CHAPTER 29 Morton Blake had told himself that it was best that he and Dulcy should be parted. He had made up his mind long ago that his chief duty in life was to avenge his father's death. The bringing home of his murdered father's body, that father from whom he had parted so blithely at the lodge gate in the grey autumn morning. The father whose strong arms had lifted him in front of the saddle for a few minutes trot on the stout hunter. The father against whose broad chest his childish cheek had been lovingly laid for a parting hug, before the firm's strong hand dropped him lightly upon the turf beside the open gate. The child, awakened by the confusion and horror of the household, had run down in his night-shirt barefooted to the hall, in time to see the corpse brought across the threshold. The impression made by that awful scene upon a mind naturally intense and concentrative had become part of the boy's being, and had strengthened as the years went by. Thus it was that from the moment dark doubts of Sir Everett Courtney entered his mind, Morton had been unhappy in his relations with Dulcy, loving her with his heart and soul, yet feeling that to his love he was sacrificing duty. He had tried to stifle his doubts, he had prayed that he might become blind rather than make any discovery which should alienate him from the girl he loved. But her father had taken the initiative, and the tie which the lover could not have broken was sundered. He remembered now how strongly Sir Everett had opposed his suit in the first instance, and how he had only yielded when he saw that to be inflexible might be to break his daughter's heart. Was not this opposition for which there was no ground in the social position or moral character of the lover another link in the chain of evidence which Morton had been putting together reluctantly, despairingly, knowing that the destruction of his own happiness must be the result if that horrible suspicion which had slowly gathered strength in his mind should prove true. He had told himself that it was a good thing for his engagement to Dulcy to be broken, but he had not known how deeply his love for her was rooted in his heart, or how empty of all delight his life would be without her. He had borne their temporary separation better than he had supposed he could have done, simply because the work and excitement of the election had left him no time for thought. But now that the election was over, and that he had resigned himself to a lifelong severance from Dulcy, he found how hard it was to exist without her. For some weeks after his interview with Lucy Green, he lived as in a dreary dream, keeping himself aloof from his family, shutting himself in his study on pretence of business, and taking long lonely walks after dark, when he was sure of meeting no one who knew him, and thus could avoid all that friendly everyday talk which jars so painfully upon a mind given over to one all-absorbing grief. And now the natural result of such a life had overtaken him, and he was prostrate with a fever which was rather mental than physical, and which solely puzzled that rough-and-ready practitioner Mr. Shafto Jeb, though he was careful to conceal his perplexity from the anxious women at Tangly Manor. Morton had told no one that his engagement with Dulcy was ended. He had shrunk from the idea of being pitted and sympathised with as he would have shrunk from physical torture, but his aunt shrewdly suspected the cause of his depression. She had of late observed that the post-bag had brought no letters from Dulcy, nor conveyed Morton's customary budget for the foreign post. There was something wrong, evidently, thought tender-hearted Dora Blake, but when she tried in the gentlest way to approach the subject, Morton met her inquiries with such gloomy reserve that she dared not go further. Prolonged sleeplessness, overexertion in all kinds of bad weather, and an utter distaste for food, had brought him to such a state of weakness that he lay like a log, sometimes remaining for hours silent, apathetic, inert, at other times wildly delirious. The brain was evidently affected, but to what extent Shafto Jeb could not discover. Insomnia was the most difficult feature of the disease. Want of appetite might be overcome by the forcible administration of nourishment, but no opiate that Mr. Jeb tried could give sleep. Lordenham, Morphea, and Chloral were given vainly, or worse than vainly, for they excited and stimulated the brain which they were intended to soothe. Dora Blake begged that a London physician, one of the most famous in the land, might be sent for, and Mr. Jeb consented to be enlightened by the highest scientific authority. But when the great authority appeared, he had very little to communicate in return for his large fee. He assured Miss Blake that Mr. Jeb had been treating the patient with the utmost discretion. The Chloral had been perhaps tried a little too persistently, seeing that the effect had been injurious rather than beneficial. The patient's mind had evidently been greatly distressed. There had been some disturbing cause at work, possibly for some time. Perfect repose was absolutely necessary, and the patient's constitution, which had sunk to a very low point under the mental strain, must be built up again. The great authority made a strong point of this rebuilding of the constitution. The issue of the case would depend upon care and nursing rather than upon active medical treatment, he said. From what he had the pleasure of knowing of Mr. Jeb, he had never heard of the man's existence until the previous day. He was sure that the gentleman would exercise unremitting watchfulness until a happy result was obtained. If it should be deemed advisable for him to see the patient again, say in about a week or ten days, no marked improvement having taken place meanwhile, he would be happy to come. But as Mr. Jeb was well aware, his practice was of a nature which made such journeys difficult. The physician took a little of the luncheon which had been prepared for him, and then went back to the carriage which was waiting to convey him to Highclare Station. He had brought very little comfort to Dora Blake's mind, beyond the assurance that Mr. Jeb was doing what was right, the case being precisely one of those in which hardly anything can be done. She went back to the darkened room, where Morton lay tormented with delirious fancies, now arguing with his electors, now in court at the trial of Humphry Vargas, now at a college wine-party, disputing some passage in Horace, now raving about Dulcy, always incoherent and disjointed in his talk. While his aunt was engaged with the physician, he had not been alone. The rule of the household was that he should never be left. His dressing-room had been appropriated to the preparation of nourishment, and here his old nurse, now a useful servant in the household, kept watch over stew-pans of beef-tea, and jars of invalid turtle, jelly, arrow-root, and other spoon food, which was forced at intervals upon the unwilling patient. Here, too, were kept medicine-bottles, and all the litter of a sick-room, leaving Morton's own comfortable chamber cool and neat and airy. Lizzie Hardman was sitting at work, near the one window which was not curtained. She was an excellent nurse, quiet yet quick, watchful but never demonstrative. She did not argue with the patient in his delirium, or try to rouse him when he lay mute and motionless, with dull eyes staring at the wall. Whatever anxiety she might feel, she had always the same placid manner in the sick-room, moving with the lighter step, and with soft garments that never flapped or rustled, whereas both Tiny and Horatia seemed all ribbons and flounces, and were more restless than the patient himself, now bending over him to offer him lemonade when he had not the least inclination to drink, and on dabbing his forehead with odour cologne, when the chief desire of his enfeebled mind was to be let alone, and the lightest touch of a strong, healthy hand was like a blow from a blacksmith's hammer. "'I'm sure you must be tired, Lizzie,' said Dora in her low, gentle voice, looking down at her protégé as she sat working a counterpain in cruells, a labour which promised to last as long as Penelope's, but to show a brilliant result when finished. "'You've been