew Hartfield is not the proprietor of Hartfield Hall, he is the guardian of its actual proprietor; but he has a fortune of his own.'

'I see, Papa.'

'And I was told something as to his prior life that you have probably not heard. He lived in India for many years and was not expected to return, until his elder brother died and he became the heir's guardian.'

'India?'

'Yes, India. In my experience, Englishmen who live there by choice are doing so in order to avoid something at home.'

'I do not quite understand you, Papa,' said Lucy. 'Had he – do you think he had done something wrong, here, and that was why he went to India?'

'No, I do not think that, and the person I was speaking with said he had never known all of the circumstances but had always attributed his going there to the eccentricity he shares with all the Hartfields. I mention it because such behaviour is evidence of a desire to be free of obligations and – and respectability.'

'I suppose we all have a desire of that kind from time to time.'

'Perhaps, but we do not act upon it.'

'What else had he to say – this informant of yours?'

Sir Phillip smiled. 'Nothing that will be very useful to you, I'm afraid. He warned me against ever having anything to do with Mr. Hartfield in the way of buying or selling horseflesh, because the family is known to be a great hunting family, and very canny in these matters, and sure to get the best of any bargain.'

Lucy recalled the sight of Mr. Hartfield on his bay horse, in the park, and thought that she could well believe he was a good judge of such questions. 'Thank you, Papa, for going to so much trouble. I am sure it is nothing, but I feel it is better to be prepared, do you not?'

'Of course, my dear. Very wise, I am sure. There is the gong – let us go in.'

After dinner, Lucy sat herself down in the drawing room to think over what she had learned. Her father had gone away to his club, and her mother soon fell asleep over her sewing, so she was able to meditate without interruption. She reviewed what she had learnt thus far: it seemed scanty at first glance, but it was enough (she told herself) to be going on with, giving her sufficient knowledge of Mr. Hartfield's character and family to enable her to take full advantage of their next meeting. But when was this meeting to be? He had left town and she did not know when he might return; moreover, when he did return, she herself might have been taken back by her parents to their home in Oxfordshire. It did seem very difficult, and she was inclined to turn her attention elsewhere; but when she considered her other prospects, she found herself unable to drop the idea of making a conquest of Mr. Hartfield. He seemed to possess everything she had been searching for in a potential husband; to be sure, he was not the owner of Hartfield Hall, but he would most likely inherit it if anything should happen to the current owner, and little boys were forever falling ill, or falling out of trees or into wells, and dying. And then, the other gentlemen who had lately paid her attentions had made her feel that remaining a spinster would be a better fate than undergoing a lifetime of boredom and annoyance. She felt that she would be safe from these scourges with Mr. Hartfield. She had often heard that fortune favours the brave, and she had always understood the saying to have reference to gentlemen pursuing ladies, and not the other way round. But now she resolved to adopt it as her motto, and to be as brave as she could, whilst also being discreet, as befitted her age, sex, and station.

She next set herself to examining the various connections between the two of them. There were the Altons, and there was Alice Creighton, whose mother was now being attended by Dr. Mirabelle, whose wife was the former governess of Mr. Hartfield's own niece. This latter series of links, she acknowledged, was extremely tenuous – hardly the sort of thing out of which one might form an actual, settled acquaintance, but it was really all she had. She had taken a step toward strengthening the tie by inviting Alice to tea, but she had not heard from her since; and she could not afford to wait until chance brought them together again.

While Lady Beltrane slumbered on, Lucy took out her writing desk and wrote a note to Alice, asking after her mother and telling her that she, Lucy, might take the liberty of calling upon them soon, so she could pay her respects to Mrs. Creighton as well. The note when written was very proper and pretty, and Lucy felt that Alice would receive it graciously – for Alice was exceedingly good-natured, as, in Lucy's view, a young woman should be who has no other attractions to recommend her. Lucy told herself that she was doing her less fortunate friend a service in cultivating her, and as she rang the bell to dispatch her note, she felt well satisfied with her evening's work.

The day but one following, she asked her mamma for the carriage so that she could be driven to Mrs. Creighton's lodgings. When she arrived she almost felt that the task she had set herself was too great – for the street was obscure and drab, and the house itself shabby in appearance, and the maid who opened the door to her had neglected to put on a clean apron. But it was too late to turn back, so she mounted the stairs behind the maid and soon found herself with Mrs. Creighton and her daughter. Alice greeted her kindly, and Mrs. Creighton bestirred herself to the extent of lifting her hand so that the visitor could touch her fingers – a firmer grasp seemed quite out of the question, for the older lady was small and frail, and immediately let her hand drop as if the exertion of raising it had exhausted her strength. Alice asked the maid to bring tea, and the maid went out; Lucy seated herself and looked about her, striving to find something pleasant to remark upon in her surroundings; but finding nothing, she was obliged to occupy herself with smoothing her skirt and pulling at her gloves.

'We are so glad to see you, are we not, Mamma?' said Alice. 'It is kind of you to come all the way to Angel Street. I wished to invite you before, but I thought it was so far out of your way. We live very quietly here, you know. Mamma's health is so uncertain.'

'Has this new doctor – Dr. Mirabelle, is it not? – has Dr. Mirabelle been able to help her?'

'I believe so – he visits almost every day, and she always improves afterwards; and he has recommended her to take the air daily, and to eat more – which, to be sure, I have been asking her to do these many years; but somehow when the doctor says so, the words have more weight.' Alice smiled. 'I think she is improving, though, alas! her illness has been with her so long that it will take an equally long time to overcome it.'

'Do you expect him today? I should be so sorry to be in the way. I shall go away directly if the doctor is to come.'

'Oh no – do not say so – you must consider yourself on easy terms here, you know.'

Lucy smiled in her turn, and began speaking of the weather; and such was her good fortune that in a few minutes the doctor did in fact arrive. Alice introduced him to Lucy, and then the doctor immediately turned his attention to Mrs. Creighton, and the girls were again left to themselves. The tea had arrived in the meantime, and the maid was asked to bring another cup, which she did, showing by her countenance that she considered this to be a heavy imposition. Dr. Mirabelle concluded his conversation with his patient, and then the four of them sat together comfortably to have their tea. Not much of any interest was said on this occasion, but nevertheless Lucy went away feeling that she had won a great victory; for Alice had asked her to come back whenever she pleased – or, as Alice put it, 'whenever you can spare the time' – and Dr. Mirabelle had said in her hearing that he hoped to bring his wife with him on his next visit. To be sure, she could not expect much enjoyment from her intercourse with the Creightons, whose quiet life precluded even the kind of amusement provided by Mrs. Tolliver and her supply of second- and third-hand gossip.

Over the course of her next few visits, Lucy found herself to be very closely familiar with Mrs. Creighton's multifarious symptoms, and with the many doctors who had attempted without success to alleviate them. The invalid became comfortable in Lucy's presence, and spoke with surprising energy of her own case, always concluding with a paean to Dr. Mirabelle; she was certain that he would triumph where those others had only disappointed her, and Alice could not get her to understand that the doctor would soon be leaving London and she would see him no more. Mrs. Mirabelle was present on a few of these occasions, and while her husband attended to Mrs. Creighton, she talked to Lucy and Alice. The Mirabelles seldom visited London, she said; so they were indulging themselves, going to the theatre and to the art galleries and to the menagerie; and she entertained them with many stories of the people and things they had seen, and the odd ways of the landlady at their lodging-house. Lucy listened and smiled and showed herself to be pleased with all of this, although inwardly she was impatient, thinking that the only piece of intelligence she had gained was that the Mirabelles' lodging house must be infinitely better than that of the Creightons. She found it very hard going altogether. But afterwards, following her mother up some grand staircase or other, or sitting at dinner between two solemn gentlemen, she would think to herself that anything was worth doing that would bring her closer to Mr. Hartfield.

At length her patience was rewarded. Mrs. Mirabelle said that she was to go to the theatre with Mrs. Alton on the following evening, and invited Alice and Lucy to accompany them. Alice began to decline the invitation on her own account, saying that she could not leave her mamma; but Mrs. Mirabelle interrupted her: 'Dear Miss Creighton, you must forgive me if I am presumptuous – I knew you would object on those grounds, and so I have taken steps to overcome the objection. My husband will stay here with Mrs. Creighton, and they shall have such a nice, cosy evening.'

Alice continued to be doubtful, but gradually Mrs. Mirabelle overcame her objections, informing her that the tickets were already bought, and that the play they were to see was Much Ado About Nothing at the Lyceum, and that Mrs. Alton had undertaken to send her carriage to convey the two girls to the theatre and home again, and in fact all of the plans had been made; so that Alice was at last obliged to say that she would go, having been persuaded that not to do so would be irksome to Mrs. Mirabelle and Mrs. Alton after they had gone to so much trouble. For her part, Lucy accepted the invitation with a most becoming show of gratitude, and as she went home that day told herself that fortune did indeed favour the brave, for by great good luck she and her mamma had no other engagements on the next evening. Lady Beltrane at once gave her consent to the plan, recognising both the importance to her daughter of seeing more of Mrs. Alton and the comfort to herself of a quiet evening at home. Then Lucy had to consider what she should wear. She wished Mr. Hartfield's sister to think of her as a nice-looking girl, and yet at the same time she did not wish to give the impression of thinking too much of her dress, or of attempting to surpass poor Alice. Indeed, she felt that she would have to make a serious effort not to surpass her friend, who had no money to dress herself well, nor any beauty of her own to make up for this insufficiency. Lucy considered all of her gowns very carefully, choosing at last the simplest of them, and taking infinite care so that all about her should be perfectly spotless and elegant.

The Altons' carriage duly arrived, with Mrs. Alton, Mrs. Mirabelle, and Alice already in it; and away they went, the only drawback to their general satisfaction being Alice's almost too-great excitement and sense of gratitude. At last Mrs. Alton said, 'Upon my word, my dear Miss Creighton, I am not as selfless as you seem to believe – I should certainly never have invited you and Miss Beltrane, had I not promised myself much pleasure from your company. If I did seek a reward for doing what I enjoy, I should receive it from your smiles.' Alice blushed, and calmed herself, and the ladies soon arrived at the theatre. Lucy was not a great scholar of Shakespeare, but found herself following the play with more ease and interest than she had expected, laughing at the parley between Beatrice and Benedick, and filling with indignation on Hero's behalf. She had hoped to converse with Mrs. Alton at the intervals, but they were so seated that Mrs. Mirabelle was next to their hostess, and Lucy fell to the lot of Alice, who alternated between ecstasies at the play and anxiety in regard to her mother. Lucy tried to allay the latter, but without much energy, for she was attempting at the same time to listen to what the older ladies were saying to each other. She could only catch a word here and there, however, and when the curtain descended, she was no more the wiser as to the Altons and the Hartfields.

In the carriage, Alice could not refrain from once more expressing her thanks to Mrs. Alton, but after that she reverted to her mother once more. 'I do hope they had a nice supper,' she said. 'I spoke to the landlady this afternoon, but she is not very – she does not always – but Dr. Mirabelle is well acquainted with our household.'

'He is indeed,' said Mrs. Mirabelle, 'and I am sure he has had a fine time. You know he is very fond of your mother.'

Lucy marvelled silently at the idea of anyone being fond of Mrs. Creighton, and then their hostess said, 'Mrs. Mirabelle, when do you return to the country?'

'We talk of going on Friday week. John says we have had quite enough indulgence, and he is afraid his assistant will be wishing for him back.'

'Mamma will be so sorry,' said Alice. 'He has done her so much good. Mrs. Alton, I know you do not like your good deeds to be acknowledged, but I must tell you again how grateful we are for making him known to us.'

'Not at all, my dear. We are very proud of him down at Hartfield and want his virtues to be celebrated as widely as possible.'

There was a short silence after this speech, and then Mrs. Mirabelle said, 'Mrs. Creighton's case greatly interested my husband, and he has been thinking about how he might continue to be of service to her. Would you object – do you think that you and I might correspond, Miss Creighton? And perhaps in that way your mother might continue to receive some benefit from his advice, at third hand as it were.'

'I should be so happy – I am sure it will be of great assistance to her. Thank you so much!'

Very soon after this Lucy was set down at her own door. She was going straight up to her own bedroom, but her mother had waited up for her and called her into the drawing room. 'How was it, Lucy, did you enjoy yourself?'

'Yes, Mrs. Alton is very kind, and the play was most diverting.'

Lady Beltrane paused, and Lucy could tell she was attempting to think of a way to ask whether she had made any progress in regard to Mr. Hartfield. The hour was late, and Lucy was tired, so she spared her mother the effort, saying, 'I could not speak very much with Mrs. Alton, and she said nothing about her brother.'

'Ah.' And Lady Beltrane subsided into her armchair, and Lucy went up to bed. Sitting over her fire after she had undressed and sent away her maid, she felt low and discouraged; she had not been successful thus far in her campaign, and she was beginning to think that she never would be. And after all, what hope did she have, when she depended so much upon chance even to hear his name? Perhaps her assiduous visits to the Creightons and the many hours of tedium she had passed there had all been for naught. Even Mrs. Alton with her easy hospitality, or Mrs. Mirabelle with her kindness and consideration, had not sought her out. The visit to the theatre, she felt sure, had been entirely on Alice's account, and she had only been asked as the other girl's friend, because they could not avoid including her. She frowned at this idea, and picked up the poker to stir the dying embers of her fire; but presently another idea came to her. She recollected that Alice and Mrs. Mirabelle were now correspondents, and it would be a useful thing if Alice could be induced to mention her, Lucy, from time to time; this would reinforce the impression already created that the two girls were fast friends, and that any invitation to Alice should be extended to Lucy as well. She did not even know what sort of invitation she was hoping for, but she could at least continue to visit the Creightons – not so frequently as before, to be sure, since the Mirabelles would appear there no longer – and retain her connection to her. And then she began turning over in her mind a few other prospects, gentlemen who might serve to console her in the event that her attempt to reach Mr. Hartfield should fail.

XXII.

A few weeks later, Mrs. Mirabelle wrote to her sister.

Dearest Amelia,

You will be happy to hear that we are returned safely from London, and John is again busy amongst his patients, and I think satisfied to be so. We greatly enjoyed our holiday, but he is never altogether happy when he is not working. As for me, I missed my house and my little sitting room and the view over the garden.