sitting here since six this morning.' "'I'm not at all tired, dear Auntie, but I insist upon your going to lie down. "'You were up all night.' "'I feel too uneasy to sleep, Lizzie. What's the use of lying down?' "'You'll be resting at any rate, and you really must try to sleep, or we shall have you as ill as Paul Morton. Was the London doctor very hopeful?' "'Lizzie did not look up from her work as she asked the question, but her sensitive lips trembled a little, and her face was pale with anxiety. "'Oh, yes, he seems to think the dear boy's recovery is only a matter of time and care. We are to be very watchful. The patient is extremely weak. That's where the peril lies. Has he taken his turtle soup? Oh, only a spoonful or two. He has such a dislike to that, and indeed to almost everything. Poor old nurse is in despair. "'For several weeks Morton remained in this state, the delirium and sleeplessness continuing. The London physician was summoned again, and on this second occasion was less hopeful. Shaftou Jeb went on in his jog-trot way, feeling the patient's pulse three times a day, and urging the administration of nourishment, which the patient refused to take. "'In all that weary time Morton had been nursed by the women of his household. Mr. Jeb had suggested a professional nurse, but Miss Blake had set her face against hiling help. There was old Rebecca, who had nursed Walter Blake and his children after him, and had lived at Tangley ever since the estate had belonged to the Blake family. Ready and willing to watch the patient by day and night were it needful and skilled in all the arts of sick nursing. There was Miss Blake herself, and lastly there was Lizzie Hardman, the cleverest and quietest of nurses a sick man could desire. Throughout the long period of his delirium Morton had seemed to feel comfort in Lizzie's presence. He had turned to her rather than to his aunt, as if her hand and voice had a more soothing power. One evening towards the end of April, when Miss Blake had gone to her room, fairly worn out with anxiety, and when old Rebecca was dozing over her pipkins and tea kettle by the fire in the dressing room, Lizzie sat alone at her needlework by Morton's bed, while he lay looking at the wall, apathetic, silent, the image of despair. The tears were slowly streaming down Lizzie's cheeks as she sat there, a quiet figure seemingly absorbed in womanly work. Today Mr. Jeb had for the first time confessed himself uneasy as to the result of Morton's illness. The young man's strength was ebbing day by day, and that recuperative effort which the surgeon had expected from nature had not yet been made. Unless he makes a desperate rally within the next few days, I'm afraid we shall lose him, said the surgeon. Lizzie had heard this, and she sat by her old playfellow's bed, praying silently, while the slow tears stole down her pale cheeks, one with long watching. She had been thinking what could be done to save him as he lay there helpless, hopeless, dying. She and Aunt Dora had spent many a sad hour in talking of him and speculating about him during that dismal time, and they had come to the conclusion that some breach with Dulcy was at the root of this illness. How the severance had arisen neither Miss Blake nor Lizzie could imagine, but that the tie had been broken they both felt convinced, knowing no way else to account for Morton's despair. Today Lizzie had heard news that had startled her. And she was now meditating upon a desperate step. I would do anything to save his life, she said to herself, anything. And then she looked at the haggard face, the wild eyes staring at vacancy, and her heart sank within her. Must he pass from madness to death?  Throughout his illness he had seemed to understand her better than he understood anyone else, to talk more rationally to her than to others. Presently she knelt beside the bed, and took his wasted hand in hers, and spoke to him in a low grave voice, slowly and deliberately. Would you like to see Dulcy? The wild eyes fixed themselves suddenly upon the questioner's face. The name acted like a spell. It was the first time that name had been pronounced in Morton's hearing since the beginning of his illness.  You're making a fool of me, he said angrily.  Dulcy is in Algeria. Oh, she is at Fairview. If you will promise to be a more obedient patient, and to do all the doctor tells you, I will bring her to see you within the next twenty-four hours. Has she come back? Are you sure of that? She came back this afternoon. Sir Everett has been ill—is very ill now, I believe—and he had a fancy for coming back to Fairview. If you will do all I ask you, if you will exercise self-command and try to get better, I will bring her to see you to-morrow evening. She would not come. She and I are parted forever.  Lizzie thought that this was mere raving, one of the hallucinations of fever. She will come to see you when she knows you're ill—or you may have quarrelled, but she cannot have ceased altogether to care for you since last Christmas. I saw you together then, remember, and I know there was love enough and to spare on both sides. Love is not all in this world, said Morton Moodley, and then after a silence of some minutes he asked, Has she really come home? You never told me a lie, Lizzie, and yet I'm afraid to trust you.  Has Dulcy come back? She has, upon my honour. Then I will eat anything, drink anything, and endure anything, only to see her dear face, only to clasp her hand. He took a few spoonfuls of egg and brandy, and a little invalid turtle between that time and midnight, and lulled and comforted by the hope of seeing Dulcy. He slept for an hour or so in the night, Lizzie watching by him till the bright spring dawn, while Miss Blake slept the sleep of bodily and mental exhaustion. CHAPTER XXXXVIII. Sir Everett Courtney had returned to his own house a greater invalid than when he left it. He had tried one spot after another upon the shores of the Mediterranean. He had crossed to Algiers. He had visited the monastery of Latrap, where he was curiously interested in the inscriptions on the walls, and where he made inquiries as to the mode of life in that living tomb. But no advantages of sudden climate, no fresh sea breezes could bring vigor to his frame or brightness to his eye, nor did frequent change of scene, with all the varying incidents of travel, dispel the settled gloom that hung over his spirits. One day he told his daughter suddenly that he was going to take her home by easy stages through Italy and the Monsenny's Tunnel. I want to set my house in order before I die, he said. Oh, dear father, why do you talk like that? exclaimed Dulcy, clinging to him tenderly. You are better, are you not? Do you think I am better, Dulcy, he asked, looking at her with grave questioning eyes? Well, I hoped that the milder climate, that the change from place to place, faltered Dulcy, would prolong my life. Yes, that is just what the London Doctor hoped, or made believe to hope. Yet I find this miserable frame of mine no stronger because I have dragged it all along the southern coast. I find no more delight in life under African skies than in the quiet lanes around Osthorpe. But we will not stop long at Fairview. You would not like it, perhaps, now? I should be very miserable there, said Dulcy, her eyes filling with tears. Oh, my pet, my darling, you shall not stay. If you would like me to leave you in Florence, I could come back to you in a few weeks. I have friends there who will take charge of you. Oh, no, papa, I will not be parted from you. The duty, the only delight of my life, is to be with you. They sailed for Naples next morning, and travelled at a leisurely pace through Italy, seeing all that was worth seeing between Naples and Turin, so ever had hoping that Dulcy's mind might be diverted by the variety of scenes through which she passed. But neither Africa nor Italy, with all their romantic associations, had power over Dulcy's mind, or could make her forget Morton Blake and the happy, simple life at Fairview, before the beginning of sorrow. And now they had bent their steps homeward, Morton was continually in her mind. She was wondering what she should hear of him when she returned. Perhaps people would tell her that he was engaged to Lady Francis Grange, and she would have to endure their sympathy