Mrs. Alton took us by the hand when we were there, taking me about to various amusements, and entertaining us several times to tea and twice to dinner. She knows a vast number of people of all kinds, and so we made a few new acquaintances, including a mother and daughter who greatly interested us. Or, I should say, the mother interested John and the daughter interested me. Their name is Creighton, and they seem to be quite alone in the world; they were living in lodgings, mingling very little with society – as far as I could tell, the only house they visited at all regularly was Mrs. Alton's. Mrs. Creighton is no more than about forty-five years old, I believe, but appears and behaves as a much older woman, having suffered from ill health from many years. Mrs. Alton recommended John to her, as he is especially fascinated by such cases, where the identity and source of the disease are mysterious, and a cure therefore elusive. He has done a great deal of good here, with three or four such women (they are always women, and always amongst the better classes), who improve under his care, regaining hope, if not absolute health. Their symptoms include languour, palpitations, weakness in the limbs, headaches, and depressed spirits, and sometimes other difficulties such as chronic coughs and dyspepsia. Mrs. Creighton has all of these, and in addition severe insomnia, so that she is always fatigued and rarely leaves her house except to visit doctors. They were in London for just such a purpose, and Mrs. Creighton has seen many doctors since her troubles began, without any of them alleviating her troubles more than slightly and temporarily. John took up her case, visited her almost daily, and had brought about an improvement to her symptoms within a few weeks, mainly I believe through persuading her that she must have more fresh air, better and more substantial food, and something besides her illness to occupy her mind. –These are all things that her own daughter had urged upon her, unsuccessfully; but somehow when John prescribed them, with the authority of his medical training, they became imperative to her. Why, then, had not other doctors been successful, for they must have suggested the same remedies? When I asked John this question, he said he thought it was because they had not listened to her properly first, and therefore she did not listen to them in her turn.

You and I have often spoken and written before of my dear husband's great proficiency as a listener, and my admiration of this quality in him it has only increased over the years – for I have seen him exercise immense patience with people who only annoy and weary me. I confess that Mrs. Creighton is one of those people, for her mind and conversation are wholly occupied with her own ills, to the exclusion of all else; she requires constant attention and reassurance from those about her, especially her daughter, and yet such reassurance does nothing but feed her desire for more. I know that I should exercise forbearance towards anyone who suffers from such a continuance of ill health, for it drags one down and distorts one's character; yet when we were in London, I found myself often resenting Mrs. Creighton on her daughter's behalf, for the latter bears the brunt of the older lady's complaints. The daughter's name is Alice, and she is about twenty-three or -four, a dear good creature. Alice never complains at all, though her lot is so hard; her mother has seemingly taken to herself all right to cavil at their fate, and Alice, perforce, bears it in silence. While we were there, I conspired with Mrs. Alton to take Alice out for an evening's amusement with her particular friend, a Miss Beltrane, and though I believe Alice enjoyed herself, she could not overcome her guilt at leaving her mother behind, though John was there with her.

I have corresponded with both Mrs. Alton and Alice since I have returned, and Mrs. Alton seems to think that I might be enabled to do Alice further good by inviting her down here, perhaps along with Miss Beltrane, so that she will not be altogether at the mercy of such staid old folks as John and me. But what is to be done with Mrs. Creighton? For she will surely not consent to the visit, nor would Alice agree to it, if she were to be abandoned. Mrs. Creighton has a married sister at Ramsgate, with whom they have gone to stay, and perhaps she could remain there while Alice comes to me. Mrs. Alton promises to look into this further and let me know what she discovers. As for Alice, not having heard of this scheme yet, her letters are full of her mother's varying symptoms, their slow improvement, and her dear friend Miss Beltrane's letters to her. I confess that I do not have such warm feelings towards Miss Beltrane as I do toward Alice, perhaps because the former does not at all require my assistance or sympathy, being well-to-do and quite pretty and sure to be suitably married within a year or so. How their friendship persists would be inexplicable to me, were it not for Alice's sweet temper and perseverance in seeing only the good in any situation or person. Her affection for Miss Beltrane seems to me to come from the same root as her belief that her mother's illness is on the road to being entirely cured. Mrs Creighton will never be altogether well, and Miss Beltrane will never be altogether amiable, though justice requires me to admit that her friendship for Alice speaks well of her. The generosity cannot be entirely on one side, can it?

Please give your husband and sons my best love, and tell them I desire nothing more than to see all of you as soon as possible, whether by my coming there or your coming here. We must begin to make plans for the Christmas holiday.

May God bless you, dear sister!

Your affectionate

Kate

Thus it was that Lucy found herself on the platform of the railway station at Swindon, with her maid and her father, waiting for Alice's arrival. They were to travel together to Taunton, Sir Phillip returning from thence to Banbury. These details had been arranged with all the other details of the visit by letters going backwards and forwards amongst herself, Alice, and Mrs. Mirabelle, between August and November. Lucy supposed there might have been other letters as well, between Mrs. Mirabelle and Mrs. Alton. Altogether it had been a miracle of planning, and she was satisfied with her part in it; for she considered it a great triumph to be invited to Hartfield, and in spite of the fatigue of the journey she was happy and excited.

Alice arrived alone, not being able to avail herself of the protection that Lucy enjoyed (and hence, it seemed, not needing it); and after a flurry of greetings and some difficulty about Alice's luggage, the two girls and Sir Phillip were seated in their compartment on the Taunton train. Sir Phillip at once retreated behind his newspaper, leaving his daughter to listen to all her companion's effusions about the journey, the countryside, the wonderful kindness of the Mirabelles, the food she had eaten at the station in London, and her expectations of pleasure in Somerset. Intermingled with all of this, like a kind of melancholy refrain, were various references to her 'poor Mamma,' in regard to whose comfort in her sister's house in Ramsgate Alice could not seem to make up her mind. At one moment she was saying that Aunt Cecelia was of all people the best to look after the invalid and that the house was very comfortable; at the next she was lamenting that Mrs. Creighton would miss her daughter sorely, and perhaps she should never have agreed to so long an absence. Lucy found that an occasional murmur of agreement or commiseration was all that was required of her, and she was able to think over the next steps in her campaign.

She had discovered that Mr. Hartfield was at home, from a word or two dropped by Mrs. Mirabelle in one of her letters; she had discovered also that he hunted two or three days a week at this time of year, and that the hounds met on his grounds. She thought it very likely that Mrs. Mirabelle would bring her two young visitors to see the meet, and they were sure to encounter Mr. Hartfield there, and then she depended greatly upon her own attractions to improve the occasion. She and her mother had spent many hours sewing and sorting and packing, so that her clothes could be seen to the best advantage, everything new and fresh, and of a simplicity suitable to a country visit.

Her mother had expressed some mild disappointment that Lucy would not be staying at Hartfield Hall itself. The connection with the Altons had progressed through Sir Phillip's association with Mr. Alton on their mysterious Dutch venture, and Lady Beltrane had been hopeful that this would lead to still closer and closer links with Mr. Hartfield himself. Lucy had been at pains to deprecate such hopes, saying that of course her friendship was with Alice, and through her with the Mirabelles, and that she expected nothing more from her visit but a great deal of reading, and walking, and suchlike country amusements. However, at the same time as she was explaining this to her mother, she was busily employed upon one of her evening gowns, altering its design so as to have something elegant to wear should she be invited into company with Mr. Hartfield. No doubt her mother understood the whole thing.

At Taunton they were met by Mrs. Mirabelle, and Sir Phillip relinquished his charge of the two young ladies, taking himself away back to Banbury with relief. Lucy was pleased to discover that the Mirabelles' carriage was of a size and style to make her not ashamed to be seen entering the town in it. As they drove away from the station and through Taunton to the other side on their way to Hartfield, Alice began again on all her exclamations of gratitude and delight, mingled in the same way with her doubts as to her mother's welfare; Mrs. Mirabelle responded by expressing her own satisfaction at the visit and her conviction that Mrs. Creighton was quite comfortable with her sister, and happy to believe that Alice was enjoying herself. Lucy had doubts about this last part; she did not think Mrs. Creighton was ever happy about anything, least of all something that separated her daughter from herself; but she said nothing, being determined to continue playing the role of the grateful and unassuming friend.

Mrs. Mirabelle did not forget to ask Lucy a question or two about herself and her doings since they had all seen each other in London, and Lucy answered as briefly as politeness would allow. She had not consciously decided to conceal or omit anything; rather, she had fallen into her usual mode of dealing with new people and new circumstances, that is, to take care that she should give away nothing by accident. With all her diligence in collecting information, she still knew very little about the Hartfields and their connections, and she could not tell whether Mrs. Mirabelle could be counted upon to help her in her struggle. They drove past the grounds of Hartfield Hall on their way to the Mirabelles' dwelling in the town. Alice looked with all her eyes at the lodge gates and the avenue of great trees leading up to the house, which was itself too far away from the road to see; Lucy looked too, but more discreetly, turning her head only slightly. 'What magnificent oaks!' said Alice. 'The grounds seem very extensive.'

'Yes, they are quite large,' said Mrs. Mirabelle; but she said nothing further, and Lucy was obliged to be contented with this single fact about Mr. Hartfield's domicile.

She was pleased once more when they arrived at the Mirabelles' house and found it to be handsomer and larger than she had expected; Mrs. Mirabelle explained that her husband had his surgery on the ground floor, and so they had need of a great deal of space, 'even though we have no children.' Lucy's maid was to share the room of Mrs. Mirabelle's parlour maid, and Lucy and Alice each had a bedroom, for which Lucy was grateful; for she felt she would require privacy to produce the effects that would bring Mr. Hartfield to her feet. Taken altogether, the beginning of the visit was very auspicious.

Their days quickly fell into a pattern. Dr. Mirabelle was generally in his surgery before breakfast, and after that meal he departed on his rounds. The ladies walked in the mornings, or read or sewed, and Alice wrote quantities of letters. Lucy adapted herself to this routine with outward contentment and inward impatience, for her time there was not infinite, and no one had mentioned hunting, or a visit to Hartfield, or indeed anything that could be of the slightest use to her. The first sign of things improving came a few days into their visit. On a certain afternoon when they were all in the drawing room waiting for their tea, Lucy happened to glance out of the window in time to see a young lady arrive at the front of the house on horseback, jump down unassisted from her saddle, and loop the reins round the post before the door. Her knock came a moment later, and Mrs. Mirabelle said, 'Oh, I am sure that must be Marianne, she said she would come today or tomorrow.'

The housemaid opened the door a minute later and the new visitor came in, and Lucy saw that she was younger than she had at first thought, no more than fifteen or sixteen, of medium height but appearing taller because she held herself very upright. She would have known her for a relation of Mr. Hartfield's, even without an introduction, from her black hair and blue eyes, and from the quickness of her looks and words as she shook hands with Lucy and Alice and sat herself down on the sofa. 'You are Mrs. Mirabelle's London acquaintances,' she said. 'And acquaintances of my Aunt Leonora as well, is that not so?'

'Yes,' said Mrs. Mirabelle, 'Miss Beltrane's father is a member of Parliament who knows your uncle through the Foreign Office, and we met through your aunt.'

'And how do you find Somerset? I suppose it is very quiet, after London.'

It was here explained that Alice had actually been residing at Ramsgate before this, and that Lucy's family lived in Oxfordshire. Tea was brought in, and Mrs. Mirabelle poured, and as they were all eating and drinking, they continued speaking of the places where they lived, and of places in London they had visited whilst there, and everyone made observations of the most commonplace and unobjectionable sort. 'London is wonderful,' said Alice, 'but rather dirty.' 'Yes,' agreed Mrs. Mirabelle, 'and so difficult to get fresh food. But the churches and museums are splendid!' And so on. Lucy did not say very much, but watched Miss Hartfield narrowly. The girl seemed older than her years; remembering herself at the same age, Lucy acknowledged that she would not have taken part in the conversation to the same extent, and with the same ease, as Miss Hartfield did. She had something of her uncle's manner of watching the others with an inscrutable expression, as if she was thinking of things she would never divulge.

Presently Miss Hartfield said, 'Oh, I had forgotten – Mrs. Mirabelle, what do you think? Harry is coming down for the hunt on Thursday. Uncle Matthew says he can have Bluebeard for the day.'

'I thought your uncle was going to ride Bluebeard?'

'He was, but now he says he is going to try a mare that Mr. Hopkins has for sale, and see if he wants to buy her.' Miss Hartfield leaned forward toward her former governess, apparently forgetting for the moment that the others were there. 'You know I'm going to go with them? For the first time.'

'Yes, I had heard,' said Mrs. Mirabelle, smiling. 'I shall be so glad to hear all about it afterwards.'

'You must come and see us off in the morning,' said Miss Hartfield, and then, remembering her manners, she turned with a smile to the visitors: 'And of course you must bring Miss Creighton and Miss Beltrane. I am sure they would enjoy it.'

'I should be very happy to bring them, if they would like. It's rather early to wake up, I fear.'

Miss Creighton and Miss Beltrane both expressed their willingness to arise from their beds at whatever hour might be required, and after a few more minutes their visitor said that she must be going back. When she was gone Lucy bent her head over her sewing, disguising as well as she could the flush of triumph and happiness on her face. She began to think at once of what she should wear, and how she should behave herself when she saw Mr. Hartfield; but in the midst of these considerations she did not forget to say to Mrs. Mirabelle that she seemed to recall that Harry was one of Mrs. Alton's sons, and Mrs. Mirabelle confirmed that it was so, and added that he and Marianne were great friends. Lucy could make nothing of these facts at the moment, but resolved that she would be as friendly as she could to Miss Hartfield and Harry both.

XXIII.

On the Thursday they all arose very early indeed, and Dr. Mirabelle handed them into the carriage before returning into his surgery. The day was mild for the time of year, and misty; Lucy could not see the tops of the great trees in the avenue leading up to Hartfield Hall. The horses and hounds were to meet before the house, and as they approached it she saw that it was very large, but laid out in an elegant, symmetrical way so that its size was imposing without being overbearing. Many riders were already there, milling about, and the hounds were off to the side, under the keeping of two or three men in dark green jackets. The carriage stopped before the portico, where Miss Hartfield was standing, and at once the girl walked over and spoke to the ladies. 'Mamma would be so glad to see you,' she said to Mrs. Mirabelle, 'you and your guests, I mean. Will you go in after the hounds are away?'

'Certainly we shall.' Lucy noticed for the first time that her hostess seemed ruffled, breathing rather quickly and keeping a hand pressed to her bosom. Miss Hartfield seemed to notice too, and touched Mrs. Mirabelle's shoulder, saying to her, 'Do go into the house at once, if the horses disturb you. I shall look after Miss Creighton and Miss Beltrane.'

'Oh – thank you – but I shall do very well if I can stay in the carriage.'

Lucy did not know what to think of this little exchange, but just at this moment she sighted Mr Hartfield, mounted on a brown horse and conferring with another man who was very animated – making quick gestures as if expostulating about something or other. Mr. Hartfield listened to him without speaking for some moments, and then tilted his head, touched his hat, and said something in return; the man nodded once or twice and moved away, Mr. Hartfield turning his horse toward the house and thus seeing the carriage for the first time. He immediately approached them, on the opposite side from his niece, and took off his hat. 'Miss Creighton, Miss Beltrane, I am very happy to see you here. Mrs. Mirabelle, I hope you are well. I heard from Marianne that you had a cough last week.'