on account of his fickleness. In any case, she would have to bear a great deal. Everybody would be astonished at the rupture of an engagement which had been an established fact in the village, a fact known to the smallest urchin at the parish schools. I hope he does care for Lady Francis, she said to herself sadly. Anything would be better than the idea that I had made his life unhappy. Yet she could not picture him to herself as Fanny Grange's lover without a bitter pang of jealousy. They reached Fairview late in the afternoon, weary with the journey from Turin, whence they had travelled with only a few hours' rest in Paris. There were only servants to receive them, and Dulcy would have died rather than ask any questions about Morton. Sir Everett heard of Morton's illness from Philip Stanton within an hour of his return, and he at once warned Dulcy's maid, Emma Pugh, to say not one word to her mistress on the subject. Miss Courtney is so tender-hearted, said Sir Everett, that although everything is at an end between her and Mr. Blake, she would make herself unhappy if she knew of his illness. But they say the doctors have given him over, sir, if he dies my mistress is sure to hear of it. No doubt some a vicious fool will make haste to give her the information, but in the meantime it is better she should know nothing. Sir Everett ordered his fate and soon after breakfast next day, and drove alone to Blatchmarden Castle where he had a mission to fulfil. He had been thinking much of his daughter and his daughter's happiness since they had started on the long homeward journey. It had been his unhappy fate to come between her and the man to whom she had given her fresh young heart, and now he was eager to devise some means by which she might be beguiled into finding new gladness and delight in life. She is so young and childlike, so full of freshness and simplicity, surely all her capacity for loving cannot be exhausted by this one girlish attachment, he argued with himself. I think I know of someone who could love her as truly as ever Morton Blake loved her, if she would but give him fair play. This idea had been more or less in his mind ever since the cancelment of Dulce's engagement, and this was his chief purpose in coming back to Fairview. He had seen Lord Bevel and Dulce together, and he had seen enough to convince him that Bevel would have gladly taken Morton's place. He had talked to Bevel of his daughter's engagement on one occasion, and the young man, naturally frank and outspoken, had made no secret of his warm admiration of Dulce. Sir Everard had observed him the night they all dined together at Aspenall Towers, and what he had seen then had confirmed him in his idea that Bevel was capable of a warm and lasting attachment, light and careless though the young man's nature seemed. And now it was Sir Everard's most ardent desire to see his daughter married, to see her married to a man who would honour and cherish her, but not to Morton Blake, staunch and true though Morton Blake was.  If I could see her an honoured wife, the mistress of a fine old ancestral home, surrounded by new ties and new friends, new interests, and protected by a devoted and chivalrous husband, I should go my way in peace. But to leave her without a friend in the world, robbed by my act of her chosen lover, depending upon me alone for love and protection, that is too bitter. It was a bright spring morning, and the hawthorns in Blatch-Martin Park were all bursting into leaf. The larches showed green against a background of scotch furs, and the chestnut buds were opening on the sunward side of the trees. Sir Everard looked about him thoughtfully as he drove through the park. He had looked of late upon scenes of striking loveliness, mountain and sea, fertile valley and wide winding river, classic city and time honoured cathedral. Yet this simple English beauty of wood and meadow seemed to him fairer and sweeter than the richer growth of a more luxuriant nature, and touched him nearer than the glory of historic cities. Amid such simple surroundings he had been born and bred, and his joys and sorrows were all associated with the little world within a twenty-mile radius of Highclair. At the castle he asked to see Lady Frances Grange. He was told that she was in the garden, and while the white-haired old butler was giving him this information, Miss Moulton came out of the little drawing-room where she had been filling old Japanese bowls with ferns and daffodils, and was loud in her astonishment at seeing him. Sir Everard, this is a surprise. We all thought you were in Algeria. I hope you've benefited by the change, but you're not looking as well as your friends would wish to see you. Oh, we came from Turin very rapidly, and I am a little tired with the journey. Is your pupil to be seen this morning, Miss Moulton? I know I am unconscionably early, but I have come to ask Lady Frances a favour. Oh, I'm sure she'll be pleased to see you. She is roaming about the gardens, I believe, in the wilderness, perhaps. That's her favourite resort on a fine morning. Shall I go with you, or will you try to find her for yourself? Oh, I won't trouble you. I think I shall be able to find her, answered Sir Everard courteously. And when I have told her what I want her to do for me, I will come back and ask your aid in the matter. He went across the broad gravel sweep in front of the castle, and away to the wilderness, which skirted one side of the park, screening kitchen gardens and stables from the eye of the stranger. Miss Moulton watched his retreating figure with friendly interest. What a fine-looking man he is, and how nobly he carries himself, she thought. If I were a girl, that is just the kind of man I should fall in love with, though he is nearer fifty than forty. But it is a pity he always has that unhappy look, like a man born down by the weight of secret care. I put it all down to Hypercondria. When a man has a handsome income and nothing in the world to trouble him, he takes to reading medical books and imagines himself the victim of some obscure disease. If God doesn't give us real troubles to bear, we tax our poor little minds to invent sham ones. Providence, which had not been lavish in its favours to Sarah Moulton, had given her at least the comfort of adversity's sweet milk, philosophy. She was always ready to philosophise upon any turn of fortune, and her philosophy was happily of the bright and cheerful order, tending to make the best of things, and ready to believe that other people's burdens were quite as big as—and often bigger—than her own. Out of this view of fate came a contentedness and serenity of temper that made stout, homely visage Sarah Moulton delightful. The wilderness was a pleasant place on a fine April morning, a land of yellow daffodils and blue periwinkle, overshadowed by larches and scotch furs, with here a chestnut and there a walnut, and a naan a cluster of wild cherry trees or a grand old beach, under which the never-to-be-heard the last of Titirus might have taken his rest. The ground was green with ivy, moss, and the feathery foliage of the wood anemone, save where last year's leaves lay in patches of ruddy brown. White anemone cups veined with rose-colour, and bright blue dog violets were dotted about amidst the greenery. A narrow sandy track, well trodden by Francis Grange and her dogs, meandered through the wilderness, and after following this footpath for some distance, Sir Everett found the young lady sitting on the rugged route of an ancient oak, reading, with a red setter, a liver and white spaniel, and a veteran foxhound long cast out of the pack for her companions. She started to her feet at sight of Sir Everett, and blushed rosy red with surprise, a glow of colour which gave new beauty to the clear nut-brown skin, a new luster to the dark hazel eyes. Oh, I thought—oh, we all thought you were in Algiers! she exclaimed as they shook hands. I left Algiers three weeks ago. I did not find myself gaining so much health or strength from my exile, that it was worthwhile to keep my daughter any longer separated from all her friends. Not that she has many friends, even at us, thought poor child. We have lived too lonely a life for that. I daresay she is very glad to come home, answered Francis. She must have felt the separation from