'I am quite recovered, thank you.'

He looked up at the sky and at the trees surrounding the house. 'There are many coughs and catarrhs going about at this season. Emily has been rather worried about the children.'

'It is the same every year,' said Mrs. Mirabelle, 'and I hope she need not fear. John has been back and forth to see them, I know.'

'Miss Creighton, how is your mother's health?'

'She is doing very well, I thank you. There has been so much improvement since she began taking Dr. Mirabelle's advice! I expect to see her quite hale and hearty when I go back to Ramsgate.'

Mr. Hartfield expressed himself well pleased to hear this, and Lucy anticipated that he would next turn his attention to her; but before he could do so, the man he had been conversing with before came over to them and beseeched his notice, saying something about the hounds and their handlers; so he again doffed his hat to the ladies, and said he must go, and went. Lucy was disappointed, but told herself that she should be pleased, for now the first meeting was over and she could look forward to the next one with more calmness. For she felt sure there would be another meeting; they had all met together so amicably, and Mrs. Mirabelle and her guests had been invited into the house, and further intimacies must follow. She was contented at the moment to watch Mr. Hartfield covertly, and admire his horsemanship and his way of commanding the riders as they gathered together preparatory to departing; and when the horns blew and the horses and hounds moved away up the drive, she was able to participate with becoming enthusiasm in Alice's raptures at the sight.

Once the hunters had gone, the ladies descended from their carriage, assisted by a footman who had mysteriously appeared; mounting the steps of the house, they saw that the door was held open by a tall butler, who bowed as they approached and greeted Mrs. Mirabelle by name. 'Mrs. Quick is in the drawing-room, madame,' he added as they entered the house.

Mrs. Mirabelle and the two girls followed him across a large hall, toward the stairs at the other end, and as they did so Lucy caught sight of a little face peering out from behind one of the settles near the great fireplace – peering out, and then quickly withdrawn as she met its eyes. There was a sound of stifled giggling, and two tiny children scampered out into the middle of the room, hesitated a moment, and then dashed off shrieking in the direction of the back regions, pursued by a boy of about eight or nine, who had emerged from one of the rooms quite suddenly. Mrs. Mirabelle, pausing in her progress up the stairs, looked down and called to the boy, 'Edward, do be careful!' He paused, stood straight up in military fashion, and saluted her. Then he immediately resumed his pursuit.

'I wonder where Nanny is,' said Mrs. Mirabelle, but she did not allow this question to impede their progress to the drawing room, where they found a lady sitting by the fireside with a baby on her lap to whom she was talking in a sing-songy, nonsensical way. She rose when she saw them, the baby in her arms, and Mrs. Mirabelle made the introductions: 'Mrs. Quick, may I present Miss Alice Creighton and Miss Lucy Beltrane? Miss Creighton and Miss Beltrane, this is Mrs. Quick, Mr. Hartfield's sister-in-law, you know.'

They did not shake hands, the baby making it impossible for Mrs. Quick to do so, and she asked them to sit down. 'Do ring for tea, dear Mrs. Mirabelle, I had some coffee at breakfast but that seems ages ago now. We had to have it ready before dawn I believe. Matthew is so particular about not keeping the huntsmen waiting.'

'Marianne is very excited,' said Mrs. Mirabelle; and having rung the bell, she seated herself near Mrs. Quick, giving her forefinger to the baby to clasp in its tiny hand. 'Her first hunt, of course, and Harry is here. I think she will have a grand day.'

'I'm sure I hope so, we've heard enough about it.'

Lucy observed Mrs. Quick carefully, making a link in her mind between this lady and the boy downstairs who had been chasing the other children – his half-siblings, surely? The boy had dark hair and a lively, laughing face, whereas his mother had fair hair and pink cheeks and a rather fretful look, which softened as she gazed at her infant. The tea came and they were all very comfortable, Lucy taking little part in the conversation, the better to watch and think. Mrs. Mirabelle mentioned that Alice's mother had been under her husband's care, and Mrs. Quick at once began asking Alice a long series of questions about the case; she was apparently one of those women who are fascinated by ill health, especially the ill health of people totally unknown to them. Alice, for her part, was eager to speak on a subject that rarely left her mind, and as she was drawn deeper into conversation with their hostess, Lucy and Mrs. Mirabelle began a discussion of their own.

'Do you hunt, Miss Beltrane?'

'No indeed, my papa has never done so. I think the Hartfields are great hunters, are they not?'

'They are – that is – I believe Mrs. Quick's first husband, Mr. Charles Hartfield, hunted a great deal, but when I first came here the family had all but given it up. His brother has revived it. He has taken great pains to build up the population of foxes, and at the same time to mollify the farmers when their henhouses are raided.'

'How often do they hunt?'

'Three times a week, Mondays, Thursdays, and Saturdays, with great regularity,' replied Mrs. Mirabelle. She had extricated the baby from its mother's arms and now dandled it in her lap, administering various little kisses and caresses to it. 'Mr. Hartfield thinks himself very hard done by if business prevents him from going out.'

Lucy digested this in silence for a moment. 'I suppose it is his main amusement in the winter?'

'His main, and as far as I can tell, his only amusement.' Mrs. Mirabelle considered this in her turn. 'I suppose he reads a good deal. There is a fine library here, and I made great use of it for Marianne's lessons. But he is not given to cards, or shooting, or – or any of those other pastimes for gentlemen in the country.'

'The estate must occupy most of his time,' said Lucy, as lightly as she could, feeling grateful to the baby for engaging Mrs Mirabelle's attention so that she was not guarding her words as closely as she might have done otherwise.

'Yes, he has an agent, but it still requires a good deal of his attention. At least, I believe so; I was a member of the household, you know, but am no longer, though the family have been extremely kind to me. So, on the one hand I am rather biased in their favour, but on the other I do not know them as well as I used to.' There was a pause and she looked over the baby's head at Lucy. 'I have been thinking we should go into town on our way home and visit the shops. Alice was asking me yesterday for some worsted and I had none.'

Of course Lucy said she would be delighted to visit the shops, and they began talking on other subjects. Lucy was aware that young ladies were meant to be very fond of babies, and she supposed she ought to offer to take this one from Mrs. Mirabelle; but she had no experience with such tiny beings, and she was fearful that the imp would begin crying, or pulling her ribbons. So she contented herself with the occasional expression of admiration for its health and good looks, at the same time musing on what she had heard. She did not see how it would help her cause to know that Mr. Hartfield liked to hunt more than he liked to attend to business; as far as she could tell, all the gentlemen she had ever known were of the same cast of mind in that regard. But she reflected that you could never tell when something would come in useful, as her own nanny used to say.

Presently a gentleman came into the room, wearing boots and breeches, and Mrs. Quick exclaimed when she saw him: 'Surely the hunt is not over?'

'No,' he said, approaching the fireplace, 'but my horse declined to carry me over the very first fence, and so I have made the best of my way back. I was missing you in any case, and my bairns.' Mrs. Mirabelle handed him the baby and he swung it into the air, not noticing, it appeared, the two new faces in the room.

'Dearest, I must introduce you,' Mrs. Quick said after a moment. 'Miss Creighton and Miss Beltrane, this is my husband, Mr. Quick.'

Everyone said 'how do you do,' and Mr. Quick made up for his former lapse by being effusive in his welcome. Then he began to describe the hunt. 'We went into Layton Spinney but did not find, and I think the master of the hounds was beginning to become vexed. You know how he always takes it as a personal failing when we do not find at once. But then we went from there into Bolton Wood and flushed out a fox, and had a good run – at least I suppose there was a good run, for as I say I did not even clear the first fence. Caesar absolutely refused to try. I shall have to see if I can sell him and acquire a better horse, only I fear his reputation is already established and I shall find no takers. Do you know, Emily, Harry has grown quite three inches since we saw him last. He will be taller than his father. He told me he is happier at Cambridge than he was at Eton, and then he said – do you know, I never realised, but he must have been very unhappy at Eton, because he said, he was happier now but that was not saying much. Not saying much! Of course I went to Harrow so I don't know. The old Etonians I have known have always spoken of it with the greatest fondness. John Truelove, you know.Hewent to Eton. And now he has an excellent practice in Lincoln's Inn. I should very much like to see him the next time we go to town. I shall go and find him in his chambers, that will be great fun.'

Here Lucy left off attending, for she had quickly divined that she would learn nothing to the purpose from Mr. Quick's discourse. The other ladies seem contented to let him run on, until his wife was able to interject a few words when he paused to draw breath: 'I do think you should go and change your clothes, dearest. Then you can go and find Sophie and Adolphus. They are in the nursery by now.'

'Ah, excellent idea,' he said, and handed the baby to his wife and took himself away out of the room. Shortly after this, Mrs. Mirabelle and her guests also made their farewells, and in the carriage Lucy reflected that the day had been most satisfactory – both making her happy by allowing her to see Mr. Hartfield, and improving her knowledge of his character and habits. There had been a small disappointment in the fact that no further invitations had been offered by the Hartfield Hall people; but Mrs. Mirabelle seemed to be on very intimate terms there, and Lucy assured herself that they would see more of the family soon.

XXIV.

Marianne had at once forgotten all about Mrs. Mirabelle and her guests, as soon as the hunt moved away up the drive. She trotted along between her uncle on the one side and Harry on the other, looking about at all the other riders. There were only one or two other ladies. After a few minutes, her uncle said, 'You must stay with Harry today. I would have had you follow me, but I do not know how this horse will go. Mr. Hopkins assures me she is very fast, but I ride a stone heavier than he does.'

Marianne said that she would stay with Harry. She attempted to calm her excitement, being aware that it would transfer itself to her horse and make him skittish. He was already trotting rather faster than he should, and she slowed him, and patted his neck, talking to him in low tones. Presently they came to Layton Spinney and began the tedious business of riding slowly up and down, or standing still, while the hounds and huntsmen searched for a fox. Marianne had not formed a clear idea of how a hunt began; she had thought of it only in terms of long, exhilarating runs across the countryside. She found that it was not so easy as usual to talk to Harry to pass the time; he and her uncle were both rather solemn, frowning as if engaged upon a matter of great importance, and from time to time muttering cryptic remarks about the hounds' behaviour. At one point the horns sounded, and cries of 'Away!' were heard, but this turned out to be a mistake, and the hunters resumed their idle trotting back and forth. Then the master of the hounds came up to Uncle Matthew, and the two conferred, and then the hounds were called and the entire group moved out of the spinney and along a road to the wood. Mr. Quick rode alongside Marianne and Harry for a few minutes, talking all the time, but apart from him, most of the riders were silent, peering ahead to see what the hounds were doing.

In the wood the same business was repeated, with more success this time, for the hounds discovered a fox and the fox, most obligingly, ran straight out of the trees and made for the other side of a large field bounded by a fence. There was some confusion as the riders prepared to pursue the animal, with horses backing and wheeling. Harry said to Marianne, 'We must wait a few moments and let the crowd get away.' So they waited, and again Marianne told herself to be calm, so that Corsair would also be calm; and then Harry said, 'Now we can go,' and Bluebeard jumped forward out of the wood, Corsair following. They were a little behind the main group of riders, and Marianne saw them go one by one, and in some cases two by two, over the fence. She knew the fence, it was one Corsair had often cleared, but Bluebeard was very close to them, on their left and a pace or two ahead. She spoke to Corsair, hardly knowing what she said, and as she did so noticed Mr. Quick's horse suddenly stopping and turning off, refusing the jump, but she had no time to do more than notice it, for Corsair rose into the air with her and they were over, and running again. She could feel the horse's muscles moving more smoothly now as he got into his stride, and when they came to a narrow brook he leapt across as if hardly noticing it. Bluebeard was still ahead of them, his rider now and then glancing back at Marianne to assure himself that she was there.

The fox took a turn towards the farm of a certain Mr. Wellington, and as the hounds followed it, and then the horses, Marianne saw that they would soon arrive at the edge of a common where there was a high hedge, bounded on the near side by a ditch – a formidable jump, and not one that she could approach with the same assurance as the first fence, for Corsair had sometimes had difficulty with it. They were going very fast, and one or two of the riders ahead of them came to grief at the hedge; Harry looked back at her again and shouted, 'Let's go over there' – pointing with his whip to a spot some yards to the left from where most of the riders had gone over, or failed to go over. Marianne nodded, and Bluebeard veered off, Corsair following, and before she had time to think, or plan, or be fearful, her horse gathered himself and sprang up – almost straight up, it seemed, clearing the hedge beautifully and coming down on the other side with a thump and a huff of breath. Bluebeard had landed too, but not as successfully as Corsair; and as the former got his legs back under him, Corsair was off like a shot. She was now even with the main group of riders, away on her right; she thought she caught a glimpse of her uncle, but could not be sure; she looked back over her shoulder and saw Bluebeard, close behind, and she had a feeling of triumph which must have communicated itself to Corsair, for his pace increased as if he was determined not to be overtaken. They jumped two more fences, and then approached a little grove of trees. The fox must have gone to ground there, for the hounds charged straight in and did not come out, and as the riders came up to the trees they were forced to stop and await events. The master of hounds rode in; Marianne heard the hounds baying, and some shouting from the huntsmen, and then there was a blur of red, the fox breaking again, with the hounds directly behind it. The fox saw the riders, but too late; it was very close to the horses when it was overtaken, and Marianne heard a fearful cry of rage and pain as the hounds set upon it, tearing its body into pieces.

The sound the fox had made rang in her ears and drowned out everything else; a haze seemed to come over her vision, and she felt that she might lose her balance and fall from the saddle. She did not fall, but she knew that she must get away from the other riders and off her horse, and she moved him towards the grove. He was breathing heavily after the run, but he walked slowly and smoothly, as if understanding that she might lose her seat; and once inside the grove and well away from everyone, she slid off and stumbled a few steps away from him, and then leant against a tree with a hand to her side, hoping that she would not be sick. Everything round her lurched and spun. Presently she felt better, but she was afraid to move in case her vertigo returned, and as she was still standing there, she heard another horse in the grove. 'Marianne?' It was her uncle's voice. 'Here,' she called. The horse's footsteps ceased, and after a few moments she saw him coming towards her on foot, his horse behind him with its reins wrapped round a branch. 'Marianne?' he said again. 'Did you fall?'

'No, I – I felt faint. I'm quite all right now.'

He said nothing, looking carefully into her face, and then he took out a large handkerchief and handed it to her. She pressed it to her face and neck, realising as she did so that she was perspiring, and that her skin was cold and clammy. 'I'm quite all right,' she repeated, handing the handkerchief back to him.