Morton. Was it not a terrible shock to her to find him so ill? As yet, she knows nothing of his illness. Indeed! No, I want to spare her the pain of that knowledge, if I can. To that end I kept back a letter which Dora Blake wrote to Dulcy while we were at Algiers, though Miss Blake, no doubt from consideration for my poor girl, affected to make light of Morton's illness. Was it not rather cruel of you to keep Dulcy in the dark? And will it not make the blow harder for her to bear, if Morton should die, as Francis? Her voice trembled a little as she spoke of this possibility. Oh, I hope not. I hope she will be resigned even to that sorrow. It could make the calamity no less were her mind to be prepared for it by the slow torches of anticipation. I am going to be quite frank and open with you, Lady Francis, for I want to win your friendship, if possible, your affection for my motherless girl. Oh, I've always been inclined to love her, answered Francis, but I think she has held me a little at a distance, or we should have been more intimate than we are. Perhaps it was poor Morton's fault. Mr. Blake will have no further influence upon my daughter's life. Her engagement has been broken at my desire. Francis paled a little at this shock. You cannot mean it, she faltered. I do mean it. The thing has been done some time. You will break both their hearts. Now I can understand the reason of Morton's strange illness. The doctors have said that mental distress was the cause, yet his family could not imagine why he should be unhappy. Hearts are not so easily broken. Said Sir Everard, I am sorry to hear of Morton's illness, but I should put it down to the fatigue and worry of the election, rather than to his regret at parting with Dulcy. She, who is all tenderness, has borne the separation with resignation. Possibly were she to hear of his illness and imagine the rupture with her had caused it, her peace of mind might be seriously disturbed, and this is what I am most anxious to avoid.  I want you to help to heal my dear girl's wounded heart and to guard it from fresh wounds. Will you come to Fairview and be a companion, a sister, to her till the cloud has passed? I will do my utmost to make your visit pleasant to you, and if you would like Miss Morton to come with you, Dulcy and I will be delighted to receive her. Francis looked thoughtful, wondering a little at this sudden confidence upon the part of Sir Everard. She had always liked and admired him, the grave dignity of his manner, that thoughtfulness and reserved which made him so unlike the ordinary country squire, had impressed her with an idea of his superiority. He was her beau ideal of an intellectual man, a thinker and a dreamer, as contrasted with that common rustic type of which she saw so much, the man who gives his mind to agriculture and field sports, and spends all his spare capital on steam-plows and hunters. She was deeply flattered by his desire that she should be his daughter's friend. You take me by surprise, Sir Everard, if she faltered. I am inferior to Dulcy in almost everything. She is so accomplished and well read, and I am so hopelessly ignorant. My delight is in animals and outdoor amusements. She loves her books and piano and the seclusion of her own rooms. How can I ever be a companion for her? The very contrast between you will be good for both. If she can interest you in her books and various accomplishments, that bright intellect of yours will speedily make up for lost time, and it will be highly advantageous for her health and spirits, if you can interest her in living creatures and open-air amusements. She has lived too much indoors, and with the ideas of the dead for her chief companions. She has grown like myself, too much of a dreamer and a thinker. I cannot infuse brightness and gaiety into her life, because my own life has long been darkened by the shadow of an unforgettable grief. But you can cheer and gladden her. You can teach her to look forward and not backward. Do you really wish me to try, as Francis, looking at him earnestly with bright candid eyes? With all my heart. Then I will come to fare you at once, today, if you like. You cannot come too soon. Oh, oh, we're supposing that Papa and Miss Moulton are agreeable. Will you not bring Miss Moulton? Oh, I think not. She is a dear thing, but she had better stay at home and take care of the shake. Is that his lordship? Yes. Bevel and I generally call him the shake. Will you come with me and see if we can find him? He seldom says no to any wish of mine, so it's almost a formula to ask. But still, I always do ask. I like to show my reverence for authority. Gellert, Nelly, Sancho, go home! This was addressed to the dogs, who scampered off through the Underwood, leaving Sir Everide and Lady Francis to follow at their leisure. Chapter 31. That would be too horrible. Lord Bletchmarden was discovered after some trouble in an upland field, contemplating the performance of a steam plow, which had been lent him by a well-to-do tenant. He was surprised to see Sir Everide in company with Lady Francis, and was hearty in his congratulations on the baronet's return to his native soil. There's no place like old England after all, said the Earl. The smell of the newly turned earth on a spring morning is better than all your southern climates and mineral waters. But you're not looking so well as I had hoped to see you after your travels, Sir Everide. You look fagged, sir, fagged. People will overdo it when they go abroad. I have been giving my daughter a hurried view of Italy as we came home, and said Sir Everide, and I daresay we both worked a little too hard. Sad news this, about Morton Blake, said the Earl. Is he so very ill? I'm afraid there's very little chance of his coming round again from what Jeb told me yesterday. He won't eat, and he can't sleep, and about the only thing he seems able or inclined to do is die. But perhaps now Miss Courtney has come home, she may be able to mend matters. I'm afraid not, said Sir Everide, and then he explained what had happened between Morton and Dulcy, and made his request about Lady Frances. What! Robb me a fan? That's rather hard lines. Who's to sing to me of an evening, and who's to beat me at billiards while she's away? I shall miss her dreadfully. But I daresay the change might do her good. Black Martin is a dull old hole for any girl to live in, and Fan has refused Lady Luffington's offer of another season in Clarge's street. She doesn't care for London's society. Do you want to go to Fairview, Fan? I should like to be with Dulcy for a few days, especially as she is in trouble, replied Lady Frances. Ah, so be it then, Fan. Go and cheer her up a little. I'll ride over to Morton Morning and see how you take to the new pasture. Don't keep her too long, Sir Everide.  After steam-plows and new varieties of mangle, Papa, when am I to come, Sir Everide? Well, I should like to drive you home with me at once, and Malti can send my portmanteau after me. May I go, Papa? Oh, you may do what you always do, Fan, exactly what you like. Oh, best of sheets! Adieu! She gave his lordship a hug, and then bounded lightly across the heavy ground, just as the steam-plow came snorting and tugging towards her, as if maliciously intent upon running her down. Miss Moulton was infinitely surprised when her pupil came rushing into the snug little morning room, where that indefatigable lady was at work, a darning house linen, to announce that she was going to start immediately on a few days' visit to Fairview. Lady Francis and Miss Courtney had been tolerably intimate for the last two years, but they had never stayed under each other's roofs. They had never exchanged confidences of any kind, and now it seems strange that Francis should be eager to bear Dulcy Company. As yet Miss Moulton knew nothing of the change that had taken place in Dulcy's relations with Moulton. I'm off this instant with Sir Everett.  You know what I shall want better than I know myself, because I always forget things.    I feel awfully grand, she exclaimed, as they drove along the avenue. Papa never drives such a trap as this. He has only a rakish little newport pagonal and the big family ark, which my grandfather and grandmother used to drive in, a chariot with lemon-coloured panels and moth-eaten dammer's cushions. I believe it's rather a chosen resort for the sheik's particular breed of coaching Chinas, and that most of our eggs are laid there. Francis stole a look at her silent companion, blushing a little at her own locustity. What a grave and thoughtful face it was, indicative of her self-contained nature, a mind which would jealously guard the secrets of its joys and sorrows. It was a face full of interest for a youthful observer, for it was fraught with meanings that youth cannot fathom, and had all the charm of mystery. Dulcy was surprised at her visit as a rival, but received her with gentle courtesy. Of all companions her father could have chosen for her, perhaps Lady Francis Grange was the least welcome, not because of any objection that she had to Francis herself, but on account of her conviction that Morton had cared for Francis in the past, and was very likely to care for her still more in the future. Sir Everard went off to his library, and left the two girls together in Dulcy's morning-room. They were sitting side by side on the sofa.  The effort which she was continually making to appear cheerful in her father's presence, left her dull and apathetic when she was out of his sight. My dear Dulcy, said Francis, putting her arm round the girl's slim waist. You are not looking so cheerful as I would wish. I have not much reason to be cheerful, Dulcy answered rather moodily. I suppose Papa has told you that my engagement with Morton is broken. He has told me, and I am infinitely surprised. I wonder that you should be surprised, said Dulcy. Indeed, but why should I not be surprised? Because it struck me that you might have some clue to Papa's reason for wishing me to break the engagement. Dulcy, what can you mean? Come, child, I am a very outspoken individual, not given to beating about bushes when I can go straight to a point. Has anybody led you to suppose that Morton has ever wavered in his constancy to you? Can you believe that he is capable of being false? Falsehood is a hard word. Faulted Dulcy? No, I could never believe him capable of falsehood or meanness. But his feelings might undergo a change. He might find that he's been mistaken, that a sentiment which he had believed a lasting affection was only a passing fancy, and that his real love had been unconsciously given elsewhere. You don't think that he ever cared for me, I hope? said Francis Bluntly. I have thought that it might be so. Then you have been egregiously mistaken.   Oh, no! It was my dear father's wish that our engagement should come to an end. He refused to give me any reason. But I fancied somehow that he thought Morton cared more for you than for me.   I should like to see my dear old shake asking such a sacrifice from me, if I cared for anyone as you must have cared for Morton. My father is all the world to me, said Dulcy Tenderly. He and I have been all in all to each other ever since I was seven years old. Then you never ought to have engaged yourself to Morton, said Francis severely.   But it is always best to know what we are talking about.  Oh, don't you know that Morton has always treated me with the sublime contempt with which young men generally regard their sisters? I have not a taste nor an inclination that is not discordant to him. He hates slang and detests horsey girls, and I am both slangy and horsey. However, I have no doubt you did right in pleasing your father, who idolizes you. And I know that time will bring consolation for your grief at parting with poor Morton. I don't believe that I shall ever feel less sorry than I do today. Said Dulcy, with conviction. Oh, yes you will. Trust my experience for that. Women have a wonderful capacity for getting over the grief of that kind. How do you know? Because I had a little trouble of my own, once upon a time, and I think I have mastered it. Oh, you are so brave and bright. Tell me all about it. Urged Dulcy, looking up at her affectionately, she had never known what it was to have a companion and a confidant of her own sex. Her only friend, her only advisor, had been her father. And now, for the first time in her life, she found that there was comfort in girlish sympathy and girlish friendship. No, dearest, it was all foolishness. I had rather not talk about it. The wound is not so completely healed that I can bear to touch it carelessly just yet. Let us talk about other things.  And what a lovely piano. That was a New Year's gift from Papa. Oh, privileged young person, to have a father with power and inclination to give such gifts. So far as inclination goes, my father would load me with benefits, but he never has any spare cash. What an interesting man Sir Everard is. Oh, is he not? I am so glad you like him. He is all goodness and thoughtfulness for others, and yet people do not always understand, or even like him. He is too reserved in his manners to please everybody. Oh, I don't care a straw for the kind of man who pleases everybody. That order of being would never interest me as your father does. He gives me the impression that he has known some great sorrow and has never entirely recovered from the shock. Oh, you have heard his story, have you not?  He wandered about alone upon the continent for years, and it was only seven years after Mamar's death that he brought me back to Fairview. I had been brought up by my aunt in Wales, and I had not seen my father once during all that time. I think the very idea of me was hateful to him in those days. It was only later that he began to find out there was some comfort in having a daughter. From that time forward my chief duty has been to cheer and console him. And to that duty you are willing to sacrifice your own happiness. Well, Dulcy, my dear, you are a good girl, and I will never incite you to rebellion. The two girls passed the morning together happily. Dulcy took Francis on a tour of exploration round the gardens and stables and poultry yard, where everything was new to herself after nearly four months' absence. They looked at hot houses and greenhouses, and had long confabulations with the head gardener, who was a man of taste, and had always some small improvement to suggest to Miss Courtney. Then came a ramble through the house, during which Dulcy chose the prettiest spare room for her visitor, a room with an old Tudor window wreathed with Australian clematis and yellow jessamine. Then came luncheon, at which meals Sir Everett rarely appeared, so the two girls had the dining room to themselves. And then Dulcy proposed a drive in her pony carriage. Oh, if you don't care about driving very much, I think I'd rather loaf about the garden with you, or hear you play Chopin on that delicious piano, said Francis artfully. Oh, I don't care in the least about driving. I only want to amuse you. Oh, then let us stay at home by all means, decided Francis. She considered herself in some measure the guardian of Dulcy's peace. Sir Everett had told her that he wished to keep the knowledge of Morton's illness from his daughter. Were they to drive through the village, they would be almost sure to meet Shaft O'Jab, or Mr. Mork the curate, or some other gossip, who would inevitably condole with Dulcy about her lover's illness. The only safety was in keeping within the four walls of Fairview, where the servants had been warned to say not a word to their mistress. They went back to the morning room, and Francis seated herself in luxurious idleness on the fleecy white rug in front of the wood fire. Now, play away to your heart's content, Dulcy dear, while I abandon myself to dreams of all that might have been, had life been utterly different. Even the most matter-of-fact people are sentimental once in a way, and Chopin always sets me dreaming. Well, what shall I play, Lady Francis? If you call me Lady Francis, I shall go home this afternoon. Call me Fan. It sounds rather like the name of a gnasmatic blend in Spanish, but all the people who care for me call me by it. Morton used to call you Fan, I remember, said Dulcy. My dearest, Morton cares for me, just as much as he cares for his horse or his dog. He is used to me. We have ridden and danced and played billiards together, and before he knew you, Black Marden was the chosen resort of his idle hours. Did you see much of him while we were away? Faulted Dulcy. Oh, very little! He was busy with his election, don't you know? Answered