'You're white as a sheet. You mustn't ride until you get some of your colour back.' He looked round and then pointed at a fallen log. 'Here, sit down until you feel better.'

Marianne seated herself, the motion as she did so bringing back some of her nausea; he sat beside her, and for a few minutes they said nothing. Then he said, 'I should have prepared you. I confess I did not think the creature would be killed directly in front of you.'

'Is it always like that? Do they …?'

'Yes, almost always.'

'Of course I knew the fox would be killed, but I did not think of the means.'

'One doesn't think of disagreeable things if one can help it.'

They were again silent, listening to the sounds of the other horses and riders outside the grove. Then Marianne said, 'It seems so unfair. The one little animal hunted by so many others, and then the pack killing it.'

'It is unfair,' he agreed, and after a few moments continued: 'Once we begin to notice unfairness, there is no end to it. It seems to be part of the very air we breathe and inextricable from our pleasures. If we could have the ride across country and all the excitement, without the death at the end – if we could have the pleasant part without the unpleasant part, it would be better. But it seems we cannot have the one without the other.'

Marianne's vertigo was almost gone, but it had been replaced by a feeling of heaviness and melancholy, as if she would never have the strength to rise to her feet again, even if she cared to move. She raised her head to look up at the tops of the trees and the grey sky above them. The sounds from outside the grove were fading; the hunt was moving on, or dispersing, she could not tell which. Without considering her question before she asked it, she said to her uncle, 'My father was a good hunter, was he not?'

'He was,' he replied. 'A very good one, but strangely enough he was not often in at the kill. He loved riding and he loved the companionship of the hunt, but perhaps he had the same feeling as you about the fox. He was … tenderhearted. I cannot say whether, in his position, that was a fault or a virtue. It was his nature. Do you recall that about him?'

Marianne considered, her eyes fixed on the dead leaves scattered on the ground and drifting against the trees. 'Yes. I think so. I am afraid – I confess I do not think of him often. I remember him as being very kind to me, however.'

'He had the gift of being kind without attempting it, or thinking about it. Others of us must struggle to be so.'

'You are kind to me. Is it a struggle?'

He smiled. 'No, with you no struggle at all.'

She smiled in her turn, and there was another silence, at the end of which she said, 'Corsair did very well today. I don't know if you saw us go over the hedge at the common. He flew over it like a bird.'

'I am happy to hear it. I was too busy with this beast of Mr. Hopkins's to see what others were doing. She is very fast but does not like jumping – jumps as if begrudgingly. I shall tell him he may keep her.'

'Bluebeard did well too.'

'Speaking of Bluebeard…' Her uncle rose to his feet and gave her his hand to help her up. 'We must go back and find your cousin and see what has become of everyone. I believe they may have gone on to the covert at Blakesley to find another fox.'

They led their horses out of the grove and mounted and turned towards home, encountering no one on the way. Afterwards Marianne heard from Harry that they had indeed proceeded to Blakesley, but had not found again, and he congratulated her on having had the best part of the hunt. He said nothing about her dropping out after the kill, nor did Marianne herself mention it, and when her mother asked her about the day she said only that Corsair had done splendidly.

XXV.

Emily had taken a great liking to Miss Creighton, who seemed a very charming, friendly young woman who had asked many questions about her children and had been most voluble and sentimental on the topic of her own poor mother's ill health. As for Miss Beltrane, she seemed a rather silent, watchful person, very proper to be sure, but not easy to talk to. On the day following the hunt Emily said to her husband, 'I did like that Miss Creighton. I think we should invite the Mirabelles and their guests to dinner, don't you? I suppose we ought to get a few people to meet them. Sir Thomas, perhaps? And Mr. and Mrs. Hopkins.'

Mr. Quick agreed that this sounded like a fine idea, and then Emily went into the library to speak to Matthew. 'Of course,' he said, when she had explained her plan. 'You must do as you please.' She saw that he had kept his finger marking the place in his book where he had left off reading, a sure sign that he expected the discussion to be a short one, and therefore she hastened to say, 'I thought of asking them for Monday. Harry will still be here, and it will be nice for Marianne to have someone her own age to talk to.'

'Of course,' he said again.

'The numbers worked out very well,' she said. 'Six ladies and six gentlemen.'

'That is fortunate,' he replied, opening up his book in preparation to resume his reading.

Emily was satisfied with this and went back to her sitting room to write the invitations. Afterwards she rang for Mrs. Steele, who listened silently to her plans and then said, 'Very good, madam.' Emily knew perfectly well that Mrs. Steele and Gage between them would arrange everything to their own satisfaction, but as this relieved Emily herself of a great deal of trouble, she did not mind. Matthew never objected, and her own husband was always fulsome in his praise of the results of such arrangements.

When the evening of the dinner party came, Emily descended to the drawing room and found Marianne, Harry, and James already there, the latter entertaining the former two with a long disquisition about a stream near his boyhood home where he used to fish. Emily seated herself next to her daughter and gave her a few pats and caresses, smoothing her hair and admiring its colour as she always did. 'Very soon you may begin to wear it up,' she said to Marianne, quietly so as not to interrupt her husband, and Marianne nodded, with one of her unreadable looks. Matthew came in, and then the guests began to arrive within a few minutes, first the Hopkinses and then Sir Thomas and then Mrs. Mirabelle with the two young ladies. Dr. Mirabelle arrived shortly after this, having come separately because he had had a patient to see before he could go home and dress. Everyone seemed to be in good looks and spirits, with the usual exception of Matthew, who stood on the hearthrug with an air of gloomy resignation. Emily was pleased to see that the young ladies had taken some trouble with their dress; she liked to see girls turned out well, and her only disappointment in regard to her own daughter was that she seemed not to care the least bit for any item of apparel apart from her riding boots. On the other hand, she agreed without argument to whatever change or addition Emily suggested, and perhaps this submissiveness was of greater value than an interest in clothes.

'Miss Creighton, I am so glad to see you here,' she said to Alice. 'What news do you hear from your dear mamma?'

'She is doing very well, thank you – I suppose I should say, very well for her. I received a letter today and she said she is suffering from shortness of breath.'

'Indeed? Has she found a doctor there?'

'No – that is, my aunt recommended one, and he has come to see Mamma once or twice, but she thinks he won't suit. He prescribed some physic which gave her boils.'

'Oh! How disagreeable!' Emily here recollected that she had other guests, and excused herself from this interesting conversation to attend to them; and presently Gage came in and announced dinner, and they all went down.

From the foot of the table, Emily was able to see that all of her family and guests were enjoying themselves, each in their own way: Marianne and Harry chattered to each other and laughed immoderately from time to time; Mrs. Hopkins spoke quietly to Sir Thomas, and then Sir Thomas turned himself and spoke to Mrs. Mirabelle on his other side; Mr. Hopkins was next to Miss Creighton; James talked a great deal, hardly noticing whether anyone in particular was attending to him or not; and Dr. Mirabelle was rather quieter than usual, seeming to be much absorbed in his food and only replying with a word or two when anyone addressed him. Emily thought he looked rather tired, but she knew he had a very busy practice, and then having the young ladies staying with them must be taxing, as young ladies required so much amusement. As for Matthew, he was conversing with Miss Beltrane, or rather she was relating something to him which seemed very serious, and he was listening courteously. Emily thought that she would like to know the subject of their discourse, and that she would also like to know more about Mrs. Creighton's boils; and then, as her guests did not seem to require much attention from her, she began thinking about her eldest son and what must be done about his clothes for the winter, for he would soon outgrow his existing suits.

At the end of the meal, Emily led the ladies upstairs to the drawing room, and there found an opportunity to ask Miss Creighton further questions about her mother's unfortunate experience. The others made up a table for euchre, a favourite game of Mrs. Hopkins; Emily had not recollected, when she invited the Hopkinses, that Mrs. Hopkins would take any opportunity to play, even with reluctant partners. Miss Beltrane, in this instance, looked very reluctant, but she took part without any audible complaints until the gentlemen came in and Emily made a point of breaking up the game, feeling that even cold, silent Miss Beltrane deserved some respite. Dr. Mirabelle went straight to his wife, and Mr. Hopkins straight to Miss Creighton; Harry and Marianne retired to a corner and resumed their chattering and laughing; Sir Thomas and Mrs. Hopkins began talking to each other; Emily made her husband sit next to her on the sofa, and thus Matthew fell to Miss Beltrane's lot.

'I say, Hopkins says he will trade me his mare for Caesar,' James said. 'I must speak to Matthew about it, I do not know whether it would be a good bargain. Perhaps it does not much matter – for I fear no one will buy Caesar. It is a shame, he is a very good horse in his way, but he will not jump, or rather, what is worse, he sometimes jumps and sometimes does not, and one never knows which it will be. Rather like Sophie, sometimes she will say her alphabet and other times she will not. What do you think, Emily – is it time for a governess for her? Supposing we ask Mrs. Mirabelle about it?'

'About what?' said Emily, who had not been listening very carefully, being occupied with watching Miss Beltrane.

'About a governess for Sophie. Mrs. Mirabelle would have some good advice, would she not?'

'I suppose so. Yes. But we should first speak with Matthew, before we propose adding a new member to the household.'

'Ah, of course. It seems everything must be discussed with Matthew, the horse, the governess … Do you know, I sometimes think he must do nothing all day but give advice and directions to the people round him. I shouldn't like that at all.'

'I don't believe he likes it either,' said Emily. 'He would rather read all day, or ride. If someone could devise a way to read a book and ride a horse at the same time, I believe we would never see him indoors at all. Perhaps you should ask him about the governess now, I must go and speak to Miss Creighton.'

James got up at once, in his usual obliging way, and crossed the room to where Matthew and Miss Beltrane were seated; and Emily got up as well, and went over to Miss Creighton and Mr. Hopkins. The three of them were soon involved in a discussion of boils, their various causes and treatments, and as she took part in this Emily occasionally glanced over to see how her husband was faring. His back was to her, but she could see the faces of Matthew and Miss Beltrane, both of them politely attentive to what he was saying. Miss Beltrane glanced over at Matthew and said a few words to him; he smiled at her, but before Emily could see anything else, her attention was drawn away by Mr. Hopkins saying, 'Our housemaid had a boil once, and she treated it with a poultice of some sort – I cannot remember what was in it – but it was very efficacious, she was cured immediately. I do wish I could recall what was in it. Some kind of herb. Perhaps your mother would benefit from something similar, Miss Creighton?'

Miss Creighton said that perhaps she would, and after this Emily became once more absorbed in her own conversation and forgot to watch Miss Beltrane, and forgot as well that she had meant to ask her what she had been saying to Matthew at dinner that had appeared to be so frightfully serious. Indeed, she almost forgot that she had other guests besides the ones she was speaking to, and recollected herself only when they began to depart.

The Mirabelles were the last to go, and as they went home in their carriage the doctor said to his wife, 'I suppose I should have talked to other people besides you. But I hadn't seen you all day.'

'Never mind, dearest. You must go to bed at once as soon as we get home. You are so tired, I don't like to see it.'

Dr Mirabelle said nothing, merely pressing her hand as it lay in his. He was indeed very tired; he felt that there was more he would like to tell her, but the young ladies were with them, and in any case the silence was more restful. He thought instead of his conversation with Harry Alton when the gentlemen were sitting together after dinner. Mr. Quick was talking as incessantly as usual, and the others were listening to him (or appearing to do so), and Harry addressed the doctor quietly: 'I have met an old friend of yours, I think.'

'Indeed, who is that?'

'My tutor at Cambridge says he remembers you. Professor Warren, you know.'

'Ah – he was my tutor as well – a better fellow never lived. How does he fare?'

'He is very well – lives in a cloud of pipe smoke and Latin poetry, and calls me "my dear boy."'

'Do you mind being called his dear boy?'

'Not at all – he calls everyone that, and I suppose at his age everyone younger than thirty is a boy.'

The doctor laughed. 'He isn't a great deal older than I am, you know. When he was my tutor we sometimes met on the riverbank and took a boat out. He punted while I read my essays to him.'

'I should like that. As it is he sometimes falls asleep while I'm reading mine.'

There was a brief pause and then Dr. Mirabelle asked, 'How do you find Cambridge, are you enjoying it?'

'Yes – that is, it's a very pleasant place to be, and I don't mind the work. But I don't think it will lead me where I want to go.'

'And where is that?'

'I want to be a civil engineer – to build railway bridges and that sort of thing.' Having said this rather quickly, Harry blushed and pushed his hair out of his eyes, glancing down the table towards the other gentlemen. 'My family don't approve.'

'What do they wish you to do instead?'

'To be a barrister, or a diplomat, or a soldier, or a clergyman. Anything, in short, that is proper and respectable.'

'I see.'

They were silent for a minute or so, the sound of Mr. Quick's voice murmuring gently from the end of the table. Then Harry said, 'Professor Warren doesn't understand it the least bit, either. He thinks I should go in for a fellowship and live like him, in rooms at college, and dine every night at the high table.'

'I presume he is very happy with his life and wishes you to be happy also.'

'But I wouldn't be happy, and he doesn't understand that.'

'Is it absolutely necessary to you that he should understand it?'

'I suppose not.'

Another silence. Dr. Mirabelle shifted in his chair and looked at Mr. Hartfield, wondering when the signal would be given to retire to the drawing room. He wanted to speak with his wife, and even more than that he wanted the evening to end so that he might go home and sleep. But their host had just refilled his wineglass and seemed quite settled into a state of passive endurance.

Finally Harry said, 'You like your profession, do you not? Did your family approve?'

'I do like it, and they didn't approve altogether, at least not at first. My mother wished that I would not work so hard, or work at all. They were sure that I would begin to consort with the wrong sort of person.' He smiled at this memory. 'They never explained who the wrong sort of person might be – the patients, or my fellow physicians. But they accustomed themselves to it at last, partly I believe because they saw that it made me happy.'

'It's very hard work, isn't it? And you're called out a great deal at night, and during meals, and that kind of thing?'

'Yes, I suppose I am, but I knew that it would be so when I entered the profession. And the work engages my mind and heart and hands – my whole self – so I look forward to it every day.'

'I should like that,' said Harry, just as he had said he should like to read his essays on the river; but his face now had a look of puzzled yearning, as if he saw the prize but did not know how to grasp it.

'You shall have it, Harry, if you choose it – choose it knowingly, preparing to sacrifice other things if you must.'

'I should have to sacrifice my parents' good will. Perhaps they would be sad as well as angry. That would be very hard to bear – my mother being sad on my account.'

Dr. Mirabelle hesitated, thinking as he often did of the disadvantage he faced in these situations through not having children of his own. He could only theorise as to the rights and feelings of parents. But at last he said, 'Your consideration for your parents' wishes does you honour. But you do not owe them your life. It is your own, to do with as you think best.'