Francis hurriedly, dreading lest the next question should be an inquiry about Morton's health and spirits. I think, dearest, we had better not talk of him. It's only fostering your unhappiness. Then I will play to you, and think of him, answered Dulcy softly. She played the saddest minor strains of her favourite composer, while Francis Grange sat looking at the burning logs, and thinking what a tangled skein life was altogether. Why had Sir Everett insisted upon the rupture of an engagement, which for nearly a year he had seemed to approve? The whole thing appeared arbitrary and unkind to the last degree. Yet I cannot believe him, ungenerous or unkind, she thought, remembering the grave beauty of that thoughtful face, whose meaning she had so vainly tried to penetrate. What a noble heart that must be, which could be steadfast for twenty years to the memory of a lost love, how many men in Sir Everett's position would have married after a year or two of widowhood. These considerations gave the thoughtful recluse of fifty a curious interest in Francis Grange's mind. Dulcy played for an hour or more, and then the two girls put on their hats and jackets and wandered out into the garden again. It was a mild, sunshiny afternoon, and the view from the terrace looked lovely in the clear light. They walked up and down for some time talking, and they were just turning to go back to the house, when Dulcy saw a figure approaching them along the avenue that led from the lodge gate. Oh, surely it's Miss Hardman, she exclaimed. What an odd thing for her to call alone. Oh, you had better not see her, said Francis hastily. Sir Everett would not like it. Why should he mind? It can make no difference. Yes, I shall certainly see her. She is a dear, good, true-hearted girl. And I shall hear all about Morton and Aunt Dora. My auntie, I used to call her, thinking that she would be really my aunt before long. Oh, Fanny, I can't tell you how fond I am of her, or how good she has been to me. And now she must think me false and ungrateful. Oh, why should she think that? She must know that you only obey your father. But she cannot tell what pain and grief that obedience costs me. She may think that I can throw Morton off without a pang. I dread meeting even Lizzie Hardman. Then running doors as fast as you can, and leave me to explain matters to her, she will easily understand that you don't care to meet anyone from Tangly, urge Francis, feeling that this was the last chance of warding off those evil tidings which Dulcy was sure to hear from Miss Hardman. Oh, no! I would not be uncivil to her for the world! Lizzie was close to them by this time.  Of course, you've heard, she said. Heard what? If it's about Morton you're talking, I have heard nothing. What? Nobody's told you that he's at death's door, that for once in a way a broken heart is likely to prove fatal? Dulcy turned pale as death and clung to Francis as if she would have fallen to the ground without her support.  Somebody must tell her the truth. She has been cruel to Morton. She has trifled with him and broken his heart. Why should she not be told that he's dying? It's no harder for her than for others. Oh, not dying! gasped Dulcy. For God's sake, don't say that he's dying. He is so near death that it will need almost a miracle to save him.  Will you come to him? Oh, yes! answered Dulcy, without a thought of father or duty. Dulcy, remonstrated Francis, feeling that her position was becoming momentarily more critical, you forget your promise to Sir Everard. I promised my father that I would not marry Morton, not that I would not see him. I will come this instant, Lizzy. You must explain everything to Papa, Fanny.  Dulcy, you must not do anything so rash, remonstrated Francis. If you want to save his life, come at once, played it, Lizzy. I left the pony carriage at the lodge. Oh, you're dressed? Come at once! I promised Morton he should see you to-day. What good can it do, expostulated Lady Francis? Perhaps none. He may die before to-night. But he would like to see her, and I think she would like to see him before he goes. Before he goes? Then you think he's dying? cried Dulcy. The doctors seem to have very little hope. Yet I believe he is just a shade better to-day, and that the improvement has arisen from the hope of seeing you. Why not wait to ask your father's permission, urged Francis? And risk a refusal? No, there's no time for waiting. Come, said Lizzy, I will drive you back when you have seen him. And then I can explain everything to my father, said Dulcy. I shall be back in time for dinner. You must give Papa his cup of tea, Francis dear, and beg him to forgive me. I would have soon faced a lion in his wrath, thought Francis. They had been walking towards the lodge during this conversation. There stood Aunt Dora's basket carriage and sturdy grey pony, a boy in pepper and salt in attendance upon him. Lizzy jumped in and took the reins, Dulcy seated herself by her side, the boy sprang to his place behind, and a way spun the pony towards Tangley, at a capital pace, like a pony that knew a good deal depended upon him. How long has he been ill? asked Dulcy in a low voice. Oh, for many weeks! From the time of the election he seemed out of spirits, and he kept aloof from us all. We thought that his failure worried him, and that he would get over it all the better if he were left himself. But as time went on he got into a very low way. He could not sleep. He was always roaming about, wrote and read late into the night, led an irregular, rambling kind of life. Then he broke down altogether, took to his bed, and began to be alarmingly delirious. It seemed to be a kind of brain fever, but even the London physician could hardly give us any definite explanation of the illness, or what had caused it. All we could do was to nurse him carefully. And we've done that, said Lizzie, with tears in her eyes. It has been a terrible time for us all, and God only knows how it is to end. A quarter of an hour's rapid driving brought them to Tangley Manor. You shall not see any one except Morton unless you like, said Lizzie thoughtfully, as she drove in through the stable gates, which were at the side of the house, screened from all the windows by the thick growth of shrubberies and final trees. Miss Blake is lying down in her own room. The two girls will be in the drawing room. They are almost worn out with anxiety and suspense poor things, and think it hard that they're not allowed to help in the nursing. But Mr. Jeb thought it better that Aunt Dora, the old nurse, and I should take entire charge of Morton. I shall be very glad to escape seeing them, answered Dulcy. I should feel like a criminal in their sight, and yet heaven knows I am not to blame. We'll slip up to Morton's room, said Lizzie, when they had alighted at a little side door. There's no one with him but old Becky. They went in through a lobby, and ran lightly up the servant's staircase, which brought them to the corridor that led to Morton's room. Silently and softly Lizzie Hardman led Dulcy to the sick room. It was in semi-darkness. The old nurse was nodding by the fire. Morton was talking to himself in a strange rumbling way as the door opened. But quietly as Lizzie opened it, he lifted himself suddenly in his bed, and called out, Dulcy, my Dulcy, come to me! In the next instant he was sobbing on her shoulder, clinging to her with his wasted arms. Oh, my love, my love, how changed you are! sighed Dulcy, looking tenderly down at the hollow cheeks, the ghastly, pinched face. Your work, Dulcy, you thought it was nothing to fling me off, but to me it has made all the difference between joy and despair. Life was not worth living without you. And then he fell back on the pillow, exhausted, and his mind began to wander again. He talked ramblingly in broken sentences, and Dulcy caught only the words, his daughter, better to be parted, treason against the dead. She sat by his bed, holding his shrunken hand in hers, sometimes bending down to kiss it tenderly, reigning tears upon it. Her soul was rising up in rebellion against her father all the while, for the first time in her life she felt herself in revolt against him. Why had he parted her from Morton, to what end was all this misery? When he imposed this parting upon her, she had believed, trusting entirely in her father's goodness, that he knew Morton to be in some manner unworthy of her affection, that he had spared her the humiliating knowledge of her lover's inconstancy. But here was Morton constant even to death! For what end, save to satisfy an unjustifiable caprice of her father's, had he been brought to the edge of the grave?  