Harry said nothing to this, and the two of them sat silently together until some minutes later, when Mr. Hartfield rose to his feet and said, 'Shall we join the ladies?'

Lucy had been very happy to see the gentlemen enter the drawing room. She disliked euchre, and she had grown to dislike Mrs. Hopkins, in spite of the shortness of their acquaintance, because that lady insisted upon playing it; and she felt that she had made an impression upon Mr. Hartfield that must be quickly followed up. At dinner she had found occasion to tell him the story of her dear little pony, Tristan, who had tragically broken his leg and had to be put down, and then ten-year-old Lucy had cried and cried and sworn she would never own another horse. 'You may call me sentimental, Mr. Hartfield, but to this day I am very sad when I think of him.'

'Of course you are, one's first pony is always the best.'

'What was the name of your first pony?'

'Blaze.'

'And what became of him?'

'He lived quite a long life. I used to go and see him and feed him carrots, long after I had other mounts. Did you keep your word and never own another?'

'I did indeed. When I ride, it is always on a borrowed horse.'

'If you like to ride while you are here, I should be glad to loan you one. Does Miss Creighton ride?'

'I do not know. I think not as she and her mother have lived such a retired life.'

Then Mr. Hartfield had to turn and talk to the lady on his right, and Lucy thought with much satisfaction of trotting along by his side, in her riding habit which was extremely becoming to her, and her little hat with a black feather which she knew would be suitable for just such an occasion. They did not talk much for the remainder of the meal, and then when he came into the drawing room he seated himself next to her, and she had to exercise all of her self-control to keep herself from blushing excessively. Their conversation was not so serious this time, and he did not revert to the subject of Tristan or horses in general, for which she was thankful; for Tristan was entirely fictional, and she knew it to be hazardous to continue to invent details, any of which could lead to difficulties for her if it was discovered to be false. They talked of London and Oxfordshire, and Lucy made reference to his collection of Aristophanes, and he said she had been very remiss in not fetching it back for him; and altogether it was a delightful conversation until Mr. Quick suddenly appeared before them and began talking about a governess for his little girl. Lucy did not have another chance to speak with Mr. Hartfield alone that evening, but she was satisfied nonetheless – he had offered her the loan of a horse, and of course this meant that he would ride with her, and then … She did not pursue her ideas much beyond that. She felt that she was succeeding, and that was enough for the moment.

XXVI.

Alice, of course, did not ride, had never learnt, and was content to remain at home with Mrs. Mirabelle when the day came that Lucy was to ride one of Mr. Hartfield's horses. He had sent a very civil note to Mrs. Mirabelle herself, making the offer to both girls, but Lucy thought that this was mere courtesy as regards Alice. His plan, she felt sure, was to ride with Lucy alone. So the Mirabelles' carriage set her down, riding habit, black feather and all, at the door of Hartfield Hall, and she was preparing herself for much felicity, when she saw Mr. Hartfield at the door of the house, wearing trousers which were assuredly not riding breeches. A groom stood nearby, holding two horses. 'Good afternoon, Miss Beltrane,' Mr. Hartfield said to her as they shook hands. 'I am very pleased to see you here. I had hoped to go along with you myself, but I have business to attend to this morning. My niece will ride with you.' And there behind him in the hallway, she saw Marianne.

She had sufficient presence of mind to declare herself delighted by the plan, and ever so grateful for the horse. Marianne immediately pointed out her own horse, Corsair, a big chestnut one; Lucy was to ride the grey, a meek-looking mare. The groom helped the ladies into their saddles and they set off, Lucy refraining from turning her head over her shoulder to see if Mr. Hartfield was watching her. Indeed, she had enough to do in keeping her seat and managing her reins, for she had not been riding for some years, and found she did not regain the skill as easily as she had expected. 'It is so difficult getting used to a strange horse,' said Marianne. 'We shall go slowly until you and Molly are used to each other.'

The horses walked sedately down the drive, Lucy temporarily forgetting her disappointment in her fear of falling off or otherwise disgracing herself. Gradually she became more comfortable; Molly was entirely docile and easy to manage; and at last she was able to say, 'What a lovely day for a ride! Your uncle is so kind to lend me a horse. You cannot think how much I have missed riding.'

Marianne looked at her with sympathy. 'Do you ride much, in Oxfordshire?'

'No – that is, not recently – we have been in London a great deal. And I have never hunted. I quite envied you, the other day, when you rode away with the hounds. Did you enjoy it?'

'I did – or most of it. I was in at the kill and that was very – very unpleasant.' She was silent a moment and then said, 'It's rather odd – I find myself longing to go again, the ride across country was so wonderful, but then I remember what happened at the end. My uncle says I can hunt and then turn back when the hounds are closing in on the fox.'

'I see,' said Lucy, who had not quite followed this, but was ready at any reference to Mr. Hartfield to talk more about him. 'Your uncle is very fond of hunting, I believe?'

'Yes, or rather riding in general. My father was too. My mother isn't, but I take after my father's side of the family in all ways.'

'I heard about your father when I was in London. I am very sorry you lost him when you were so young.'

'Thank you.' Marianne looked straight ahead and said nothing for a few moments as the horses plodded on. 'It was very hard upon poor Mamma, and I suppose upon Edward as well. He never knew his father at all, you see.'

'He was born after – after –?'

'Yes, after my father died. So he had to have a guardian, and Uncle Matthew had to come home from India and act as the squire.'

'Had to? He did not want to return?'

'No, he did not. He loved India. He doesn't speak of it much but I know he would go back if he could. But he has to take care of us, and of Hartfield. He wants Edward to have it in good condition when he comes of age.'

'And then what will your uncle do? I mean when Edward comes of age, and the need for a guardian is at an end?' She paused and then added, 'I suppose he might marry at any time.'

Marianne did not answer for a moment, and Lucy feared that she had offended her; but then she saw that her expression was merely blank, as if Lucy's question had never occurred to her before. Finally Marianne said, very slowly, 'I do not know. He speaks and acts as if Hartfield will always be his home and he will never have a wife.'

Lucy said no more at the moment, not wishing to induce Marianne to think further on this subject; and as they were on the main road by now, and she was feeling more sure of herself in her saddle, she did not object when her companion suggested that they trot. When they returned to the house, she felt that she had not altogether disgraced herself, and she was later able to tell Mrs. Mirabelle with some truth that she had enjoyed the ride – the fresh air, and the green lanes, and so forth; and Marianne had been friendly towards her. But that evening after dinner, sitting by the fire in the Mirabelles' drawing room, she felt very low, for the day had not gone as she had desired, and Marianne's description of her uncle's state of mind was not encouraging to her hopes. But she must go on fighting the battle. She must hold up her head and do the best she could, now that she was here.

Marianne, for her part, visited the stables before she went back into the house, and when she did go indoors it was nearly teatime, so she ran upstairs to take off her hat and then ran back down to find her mother, stepfather, and uncle already in the drawing room, with Edward there as well. 'Now then, young Edward,' she said to him, and he nodded to her in his usual way before resuming his frowning examination of the chessboard; for he and Mr. Quick had recently taken up the game, Mrs. Quick having discovered that her husband would cease talking while he was contemplating his next move. 'Was your ride enjoyable?' asked her uncle. 'How is Corsair's knee?'

'The ride was quite nice, and his knee is doing splendidly. I should not like him to hunt for another week or so, however.'

'Ah,' her uncle said, acknowledging this, and then fell silent. Her mother then took up the thread of the conversation as she poured out the tea. 'And how did you find Miss Beltrane? Did she enjoy herself?'

'I think she did,' said Marianne, and then paused, wishing to be honest but not unkind. 'I don't believe she has been able to ride a great deal; indeed, she said as much. She did not complain, but I think she would have enjoyed the ride more if she had been more confident of her skill.'

'It was very kind of your uncle to lend her a horse.'

'Not at all,' said the squire. 'We must do our best for Mrs. Mirabelle's guests while they are here.'

'Oh,' said Mrs. Quick, 'then it was on Mrs. Mirabelle's account, and not on Miss Beltrane's?'

'I'm sure I don't know what you mean. I suppose it was on both of their accounts. Miss Beltrane had been telling me at dinner the other night about her pony who broke its leg and how much she missed him. I could hardly refrain from offering her a horse after that.'

Mrs. Quick looked as though she did not quite agree with him on that point, but said nothing, and Marianne began thinking about whether she would prefer a muffin or a piece of cake. Then her mother again took up the subject. 'I believe you were acquainted with Miss Beltrane's parents, in London, through Leonora?'

'Slightly. I only saw them once or twice, I believe.'

'What sort of people are they?'

'Sir Phillip is very … affable, I suppose that is the word. Lady Beltrane is exactly what one would expect, respectable and motherly. They were in that crowd of people that surrounds Leonora when she is in town. I cannot always recollect their names or personalities.'

'Miss Beltrane seems a very nice girl.'

'Yes, very nice.'

Here there was a silence and Marianne, having decided upon cake, looked back and forth between her uncle and her mother, wondering where this line of inquiry might lead. At last Mrs. Quick said, 'Of the two of them, for myself I prefer Miss Creighton. She is so sweet-natured! And so devoted to her poor mother. Whereas with Miss Beltrane, I do not always know what she is thinking or how to talk to her. It is my own fault, no doubt.'

'Not at all,' said Uncle Matthew. 'You have an affinity for one of the young ladies and not the other. That is a matter of personalities and preferences, not a matter of fault.'

'Do you find you have an affinity for one or the other?'

'I have known Miss Creighton longer and so that is not really a fair question.' Here he paused and looked steadily at Mrs. Quick for a moment. 'What is it you really wish to know, Emily? It is much better to come straight out with it.'

Mrs. Quick blushed and then appeared to consider, turning her teacup round and round in its saucer. 'I should like to know – I think Miss Beltrane – it is possible that Miss Beltrane has – has feelings for you.'

'Feelings for me?' The squire set down his own teacup and raised his eyebrows. Marianne raised hers too.

'Yes, I believe – I have been observing her, as one does with one's new acquaintance, and I think she – she likes you, and would like to form a closer connection with you.'

Here Uncle Matthew seemed to recollect that his niece was nearby, and he looked at her quickly, but she returned his look demurely, as if she had hardly been listening to the conversation, and with a sigh he turned back to Mrs. Quick. 'I'm quite sure you are mistaken, though I own I am flattered that you think a young lady such as Miss Beltrane would ever look at me. I hope you will put that idea aside. I would not have any of our visitors feeling uneasy or embarrassed.'

Mrs. Quick tossed her head. 'Men never can see when girls are flirting with them.'

He laughed and sat back in his chair. 'Flirting? Good heavens. No, I am sure you are mistaken. In her eyes I must seem extremely old and rickety.'

Marianne laughed at this in her turn, and her mother frowned at her. 'Marianne, this is a very serious matter.'

'I'm sorry, Mamma.'

'Matthew, do think of what I have said, and if by any possibility I could be right, I hope you will consider how you should behave to her. If you are – if you do like her, that is one thing; but if you do not, it would be very awkward if she thought you were paying her serious attentions.'

'Awkward indeed,' he said, solemnly. 'I should have to excuse myself by telling her that Edward would not consent to the marriage, he being the head of the family.' Edward, hearing his name, raised his head briefly and glanced over, but Marianne signaled to him with her eyes that he should remain out of the fray; so he returned his attention to the chessboard.

'Matthew, upon my word, you are bent on making a joke of it. You ought to be more careful.'

'I shall take your words to heart, but I am quite sure Miss Beltrane has no particular feelings for me, so let us cease talking of it. You are fretting over nothing.'

Mrs. Quick said no more, and after a few minutes Uncle Matthew left the room, leaving Marianne to turn it all over in her mind and recollect the questions Miss Beltrane had asked her during their ride. It did appear – now that she considered it closely – it did appear that Miss Beltrane had been interested in the details of her uncle's circumstances, and this was evidence of a sort that she had designs on him. Marianne laughed silently to herself at the word designs, which seemed silly and melodramatic, especially in connection with her uncle. She knew he would never marry. She had never even thought much about the possibility of his doing so. She was inclined to agree that her mother should leave the matter alone; but nevertheless she, Marianne, would take the next occasion to watch Miss Beltrane and draw her own conclusions.

This opportunity came quite soon, because Mrs. Mirabelle asked Marianne to tea the next day. At first the conversation was confined to Miss Creighton's mother's illness and the possibility of rain that evening. Miss Beltrane said very little, as was her wont, only at one point saying to Marianne, 'And how is that dear little horse I rode yesterday? I must find an occasion to thank your uncle again. It was most kind of him to lend her to me.'

'Not at all – she is well, thank you,' said Marianne confusedly.

'Will you go out with the hounds this week?'

'No, Corsair has a weakness in his knee and I shan't go out till he's better.'

'That is a shame, I mean for you to miss a meet. Is there no other hunter in your uncle's stables that would be suitable?'

Marianne began to feel that she did not much like Miss Beltrane. They had finished tea by now and Miss Beltrane was trimming a hat, only looking at Marianne from time to time when she expected an answer to a question. She had an air of placid self-possession which Marianne found annoying; and then she kept saying 'your uncle,' which was disagreeable for some reason. 'She ought to call him Mr. Hartfield,' Marianne thought to herself, knowing even as she thought it that she was being unjust. She did not have an affinity with Miss Beltrane, it appeared, any more than her mother did. All of this passed through her mind within two or three moments, and then she was compelled to answer the question. 'No, none that can carry a lady, and I should not like to go without Corsair in any case.' To make amends for her own disapproving thoughts, she added, 'Should you like to ride again? I can ask Uncle Matthew if you can borrow Molly.'

Miss Beltrane smiled graciously. 'I should like that very much. You are kind to think of me.'

Marianne rode home afterwards rather slowly, wondering if she had done right in issuing the invitation; for after all, her mother probably thought they ought not to associate with Miss Beltrane more than they could help. But it was too late to retract it now; so when she reached the house she went immediately into the library, and there found her uncle, asleep in an armchair before the fire. She did not wish to wake him, and she was rather tired; so she seated herself in the chair across from him and leaned her head on her hand and gazed at him. His face in repose, without those sharp eyes looking out of it, seemed quite ordinary, the face of someone she might see in a crowd and not bother to look at twice. Sleep had deprived it of character and intelligence; and yet she was glad of the chance to look at him so long, without his looking back.

In a few moments he awoke, with a shake of his head, and looked at her. 'There you are,' he said. 'I thought I heard someone come in. How did you find Mrs. Mirabelle?'

'Very well, and she sends her regards. The young ladies are well too.'

'Good,' he said, 'I am very glad to hear it.'

There was a short silence as he stretched his legs out before him and shifted about in the chair, waking himself more thoroughly. At last Marianne said, 'Miss Beltrane said she was very grateful to you for letting her borrow Molly.'

'I am always happy to do these little things for Mrs. Mirabelle or anyone belonging to her.'

'And I hope I did not speak out of turn – I told her I would ask if she could borrow her again.'

'Of course,' he said instantly, and then, after a short pause, 'Why do you say you may have spoken out of turn?'

'Because of what Mamma said yesterday. About Miss Beltrane's … feelings.'

'Pay no heed to that. I am sure it is nothing, and your mother will forget her theory. She has a deal to think of, with five children in the house.'

Marianne wished to examine his face more searchingly; but she could not do so while he was looking at her, and so she was obliged to agree with what he had said and begin to talk of other things. She wrote a note to Miss Beltrane, inviting her to ride again in two days; and then she went up the nursery to see Sophie and Adolphus. Her mother was there as well, reading to them, and once again Marianne found herself sitting quietly and waiting. Presently the children were handed back to Nanny, and then Mrs. Quick smoothed her skirt and smiled at Marianne. 'Well, my dear?' she said. 'How was your tea?'

'Very nice. And I am to ride with Miss Beltrane again on Thursday, and Uncle Matthew said she could have Molly again.'

'I see.' Mrs. Quick said nothing for a few moments. In the nursery she was quite a different person from the one who appeared in the drawing room: she seemed calmer and happier, and more content with herself, and now when she heard Marianne's news she seemed unperturbed. 'Well! That is very kind of your uncle. I only hope she does not take it for more than it means.'

'I'm sure she will not. She seems very sensible, and I think your fears were unfounded.'

'They were not fears exactly. I only wanted to put your uncle on his guard, and I have succeeded in that.'

'Would it be so very bad if he were to marry? I had never thought of it before, but I don't know that I've ever heard a reason why he should not.'

'It would not be so very bad, only he must choose carefully, and not allow himself to be led away before he knows what he is about. In his position, his wife would have a very great influence upon Edward, and upon the happiness of the family generally, and I somehow do not think Miss Beltrane is quite – quite a suitable person.'

'I see,' said Marianne, and then she went away to think it over. She rode again with Miss Beltrane the next day but one. On this occasion, her uncle did not come to the door to see them off, and he was not mentioned at all. They talked instead of London, the season, Miss Beltrane's home in Oxfordshire (which she said she sorely missed), and the beauty of the countryside through which they were riding. She saw that Miss Beltrane's management of her horse had quickly improved, and complimented her upon it, reminding herself yet again that she must be polite even if she could not exactly warm to the other young lady. It was all very proper.

XXVII.

Another few days went by without incident, and then the Hartfields received an invitation from Sir Thomas to dinner – a rare thing, for since the death of his wife many years before, he seldom entertained. He had been actuated in this case by a feeling that he ought to show the Mirabelles' guests some hospitality, and to meet them, along with the Hartfields, he invited Mr. and Mrs. Anthony, Mr. Anthony's sister, Miss Anthony, and his new curate, Mr. Whitley, who was connected (so Sir Thomas had heard) to the Herefordshire Whitleys. 'I do hope they will all enjoy themselves, Roberts,' he said to his valet as he dressed for the dinner.

'I'm sure they will, sir,' said Roberts. 'I stepped into the dining room on my way upstairs. It looks ever so grand.'

'Thank you, Roberts,' said Sir Thomas absently, forgetting at the moment that the grandeur of the dining room on this occasion was entirely due to his butler, as the quality of the dishes they were to eat was entirely due to his cook. As he descended to the drawing room, he certainly felt that the success or failure of the evening would be in his own hands, and he was nervous accordingly.

Lucy was equally nervous, believing as she did that this was her last chance to obtain her prize. There had been no more invitations to ride, or to see the hounds meet, or to take tea at Hartfield Hall. She and Alice and Mrs. Mirabelle had encountered the Quicks, out walking one day, and had turned and walked part of the way with them; but as Mr. Quick supplied almost every single word uttered upon the occasion, and as none of these words had any bearing on her main interest, Lucy did not consider the meeting to have had any value. Alice had taken to mentioning her mother even more often than before, saying how much she missed her and wondering if she was missed in return, and their visit was drawing to its close. Lucy felt that something must be made to happen, but she did not know what steps to take until Sir Thomas's invitation arrived.

Gone was her care about not outshining Alice; she intended, on the contrary, to outshine every other lady there, and to that end spent a good deal of the afternoon closeted with her maid, both of them busy with needle and thread, and other implements, making preparations for the evening. She intended to overlook no opportunity of making an impression upon Mr. Hartfield, and as she ascended the steps of Sir Thomas's house, she told herself that she was well prepared for the struggle – for so she felt it to be, it having been borne in upon her that his family would not approve of his marrying her. They had been perfectly kind and courteous to Lucy herself, as they had been to Alice as well; but by various signs and portents, to be read only by those well trained in their interpretation, she understood that they did not intend to welcome her as the future mistress of Hartfield. Nevertheless she told herself to bear up, and to fight on till fighting could do no good. She need not persuade his family to welcome her, if he himself would only continue along the path they were following together – would only continue to talk with her, and laugh with her, and show her by small and subtle attentions that he liked her and might grow to love her.

The good luck that had attended her throughout the enterprise persisted, and she found herself seated next to Mr. Hartfield at dinner, with Mrs. Mirabelle on his other side and Alice opposite. Alice was next to Mr. Whitley, and they were talking, of course, of Alice's mother; and Mrs. Mirabelle was altogether occupied by Mr. Anthony, who seemed to be explaining something to her about Greek drama. So Lucy was able to talk to Mr. Hartfield almost unimpeded, and she began at once upon the excellence of Molly and his great kindness in loaning the horse to her. 'It is nothing, Miss Beltrane,' he said. 'I was happy that Marianne had a companion on those two days when I could not go out myself.'

'I have not been so fond of a horse since poor Tristan – met his end,' said Lucy, making a little gulp, as if overcome by her emotions.

'Molly is very sweet-natured, to be sure.'

She was hopeful that he would renew the offer of a loan, but after waiting a few moments during which he said nothing more, she abandoned that hope and proceeded with the next stage of her plan. 'I was so glad to become further acquainted with Miss Hartfield,' she said. 'She is charming, and so clever for her age.'

'I thank you. We are certainly proud of her.'

'And such a wonderful rider! I believe she could win the Grand National if she were permitted to ride in it.'

'She might, and then again she might break her neck, which happens with great regularity in that race. I beg you will not put that notion into her head.'

Here he turned and looked at her directly for the first time that evening, and she saw with great relief that he was – not exactly smiling, for he seldom smiled, but regarding her with a certain friendly openness. She returned the look with equal friendliness, and said, 'Then I shall talk to her only of Mr. Anthony's sermons, and the weather, and the latest fashion in hats.'

'I should like to hear that conversation. My niece never speaks of any of those things, to my knowledge.'

'What does she speak of then?'

He paused as if to consider. 'Horses. Books. She and Mrs. Mirabelle send books back and forth and talk about what they have read. I suppose I have misspoken in saying she never talks about the weather, because she mentions it when it prevents her from riding.'

'She told me that her love of riding comes from her father's – that is, your – side of the family. Does her younger brother ride as well?'

'Yes, he's a good rider, but not as fond of it as she is. I have only just begun to take him about to the farms with me, to become acquainted with his tenants.'

'Of course, he is the landlord,' said Lucy, as if she had just realised this fact.

'Yes,' he replied, and seemed about to add something else; but then stopped and drank his wine instead.

Lucy felt that there was great danger to her in pursuing this subject any further, so she was quiet for a few minutes, and then began praising the dining room and the house in general, and in such pleasantries the meal ended and the ladies went upstairs.

In the drawing room, Lucy seated herself on a sofa and Mrs. Mirabelle sat down beside her. 'Dear Miss Beltrane, I did not have the chance to say so before now, but you are looking very well this evening. That colour is most becoming to you.'

'Thank you, that is very kind.'

'Miss Creighton looks very well too. I believe the country air has benefited her – I think her cheeks are much rosier now than when she came to us.'

Lucy looked across at Alice and could not but acknowledge that her face had more colour than it had had only a few weeks ago; but she could not agree that she looked 'very well,' as her features were exactly the same as before. She said nothing of this, however. 'The air here is remarkably bracing. I suppose Dr. Mirabelle finds this a great advantage to his patients.'

'Yes, I suppose so.' The ladies both fell silent for a few moments after this, and then Mrs. Mirabelle continued, 'I do hope the gentlemen will come away soon from the dining room. My husband has been much fatigued lately, and I wish to go home early if we can. I hope that will not disappoint you or Miss Creighton.'

'Not at all,' said Lucy, as of course she was obliged to say. 'I am sorry he is fatigued.'

'When people request his attendance, he finds it impossible to refuse or delay. I thought this would change when Mr. Lane arrived, but if anything I find it is worse.' Mr. Lane was Dr Mirabelle's assistant. 'Some of his patients feel slighted if John himself does not come to them, and the more often he comes the more honoured they feel. It is rather hard upon Mr. Lane as well.'

'The people will become used to him in time, and then the trouble will be over.'

'I'm sure you are right.'

Again there was silence between them, and Lucy cast about in her mind for something to discuss. She felt a great weariness come over her; she, too, wished the gentlemen to arrive soon, but for totally different reasons. She would like to feel assured, once for all, of Mr. Hartfield's regard, and then to give up her struggle and sink into the soft happiness of married life. Not for the first time, she envied Mrs. Mirabelle, even as the latter was fretting over her husband; at least she had a husband, and a household of her own, and she need not expend so much care and caution on her behaviour and appearance as Lucy did. She need not be always agreeable, and compliant, and sweet-tempered even when others were cross. She need not weigh every word and glance, not only where gentlemen were involved, but with other ladies. To be sure, the wife must submit to the husband; but submitting to one person seemed infinitely preferable, in Lucy's mind, than the necessity she found herself under of submitting to everyone.

Presently the gentlemen did come in, and as Mrs. Mirabelle remained seated next to Lucy, Mr. Hartfield could not come to her but instead stood by the fire, speaking with Alice and Mr Whitley. In the meantime Dr. Mirabelle came to where his wife was sitting and stood near her, talking to both her and Lucy, and the latter deliberated within herself as to how she might be enabled to get up and leave the two of them there. It would be most improper for her, a young lady, to offer her seat to a gentleman, however fatigued that gentleman might be, and Dr. Mirabelle did indeed seem very tired. She was still considering what to do when she was rescued by Mr. Anthony, who came across to her and said, 'Miss Beltrane, my wife tells me you are connected with a cousin of hers, a Mr. Jacob Foster. Can it be so?'

Lucy did not know whether it was so or not, having never heard of Mr. Jacob Foster; but she was glad to talk with Mr. Anthony and investigate the various branches of the topic, and after a very few minutes they had agreed that they must refer further questions to Mrs. Anthony, who was near the window leading out to the terrace; and so the two of them walked across to join her. This movement seemed to coincide with that of others, so that there was a general rearrangement, and in a few minutes she found that Mr. Hartfield was by her side, overlooking the dark lawn and garden, with the lights of the town glimmering through the trees. They were slightly separated from the others. Lucy exclaimed over the beauty of the night and the fine proportions of Sir Thomas's house – though, in truth, it was nothing as compared to Hartfield Hall. Mr. Hartfield said that he had always admired Sir Thomas's gardens, and then they talked in an aimless way of gardens in general, Lucy feeling all the time that she must do something greatly daring, but not knowing what.

At last there was a short pause, and at the end of it she said, 'I have so much enjoyed my visit here, and I am sad that it will soon come to an end. Miss Creighton misses her mother, and I miss my parents, and we must go away soon.'

'We shall be very sad to lose you.'

She looked at him as closely as she could, but could not discern his expression; the light from the room was behind him and his face in shadow. 'Sad?' she said at last, throwing as much pathos into the word as she could. 'I wonder if you are speaking the truth.'

'Come – I do not see why you should accuse me of falsehood.'

'People always say they are sad when they are actually relieved, or indifferent.'

'Do they? I have not found it so.'

There was a slight pause, and then Lucy said, 'I am so used to people saying meaningless, conventional things. Perhaps you are not like that?'

'I try not to say anything I do not mean. But in some situations it is rather difficult to avoid the conventional.'

'So you are being conventional when you say how sad you will be when I go?'

'Not at all. Mrs. Mirabelle has been happy to have you and Miss Creighton with her, and your absence will create a gap in our social circle.'

Lucy turned herself so she was looking more directly at him. 'That is the most conventional thing I've heard you say yet. A gap in your social circle! Really, Mr. Hartfield, I expected something more original from you.'

'I am always sorry to disappoint a lady.'

'Let us be truthful with one another, then. I am sad to be going, very sad. I have found true contentment here, with my kind hostess, and – and – I have been so happy to spend time with you and your family.'

'We are honoured.' He seemed about to say more, but stopped and was silent.

Lucy paused, almost breathless with nerves, and aware that she was blushing; but their position at the window benefited her as well as him, and she was sure he could not see her face distinctly. 'I know it is not ladylike to say so, but I shall miss you very much when I go. I hope it is not mere convention that makes you say you will be sad. I hope I – I hope we have been closer to each other than that.'

'Miss Beltrane, you honour me immensely and I shall try to rise to the occasion. I was only speaking the truth when I said I should be sad to see you go, because I like you and I like talking to you. I hope that you will always regard me with fondness, as a sort of – not exactly a father, but an older friend, someone to give you advice and lend you horses and make your way smooth however I can.'

'An older friend? Advice?' Lucy felt that she would like to stamp her foot with indignation.

'You are so much younger than I. I could not possibly believe that you had any interest in me in – in another way.'

'I am not so young that I could not tell that you were paying particular attention to me. I was forced to speak to my papa about it. I could not accept such attentions without his authorisation.'

'I apologise most deeply if anything I have done or said has given rise to – misunderstandings. A girl such as you must have so many admirers that – '

'Mr. Hartfield!' They had both been speaking quietly, and even in making this exclamation she tried to continue doing so; but some of the other guests turned their heads to look at them. She collected herself and went on: 'How can you say such things? I had considered you to be honest and true. How can you treat me so?'

'You must believe this, if you believe nothing else I have said. I have not deceived you intentionally. I could not in good conscience court any woman. I cannot marry.'

'What – cannot marry, because of your guardianship?'

'Because of my guardianship, and because of other reasons. Believe me when I say it is impossible. Perhaps I have grown so accustomed to looking upon myself as an ancient, confirmed bachelor that I cannot understand anyone regarding me differently.'