Dulcy said to herself. The old nurse had retired to the adjoining room. Lizzie sat half-hidden in the big arm-chair by the fire. There was no sound save the dropping of the ashes on the half, and those occasional murmurs of disjointed speech from Morton. Dulcy sat by him for an hour, his hand clasped in hers almost all the time. Once he looked up at her with a smile strangely unlike his own as it seemed to her, and murmured, It is good of you to come. It is very sweet to see you once more, if only for a little while, my darling. Fate has parted us, Dulcy. Your father was right. He showed his sound judgment. It seems cruel, doesn't it? Sorely hard upon you and me. Yet it was just and right. It's the one act in his life which I cannot blame. Was this delirium? Dulcy asked herself. Or did her lover really mean that he approved of Sir Everard's conduct in cancelling their engagement? His speech implied that there was some reason why he and she should be parted, and that her father had acted wisely and honourably in recognising that reason. Yet what possible cause for their severance could there be so long as Morton was true? And of his truth and constancy there could be little doubt. She dared not question him in his weak state, lest she should agitate him. She could only sit quietly by his side, wondering at his strange words, and inclined to think that they were only a portion of that delirious speech, which as Lizzie had told her had been one of the most alarming features of his illness, continuing so long that the doctors had begun to fear that the patient's brain must be permanently injured. For some time Morton lay motionless and silent, as if unconscious of Dulcy's presence. Then he suddenly turned his face to the wall, with a groan of bitterest anguish. The son of the murdered and the daughter of the murderer? That would be too horrible! he cried. END OF CHAPTER XXXXI Lady Francis went back to the house, sorely perplexed in mind. She felt as if she had broken faith with Sir Everud. He had in a manner confided his daughter to her care, and she had shown herself useless as a guardian. I dread to tell him what has happened, she said to herself. I feel sure that serious face of his can look awfully severe. And I am to give him his tea, Dulcy said. Tea for soothe, as if such a man as that were to be tamed by tea. It's more likely he will give me my conger. She went back to the morning-room, where a fresh log had been put upon the fire, and where Scroop was busy setting out the octagon tea-table, with its bright china and quaint silver pot and kettle. Will Miss Courtney make tea, my lady, or shall I? asked Scroop. Miss Courtney has gone out. You had better make the tea, please, as you know how your master likes it. Ah, yes, my lady! answered Scroop, looking intensely astonished. Frances seated herself in a low basket chair, took up a book, and pretended to be engrossed in its contents. It was a volume of Tennyson's iddles, and although Lady Frances Grange read through her four pages about the quest of the Holy Grail, she had not the faintest idea what the Grail was, or why anyone wanted to find it. Her mind was troubled about Dulcy, and Dulcy's father. Yet she looked the image of studiousness as she sat pouring over her book, a neat little figure, simply clad in a dark blue cloth dress over a velvet petticoat, from the hem of which peeped out a slender foot in its substantial, well-made boot. Lady Frances never had many gowns or many boots, but all that she wore was of the best and neatest, and generally in the latest fashion. A girl who was only one gown at a time can easily keep abreast with fashion, she told her richer acquaintance. It is you young women who go in for twenty gowns a year who are always behind the times. You are burdened with a heap of clothes that want wearing out. Scroop made the tea, gave a last glance at the table to see if its arrangements were up to that high standard, which a butler who has a very easy place feels ought to be reached by him, and then withdrew. Lady Frances flung her book face downward on the rug directly he was gone. It's useless trying to read, she exclaimed petulantly. I never was good at understanding Tennyson, and today I feel as if my head was stuffed with cotton wool instead of brains. Sir Everard came in at this moment. Well, Delcy, are you ready to give me my tea, he asked, and then seeing that Lady Frances was alone, he came up to the hearth. He looked at her for a moment or so with grave admiration. The bright head with its boyish curls, the graceful figure, the peacant animated face, might win an admiring glance even from the most preoccupied of men. He looked from that blushing perplexed face to the book on the hearth rug, and then bent to pick up the volume. The laureate does not appear to have pleased you, Lady Frances, he said gravely. Forgive me for having used Delcy's book so badly, but I was awfully worried, and the holy grail made me savage. Oh, Sir Everard, I'm afraid you will be dreadfully angry with me, and yet I'm not to blame. Delcy has gone to see Morton Blake. And then she went on to describe what had happened. I am sorry that my daughter has not more self-respect, he said, with deep disapproval. Oh, but if he is at the point of death, if her presence could comfort him, perhaps save his life. That is all folly. If a man is dying, the creature he loves best in this world cannot prolong his life by so much as an hour. My daughter has degraded herself and me by this ridiculous proceeding. I wonder at her folly. Oh, do not be hard upon her, Sir Everard. Consider that only a few months ago she looked upon Morton Blake as her future husband. Remember how happy she was in that engagement. Oh, I see. You're on her side. You think I've used her cruelly, exclaimed Sir Everard gloomily. I do. Child, you do not know what you're talking about. There is that in Morton's character which would have made his marriage with Dulcy a lifelong misery for both. I know that, and he knows it too. Did he urge me to alter my determination? No, he submitted uncomplainingly to the cancelment of his engagement, because he knew that I had acted wisely in breaking it. I cannot understand you, faulted Francis. The whole matter is a mystery to me. I have known Morton intimately for years. I've looked up to him and admired him as an elder brother, and I have never discovered any point in his character that was not admirable.  Be content to believe in the fact without wanting to know why it is so, answered Sir Everard quietly. And now, as Dulcy is away, perhaps you will do me the honour to give me some tea. Pray forgive me, I am very neglectful, faulted Francis.  But you mustn't let her be tempted to visit Morton again, said Sir Everard, who seemed to have recovered his good humour. Francis breathed more freely, and as her host began to talk of other things, of her father and his farm, her brother and his views of life, his pursuits and ambitions, her spirits revived, and she talked freely, forgetting Dulcy's troubles and everything else in the world, except that she was in the society of a remarkably interesting man. They talked a great deal of bevel, in whose taste and inclinations Sir Everard seemed warmly interested. He is not without ambition, I suppose, he said, after Francis had described her brother's love of hunting and shooting, fishing and coursing, polo and lawn tennis, a man's whole mind cannot be given up to amusements. Well, no, I suppose not, but Bevel is very young, you see. He was only three and twenty last October, and I don't think that he takes a very serious view of life. That will come, I dare say, later. It is to be hoped so. He would not like to be buried alive in Daleshire all his days, I should think. Buried alive in such a hunting-country? Why, where would he be better off? Well, there is such a thing as a public career for a young man. There is such a place as the House of Commons. Oh, elections are so expensive! said Francis with a careless