Lucy said nothing for some moments. She felt unsteady on her legs, and the room seemed to spin about her; she was terribly angry, and afraid of betraying her anger, and aware all the time of eyes regarding her, the eyes of sundry people in the room behind her. 'You have treated me shamefully,' she said at last. 'You are no gentleman.'

He said nothing – indeed, what could he have said? – and she turned away from him, back to the room, struggling to assume a calm expression. Mrs. Mirabelle rose from her seat at once and came to her. 'My dear, what is the matter? Have you a headache? We will go home at once.'

Lucy nodded her head, having no difficulty in appearing miserable; and Mrs. Mirabelle led her away, leaving Mr. Hartfield standing there.

XXVIII.

Some weeks later, Mrs. Mirabelle wrote to her sister as follows:

Dearest Amelia,

I have been rather slow in replying to your kind letter, and I am sorry as well that we could not see you at Christmas, nor can we visit now as you so kindly suggested. The influenza I told you about, of which there were several cases at the time, is still present in the town; John thinks his assistant should not be left alone to manage it.

There is not much news to report. My main occupation is cutting out a new dress for the spring, a pattern recommended to me by Mrs. Quick, who is all-knowing in these matters. Marianne has gone up to London to stay with her aunt, and my young lady visitors have departed, so I am rather dull. But on the whole I was not sorry to see them go, in particular Miss Beltrane, who seemed to undergo a kind of metamorphosis toward the end of her time here. When I knew her in London, and when she first arrived here, she was the soul of propriety; she used to sit sewing or reading, like Patience on a monument, speaking very little, and acceding at once to any plan we might put forward. She seemed to have no definite ideas of her own, except the idea I suppose that she should always be perfectly calm, correct, and courteous. And so she was, until a week or so before they left us. We had been dining with Sir Thomas, and she suddenly had a headache, necessitating our going home immediately; once there, she retreated to her bedroom and did not emerge for two or three days. Her maid took her meals up to her and Miss Creighton asked to see her, twice or thrice a day, but was always refused. Miss Beltrane did consent to see me once, but only to say that she begged to be left alone to recover in peace – but recover from what, she could not exactly say. Then she wrote to her parents, and when she received their reply she informed me that she would be departing the next day. She told me this with the outward forms of courtesy, saying how grateful she was for my kind hospitality, etc., but her tone was so cold and her face so blank that I had great difficulty in making a suitable reply; I wanted to inquire as to why she had changed, what was her trouble – but her whole mien made this impossible. She was escorted home by her father, and we have heard nothing of, or from, her since.

Now, I have formed various theories as to this odd transformation, but none of them satisfy me. John thinks she might have had a disappointment in love, but such a disappointment must involve another person, and who that person could be we cannot tell. Or perhaps her headache was the harbinger of some kind of mysterious disorder of the nerves. But she would not allow John to examine her or even ask her any questions, and would not say if she had other symptoms.

As for Miss Creighton, she was most solicitous of her friend, and persevered in seeking to assist her long after it was apparent that she wanted no assistance from any of us. Then, when Miss Beltrane had gone, she began to say that she should go too, but without as much urgency as before; and Miss Creighton being transparent, where Miss Beltrane was obscure, the reason for this was not far to seek. She had made the acquaintance of the curate, Mr. Whitley, and he began to call upon us, always with a book, or a piece of sheet music, or an interesting botanical specimen to show her. His bashfulness during these visits was charming to behold, and was only exceeded by Miss Creighton's; in fact the two of them might still be exchanging their views about Lord Byron and the operas of Verdi, had it not been for her receiving a letter from her mother, describing some alarming symptoms; and Miss Creighton immediately took fright, and said she must go within three days. Mr. Whitley, hearing this, invited her to go walking the following day, and during this walk made his proposal in form. They are to be married at Ramsgate, and when they return from there, they will bring Mrs. Creighton with them, the three of them to reside together in Mr. Whitley's lodgings. I do not believe they will be quite comfortable there, especially when children come, but Mr. Whitley has fair prospects of a living in Kent, when the incumbent dies, so it is at least possible that they will escape absolute poverty.

In talking all of this over with John, I congratulated him on acquiring Mrs. Creighton as a permanent patient – but in fact the congratulations should go to her, for acquiring him as her permanent physician. He laughed, and said he was delighted, but I fear this addition to his practice is not a cause for sincere rejoicing; quite the reverse, for he is overburdened as it is, and no longer takes pleasure in having long conversations with ladies about their elusive complaints. His patients are slowly learning to trust to his assistant, rather than expecting John himself to attend on every occasion; but there is still a long way to go before he will have his evenings and his Sabbath free. I fear he has reached that stage of tiredness where he has forgotten what it feels like to be rested, and so he goes on from day to day, never giving himself a chance to recover. It is very distressing to see, and the more so as he does not wish to discuss it.

Dear sister, I long to see you! You must give all your bairns a hearty kiss from their Aunt Kate, and tell your husband how very much John enjoyed discussing the Holy Land with him, during our last visit. – In reading this over, I see that it contains a deal of fretting about my husband; you will understand that I still retain my old habit of telling you just what is in my mind, without picking and choosing. I find that when I have told you, the anxiety and trouble are lessened. I know that all will be well, and that my next letter will be full of parish news, the ailments of housemaids, and the price of muslin.

With all my love,

Your affectionate sister,

Kate

XXIX.

Some six months later, Harry came for a visit to Hartfield and brought with him his friend the Honourable Simon Trevelyan, with whom he had become very intimate at Cambridge, the two of them having the same tastes in German philosophy and Italian wine. Marianne was informed of the additional visitor by her mother and accepted the news calmly, though inwardly she felt quite put upon; she had been expecting to spend a great deal of time with Harry, rambling about the countryside on foot or on horseback, and now she was sure this prospect was spoilt. He and this friend of his would want to spend their time playing billiards and smoking, and from such amusements she was debarred. Her doubts were as nothing, however, to the objections expressed by her uncle, who was in the drawing room when Mrs. Quick read Harry's letter to them. 'Another undergraduate? How tiresome. I suppose they will both want horses and they shall bring them back lame.'

'Come, Uncle Matthew,' said Marianne, 'I think that unfair. Harry has never lamed a horse yet.'

'That you know of. But I am thinking more of this friend of his. Men of that age are very troublesome, you know. They must be given the privileges of the house, but they contribute nothing to its welfare. They must be amused, but they do not provide any amusement. Believe me, I know what I speak of, as I was once an undergraduate myself.'

Marianne was scarcely listening by this time, having been distracted from the main point by his use of the word 'men' in reference to Harry and his friend. Was Harry a man, then? That hardly seemed possible, or agreeable.

The first evening after the young men's arrival passed quietly, or as quietly as any evening could pass when Mr. Quick was present. On this occasion, Marianne was grateful for his constant flow of words, as in this way she need not say very much herself and could observe the Honourable Simon. He was a tall, thin young man whose hands and feet appeared overlarge, as did his evening clothes, as if they did not fit him properly. He and Harry sat on the sofa very decorously, listening to Mr. Quick, until Mrs. Quick suddenly discovered that she had a headache and took him away with her to bed. Then Uncle Matthew closed his book and sat looking at the two young men, the volume dangling from his hand. 'Well, Mr. Trevelyan!' he said at last, rather suddenly, so that Mr. Trevelyan started. 'How do you intend to pass the time here in the country? I suppose Harry has made you acquainted with all the charms of the place. What would you like to do tomorrow?'

Mr. Trevelyan seemed abashed at this inquiry. 'I hadn't thought, sir. I rely upon Harry.'

'Well, Harry?' And the squire turned his sharp gaze towards his nephew.

'I thought we might go for a ride, sir. If you have horses to spare, that is.'

'Upon my word, I don't know. I shall have to ask Michael. There are two needed in the fields tomorrow and another which is lame. Perhaps you could go for a walk instead.'

'Perhaps,' said Harry, glancing at Marianne, who could tell he wanted to laugh. Mr. Trevelyan meanwhile uncrossed and recrossed his legs, as if he wasn't quite certain they belonged to him.

'Or if that doesn't suit, I should be glad to lend you some books from my library. There is nothing like a good book and a view over fields and forests to make one appreciate life.'

'Oh, indeed,' said Harry, barely restraining his laughter. Mr. Trevelyan looked even more confused and uncomfortable, and Marianne took pity on him.

'You mustn't quiz them, Uncle Matthew,' she said. 'It's so seldom we see Harry, you know. Or his friends. In fact I didn't think he had any friends.'

'I have dozens of friends – scores. So many that I shall have to spend every waking hour at Hartfield writing letters to all of them. Gage will hardly be able to carry the post bag.'

'There's your morning disposed of, then,' said their uncle. 'Mr. Trevelyan, I very much fear you will be thrown upon your own resources.'

'Then I suppose I shall take you up on your offer of a good book,' said Mr. Trevelyan, appearing at last to enter into the spirit of the conversation. 'My tutor advised me to improve my Latin during the holiday. I shall translate ever so many lines of Virgil.'

'What a very studious household we shall be,' said the squire. 'Marianne, you must profit by their example. Read or write something, and think wise thoughts.'

'I am continually thinking wise thoughts,' said Marianne. 'And I am wise enough to know I must go to bed now.'

The next day, in contradiction to everything he had said, her uncle asked Mr. Trevelyan to accompany him to the stable, and spent an hour or so asking him all manner of questions about his experience with horseflesh, until he was satisfied that his guest could be trusted with a mount. The three young people went for a ride in the afternoon. Marianne found that she liked the Honourable Simon, but not quite heartily enough to be glad he was there; the thing she most enjoyed was to have Harry to herself, and talk to him about just whatever came uppermost. She had been eager to hear about his life at Cambridge. She had heard that young men at university were often very wild, but she did not at all know what shape this wildness might take. She thought she would like to see the river and the young men going up and down it in their boats, and the beautiful old buildings and the dons walking about in their long robes. Beyond that she had only a vague idea about how her cousin spent his time or what sorts of knowledge he was acquiring.

At breakfast on the fourth day of the visit, when Marianne began to talk about where they would ride that afternoon, Mr. Trevelyan said he had so many letters to write that he would stay in. Ever since the first evening, the topic of letters and letter-writing had been treated as a joke, so at first Marianne only smiled at him, and repeated her question about whether they would like to ride as far as a certain village where there was a thirteenth-century church. 'I'm quite in earnest, I shan't go,' said Mr. Trevelyan. 'I don't have as many friends as Harry has, but I do have some, and I must let them know that I'm safe and sound.'

Marianne looked at Harry, and Harry shrugged. 'Too bad, old chap,' he said. And so that was settled.

When they set off, the day was cloudy and close, as if a storm was brewing somewhere; so Harry said perhaps they should not ride as far as the village, but go across country till they reached Weaver Farm, and then turn back. They rode slowly, talking by fits and starts, about everything and nothing, until they reached a hillside with a view of the town, and away beyond it, Hartfield Hall itself. Here they stopped and dismounted, and sat together on the trunk of a large fallen tree, and contemplated the landscape.

'You must tell me all about Cambridge,' said Marianne. She remembered how a similar request had been made to her uncle, when he returned from India, and feared for a moment that she might get a similar response. But Harry smiled at her, raising his eyebrows, and said, 'What would you like to know about? My lectures and tutorials, or my lodgings, or my friends?'

'Your friends. These scores of friends you say you have. Are they all undergraduates, like you?'

'Yes, in the main. There's Simon, for example, our rooms are on the same staircase, and we began walking down to meals together. Then there are other chaps I know from rowing, or because we share a tutor, or things of that nature. And a few that I knew at Eton.'

'Surely not Eton – I thought you hated everything and everyone about the place.'

'I did hate every thing, but there were a few decent fellows there.'

They were silent for a few moments, and then Marianne said, 'And your rooms. Are they nice?'

'I think so. You might not find them nice. They aren't very tidy, I'm afraid. One does get into bad habits, living by oneself.'

'I should like to live by myself. I suppose you can do just whatever you like, and eat and drink what you like, and stay up till all hours.'

'That's about the size of it. Only the college gates close at a certain time, and if you come back after that you'll get into no end of trouble, unless you can climb over the wall and evade the porter.'

'Have you done that …?'

'I? Of course not, how can you think such a thing?' He laughed. 'Everyone does do it, and everyone gets caught at least once, and there's even a college song commemorating some poor chap whose trousers were caught on the spikes at the top, so that he had to dash back to his rooms in his drawers.'

Marianne laughed and then felt that she should have been shocked at the mention of a gentleman's drawers, but it was too late; Harry laughed too, and then he said, 'I do like it, you know. I mean, Cambridge. I like it much more than I ever liked Eton. But I don't know if I'm learning what I ought, if I'm to be an engineer.'

'What ought engineers to learn?'

'How to build things – how to make things work – the laws of physics and the laws of mathematics.'

'And they won't teach you that at Cambridge?'

'Not enough to help me. I shall have to apprentice myself afterwards. I shall speak to my friend Cowley about it; his father is a bigwig on the railway.'

'I see.' Marianne paused, and then she said, 'So you are quite determined? I know Aunt Leonora doesn't like the idea of it.'

'Yes, quite determined. I must live my life as I see fit.'

Marianne did not know what to say to this; she admired his resolution, but she felt an odd kind of sadness, as if he was telling her that he was leaving for distant regions, never to return. She thought that Aunt Leonora would be sad also, for the life Harry was contemplating was not at all what his parents had desired for him. They were both silent, and then Harry said, 'I have been thinking about it more and more. Not only in regard to work, but in regard to – other things. Where I should live, and how, and with whom.'

'What do you mean – how?'

'Oh, never mind, I'm letting my ideas run away with me. You mustn't look so dismayed. It will all come right.'

'I hope so. I hope you will be very happy.'

'I intend to be very happy.'

They were quiet again, watching smoke rise from various chimneys in the town, and then Harry said, 'I hope you will be very happy too. I am not so sure what would make you happy – good horses to ride and good books to read, I suppose.'

'I suppose. Women can have no profession. I'm meant to be married, that's all.'

'You say that as if it's some terrible fate. Would it be so bad – if your husband loved you, and you loved him?'

'No – that is, I should not marry unless I loved the man. But women must obey their husbands, and that would be so tiresome. I should like to have my own way now and again.'

'Should you? How unladylike.'

Marianne buffeted him on the shoulder. 'Don't tease, Harry. You know what I mean. Perhaps the best thing is not to marry.'

'And live with your mother, and stepfather, and uncle all your life?'

Marianne was silent, considering this prospect, which she had often considered before. She did not think there was anything in it to dread; but then, she was aware that as she grew older, it was becoming more difficult to accede without complaint to all the rules of the household, rules which sometimes seemed to her to be arbitrary or oppressive. She had never argued the matter out with herself, and did not do so now; but she felt a return of the same sadness as before, as if her cousin was going away where she could not follow.

At last Harry said, 'Perhaps you're correct, and we should both remain single. I don't know that marriage always leads to happiness. In fact it's often the opposite, don't you agree?'

'Yes – and Uncle Matthew will never marry – and Miss Anthony has never married either. They both seem quite – quite – contented.'

'There you are, then.'

'But on the other side, I believe my mother is quite happy. And so is Mrs. Mirabelle. Her husband kisses her hand whenever he greets her, and speaks to her as if no one else was in the room. I should like to have that kind of devotion, if I marry.'

'So should I, of course. But in my case, perhaps it isn't so likely that I'll find it.'

'Why not? What makes you say so?'

'Perhaps I'm not so very loveable, at least by women. Perhaps I shall take a fellowship at Cambridge, and live in my college rooms, and walk about meditating on philosophy and rhetoric.'

Marianne laughed, and Harry laughed as well, and after a few more minutes they returned to their horses and rode on. Marianne's sadness drifted away from her on the sweet warm air; she was happy to be with Harry, continuing the conversation in which they had been engaged since childhood – the meandering, inconsequential, and yet so intensely interesting conversation. When they returned to the house, they found Mr. Trevelyan sauntering up and down the sweep in front, smoking a pipe; and Marianne asked him if he had managed to write many letters. 'Oh – ever so many,' he said. 'To all my friends and acquaintances, and my washerwoman, and my tailor. I had to ask Gage for an extra bottle of ink. I exhausted your uncle's supply of sealing-wax, and now he is cross with me.'

'Oh dear, I am sorry,' she said, laughing, 'what an uncomfortable visit this will be, if Uncle Matthew is cross with you.'

'Never mind, I shall count it as nothing if you have had a good ride with your cousin.'

And he smiled at her, and Marianne felt that she liked him very much indeed, and that Harry had chosen his friend wisely.

XXX.

Harry and his friend had not long returned to Cambridge, when another change began to make itself felt. This change came about gradually, not with any sudden addition of a new person or circumstance, but rather with a greater frequency of things that had happened before. It was a change in degree, not kind; for Mrs. Mirabelle began to find that her time was more and more occupied in nursing her husband, whose health had become precarious, and so she had less time for Marianne; and Marianne in turn found that her Aunt Leonora invited her to stay with her more often than before. In a matter of months, Marianne would make her debut in the London world, and would do so from her aunt's house, so naturally there was an increase in the time the two spent together and the lessons Mrs. Alton wished to impart to her niece. Marianne submitted to all of this without a murmur, and perhaps her acquiescence was due partly to her uncle traveling up to town with her on most occasions, and hiring a horse for her while she was there so that she could ride every day in the park with him. He did not stay in his sister's house, however, having lodgings of his own in some other part of the metropolis. Mrs. Alton transferred her wisdom to Marianne in such an entertaining way that she learnt her lessons easily, among them the lesson that it was possible to behave with perfect outward propriety while at the same time observing the people about her with great attention, and noting down in her own mind the actions they took that seemed foolish and weak, or kind, or selfish, or some mixture of all of these things. Mrs. Mirabelle had been in the habit of asking her questions about the people's behaviour in the books they read together, and now she asked herself similar questions as she watched Mrs. Alton's acquaintances come and go. There was a certain Mrs. Norman, for instance, who was always accompanied to Mrs. Alton's house by her friend, Miss Handley; and Mrs. Norman ordered Miss Handley about, and patronised her, and lectured her when she did not know the answer to a question, or when she asserted some opinion in contradiction to that of Mrs. Norman herself. Marianne could not at all tell why Miss Handley tolerated such treatment, until one day Mrs. Alton said that Miss Handley's father had left her penniless, and her cousin – Mrs. Norman's husband – had taken her into his household, and now she was forced to earn her bread by submitting herself to Mrs. Norman's ill-treatment. Hearing this, Marianne felt very sorry for Miss Handley, and made a special attempt to be civil to her at their next visit; but Miss Handley was so obsequious that Marianne soon found herself growing contemptuous and impatient. She did not like feeling this way, and after that made no efforts in Miss Handley's direction. There were plenty of other people to whom she could speak, because Mrs. Alton liked her drawing room to be full; and Marianne had many amusing stories to relate in her letters to Mrs. Mirabelle and to Harry.

At last the day came: Marianne was presented to the Queen, and having gone through this solemn ceremony, she appeared the next evening at a ball at her aunt's house. Her mother had come up to town for the occasion to ensure her daughter's adornments were all that they should be. Marianne herself professed not to care about how her hair was dressed, or how her gown was trimmed; but nevertheless, when her mother and her maid stepped back and she saw herself in the looking glass, she was pleased. It was even more evident that her mother's work had been a success when she stood at the top of the staircase and greeted Mrs. Alton's guests; for many of the young men, and a few of the older ones, gave her admiring looks as they bowed to her. In the midst of this she was surprised to hear a familiar voice in her ear: 'I say, old girl, you do look smashing.' It was Harry, and next to him was the Honourable Simon, and in her excitement at seeing her cousin she kissed them both. They could not stay to talk, however; there was still a long line of guests behind them, and so Harry bespoke a waltz with Marianne, and they moved away into the crowd.

The ball went by only too quickly; Marianne barely sat down, except when she was eating her supper in the company of Mr. Woodward, a young clerk from Mr. Alton's office. She was grateful to him for bringing her some ham and chicken, and an ice, and for staying with her while she ate; but then she found that he had very little to say for himself, and wished to escape. Luckily Harry and Simon appeared, and Harry said something or other to Mr. Woodward which caused him to look startled and then to take himself away. 'What on earth did you say to him, Harry?' asked Marianne.

'I said Mrs. Alton was looking for him, to introduce him to a lady who specially wants to meet him.'

'For shame – why must you quiz people so?'

'Why are you so certain I was quizzing him? Surely there are ladies here who would be happy to make his acquaintance. He's a very steady young man, I've heard.'

'Very steady, and a great bore.'

'You shall have to accustom yourself to bores. You're out now, you know. There will be no more escaping from morning calls, or dinner parties, or young men who wish to pay their attentions to you.'

'I shall go back to Hartfield. There's no one there to annoy me.'

'Of course, Hartfield. But not till the end of the season.'

'No, not till the end of the season.'

'I shall stick to you, old girl, never fear. Simon and I will chase away Mr. Woodward and anyone else who bores you even more than the others.'

Marianne laughed, and said she would be very grateful to them if they would do so, and then her next partner came to claim her; and so the ball went on, with great satisfaction to everyone.

Towards the middle of the London season, Mrs. Mirabelle wrote to Marianne as follows:

My dearest Marianne,

Thank you for your letter, which brought me a great deal of pleasure and diversion, in the midst of a somewhat difficult time. My husband's health is better, but his own doctor cautions him that he must not return to his former habits yet – if ever; for it was overwork that brought on his nervous collapse and his continued weakness. Thank God! There is no permanent organic damage, but I fear that if he reverts to working as he did, he will do himself more lasting harm. He and I have had many conversations about this, and he promises to guard his health more carefully in future. I trust that he means to keep his promise, but I also anticipate that the promise itself will appear to him in a much different guise when he regains his strength. Now, he means to spend every evening quietly at home and curtail his hours in the surgery; then, he is bound to be deceived as to the amount of work he can do without fatigue.

My dear sister has been with me for two weeks – she just returned to Lincolnshire yesterday, having absented herself as long as she could from her own household. It was comforting beyond words to have her here. She resembles our late mother more and more, in looks and demeanour, and I am so grateful for her kind love and sympathy.

I hope Mrs. Alton and all in her household continue well. You mentioned seeing Harry and Mr. Simon Trevelyan from time to time. Do tell me more about Mr. Trevelyan, as I did not have the pleasure of meeting him when he visited Hartfield before, and he and Harry seem to have become very intimate. I feel a certain proprietary care for Harry, as he has been your particular friend for so long; I am anxious to know that his other friends are all that they should be.

I wish I could answer your request for village news more fully! I have been within doors a great deal recently, and so I receive all of my information at second or third hand, by way of Betty or Jane. You will be pleased to learn that Mrs. Fowler was confined with her tenth child on Tuesday last, a fine boy, and his father commemorated the occasion by getting very drunk at the inn. I sent Mrs. Fowler a basket of bread and vegetables, and when Betty returned from delivering it, she said another basket arrived whilst she was there, full of game from Hartfield; and Mrs. Fowler was of course very grateful, and told the footman who had brought it to give her respectful thanks to Mr. Hartfield; and then Betty (according to her own account) spoke up and said, for certain it was the gamekeeper who ought be thanked, for Mr. Hartfield never shoots, not even to supply his own table; and then Mrs. Fowler said he ought to be thanked anyway, for it was game off his family's land, and he was the one who made the gift. Then Betty retorted that she did not see why the idea should be credited rather than the action, for surely, let Mr. Hartfield wish to be ever so generous, in this case he would not have been able to demonstrate his generosity if the gamekeeper was a poor shot; and so they went on disputing until Betty took her leave. In this way any deprivation Mrs. Fowler might have felt, from being unable to attend church for the last two weeks, was surely allayed; for their lively discussion on the theological question of faith and works must be more than enough to atone to her for missing Mr. Anthony's sermons.

Dear Marianne, I wish I could see you in your ball finery or in your afternoon dress – when I think of you I always picture you in your riding habit, so it is hard for me to imagine your London clothes. In fact it is very hard for me to imagine your London life, which must be so different from your Hartfield life. I hope you enjoy your time there to the fullest, and I would not have it shortened by one hour, though I miss you greatly. You must give my kind regards to your aunt and uncle, and write to me as soon as ever you can.

With my fondest love,

Your affectionate

Kate Mirabelle

To which Marianne replied, a few days later:

Dearest Mrs. Mirabelle,

I must tell you straight off, so that I do not forget, that my aunt and uncle return your kind regards, and bid me tell you that you and Dr. Mirabelle must come here for a visit, as soon as his health permits. I hope that will be very soon. I was so pleased to hear of his recovery! You must be very strict with him, and make him eat his meals regularly and drink exactly one glass of port after dinner. Sir Thomas says that is the secret to his health, you know.

You are quite right about the difference between my London life and my Hartfield life. Everything here is hurry and scurry, dust and mud, fog and gloom and (on fine days) a brisk brusque cheerfulness. I do like being amongst all the people, they are so entertaining to watch, and I rather like the noises from the street and all the church bells ringing roundabout. Aunt Leonora likes it too; despite being raised in the country, I think she is a real London person, and could not live elsewhere. As for me, though I enjoy myself here, as the weeks go by I long more and more for Hartfield, and you, and Uncle Matthew, and Corsair, and dear Mamma and all the little ones.

Aunt Leonora is determined to do her duty by me, and she takes me about to afternoon visits and dinner parties and balls, and as she has a very wide acquaintance we have no shortage of invitations. She says that in former days she could stay at home and people would come to her, but now she must go to them; and she pretends to be cross about it, but I believe she rather enjoys all the planning and the buying of hats and dresses and the discussions afterwards, over her dressing-room fire, about all the people we spoke to that day and the absurd things they said. When I first came here, she said to me that as she had no daughter of her own, I must not expect much in the way of wise counsel or sensible assistance; but I could be sure that she would do her best to amuse me and take me to all the places I should go, and that if I were ever bored it should not be her fault. And so it has been: I have often been rather annoyed by this person or that, or tired at the end of a ball, or melancholy from missing home; but I have never suffered from ennui.

Partly, to be sure, this is due to Harry and Simon – that is, Mr. Trevelyan; I have got into the way of calling him by his Christian name, because Harry always does so, but I suppose it is not proper. They are backwards and forwards to London a good deal, and I see them at balls and dinner parties, and occasionally at Aunt Leonora's house when they come to tea. But this happens rarely, because Harry says going to his parents' house is akin to marching into a lion's den, as his mother is so much in the habit of scolding him about anything and everything. She disapproves of his choice of profession, you know. It is odd, and sad, to see my amusing aunt become so touchy and cross with her son; and I believe it might be worse, except that with Simon there she curbs her tongue to some extent.

You asked about Simon (I find I cannot call him Mr. Trevelyan). I do like him so much! I do not at all mind saying so, though a young lady is not meant to admit to warm feelings for any young gentleman, unless and until she becomes engaged to him. Somehow one feels with Simon that these rules are unnecessary, just as one does with Harry, who has been like a brother to me. They are the same age, but Simon seems younger, or less formed; he is sometimes rather shy with new people, and when he laughs his ears and his nose turn red. He and Harry are of great assistance to me when I wish to be rid of this young man or that; I have only to glance in their direction, and one of them will make his way to my side and engage my attention until the objectionable young man gives up and goes away. – Not, you understand, that there is a constant stream of young men dancing attendance upon me – I suppose I have one or two constant admirers, and a few others whom one might call intermittent admirers – but no one with whom I enjoy talking as I do with Harry and Simon. It is these silly rules, you see, like the rule about not admitting to warm feelings. If you are too friendly, you run the risk of being called a flirt; but if you are unfriendly, you are prim and priggish. If you laugh too often, you are silly; but if you do not laugh at all, or smile enough, you are cold. You must be nicely dressed, but the effort of being so must not be apparent. All of these rules oppress you, and make it impossible to be natural, or easy, in any conversation with a man, at least a single man; because in any such conversation there is always a calculation going on, by both parties, as to the possibility of a match. One doesn't wish to calculate, but one does – it is impossible to avoid doing so. Now, with Harry and Simon these rules are in abeyance, and we talk freely together, and the time goes by quickly.

I liked the story about Mrs. Fowler and the basket of game. I think I agree with Betty – that is, partly; for I give my uncle more credit than she does, for his kind intentions toward the Fowlers. He has no reason to love Mr. Fowler, whose rent is often in arrears – which is no surprise when one considers the ten little Fowlers. We used often, on our rides, to stop at their farm so that Uncle Matthew could say a word to Mr. Fowler, and to Mrs. Fowler if she were outside the house; and though Mr. Fowler was civil to him, and seemed to be trying his best, my uncle was always very silent and serious after these conversations. – More silent and serious, I mean, even than usual. He comes to tea here now and again, when he comes up to town, and we ride in the park, and he talks to me about Hartfield and gives me messages from Mamma and Edward and the other children. On one or two of these occasions, Harry and Simon have been here as well, and I was pleased that he seemed quite friendly with Simon; his disapproval of young men in general knows no bounds, so it is good to see him make an exception. Uncle Matthew pretends to disdain him, for being a Cambridge man, and Simon defends his university, and they exchange Latin quotations.

Oh dear – this is so very long – I am sure you have long since left off reading. Please send me more Hartfield news, and news of Dr. Mirabelle's recovery, and tell me all your thoughts and feelings!

With respectful love and regards,

Your affectionate

Marianne