shrug. Besides, the shake couldn't never do without Bevel. They're devoted to each other. You have no idea what a united family we are. Our poverty has drawn us closer together. But if Bevel had plenty of money? Oh, I suppose you mean if he were to marry an heiress, said Francis naively. People have made that suggestion to me before, but Bevel detests heiresses. He will marry for love or not at all. Well, would it not be possible for him to find a lovable heiress? Oh, I don't know! faulted Francis, blushing vehemently. Oh, poor Bevel, don't ask me anything more about him, please. There are subjects that must be sacred. As to his ambition, I'm afraid that has never been aroused yet. He is very fond of Bletchmarden and pulls heartily with the peter in all his efforts to free the estate. But as for Parliament, a public life and that kind of thing is out of his line. He is always in the first flight. He has won no end of cups at long jumps and hammer-throwing and polo, though he's never been a pot-hunter, don't you know? said Lady Francis gravely. A pot-hunter? What in heaven's name is that? A man who goes in for athletics for the sake of winning prizes. Ah, I understand. The phrase is expressive. But hardly elegant from a lady's lips, you would say. Returned Francis laughingly. Just then the door opened and Dulcy came in. She was deadly pale, and she crept up to the half and dropped into her usual chair in a curiously listless, half-mechanical way, saying not a word to her father or Lady Francis.  Let me give you some warm tea. Your father is not angry, dearest. Don't look at him in that frightened way. Dulcy was looking up at her father with a countenance that expressed a strange, vague terror, gazing at him as she had never gazed before. No, my love, I am not angry, said Sir Avarad. Your friend has pleaded for you very sweetly, and you know it is not in my nature to be angry with my dearest girl. But you have done a foolish thing all the same, love.  You must never do such a thing again. I never shall. No, Father. Of my own free will I will never see Morton Blake again.  Then rose as if she would have run out of the room, tottered forward a few paces, and fell like a log at her father's feet. CHAPTER XXXIII Dulcy recovered from her fainting fit, only to fall into a state of extreme prostration, which lasted for some days. She was not actually ill, and when Sir Avarad talked of sending for Mr. Jeb, she entreated most earnestly that he might not be summoned. There's nothing amiss with me. Nothing, she said wearily, except perhaps that I'm tired. Let me rest, Papa, and do not make yourself unhappy about me. I have no doubt I shall live to be a very old woman. I can see a long vista of years stretching before me.  This was the longest speech she had made since she came from Tangly Manor. Hitherto she had been curiously silent, not sullen or impatient, but as if mute from utter weariness and depression of soul. You see, Sir Avarad, Fanny Grange said, when she and the Baronet were alone, it is not so easy to break a tie of that kind. He stood at the window of his study with his back to Francis, looking out at the bright parterre, gay with its variety of spring flowers, tulips, jonquils, hyacinths, renunculus, and was slow to answer her. He had asked her to come to his study and talk to him about his daughter, who was lying on the sofa in her bedroom, gazing listlessly at the bright blue sky, employed neither with book nor work, interested in nothing, the image of silent despair. I ought not to have brought her home, said Sir Avarad at last. That was a mistake, but I was seized with a sudden dread of dying abroad, and leaving her alone and helpless in a strange country. I have made no friends for her in all these years. We have been all the world to each other, and now that the sands in my glass are nearly run. Oh, Sir Avarad, exclaimed Francis, with a pained expression. How can you talk like that?  I am at an age which, with some men, means the middle stage of life. With me it means decline. It is not for every one that the drama of life extends to five acts. Some play out their parts in three. The evening shadows are closing round me, Lady Francis. My little girl will soon be alone in this bleak, unfriendly world. If I could but see her happy, happy with another than Morton Blake, before I go, I should die almost at peace. I cannot understand why you should be so determined against Dulcy's marriage with Morton. I do not ask you to understand.  I am her friend with all my heart and soul. The few days that I have spent with her have endeared her to me more than I can say. Perhaps it's because I pity her so much. Good! said Sir Everett. Let us shake hands upon that. The little brown hand trembled in his as he clasped it in Frank's friendship, never suspecting that an interest in himself and in his sorrow might be growing up in the girl's mind deeper and stronger than friendship. Oh, but that you and Dulcy should be friends is only the first part of my scheme, he pursued. I should like you to be sisters. Adopted sisters? No. Sisters in law, in fact. Real sisters in affection. I have a shrewd suspicion that your brother has a sneaking kindness for Dulcy. A sneaking kindness, echoed Francis. Why, he adores her. I ought not to betray his secret, poor fellow, because he has a certain amount of pride, and has never said a word to me about his feelings on the subject. But the fact has long been obvious to the shake and multi and me. Quite too ridiculously apparent, poor fellow. But what is the good of that? Dulcy will never think of him. How do you know that? A woman is always inclined to be grateful to a man who, honestly and intensely loves her, and out of gratitude, love may come. Concluded Sir Everett, with a sudden sigh, as if the words evoke some painful memory. It would make me very happy to think that poor Bevel had a chance, said Francis thoughtfully. But I have a rooted idea that he is just the very last young man Dulcy would ever care about, especially after having been engaged to Morton. Let him come here. Let him try his fate, answered Sir Everett. He is a fine, frank young fellow, and, well, if he has not invented gunpowder, what of that? Your genius is apt to be a dangerous, incendiary kind of personage, who is better adapted for anything in life than to make a good husband and father. Dulcy is so clever, so accomplished! said Lady Francis. Then she will be able to refine and enlarge the ideas of a husband. I am afraid Bevel has hardly a thought of anything but horses and dogs. Oh, here is your brother, and you naturally underrate him, said Sir Everett impatiently. Let him come to us and make himself at home with us. Do not breathe a word to him about this idea of mine. That is a secret between you and me, remember? I shall not forget, answered Francis, gentler and more earnest of speech than she had been wont to be, softened perhaps by the quiet refinement of all things at Fairview. I am more flattered than I can say that you should trust me, Sir Everett, and believe me, you may trust me. I am sure of that, he answered gravely, and then with almost fatherly tenderness he laid his hand upon her shoulder and looked earnestly into her upturned face. That mobile countenance changed as he looked. A crimson flush mounted to the girl's cheek and brow, and faded as suddenly leaving her very pale. Dear child, it is sweet to me to win your friendship, even at the close of life, he said earnestly. You will be to me almost a second daughter. And now go to my pet, and try to win a smile from her. You are like a good angel in the house. The days went by heavily for all the household, for all were full of anxiety about Dulcy. Gradually, slowly, the fair young face lost its painful look of blank amaze, as at the sudden revelation of some terrible grief, and softened into an expression of mournful resignation. News came from Tangley of Morton's improvement. The peril was said to be over. His recovery must need to be slow, but the angel of death no longer hovered near the threshold. This good news Dulcy heard on the day she left her bedroom and returned to the ordinary duties of life. Her informant was Mr. Mork, the curate in charge of the bare old church at Osthorpe, who came to make his adieu before departing to shed the light of his talents and virtues upon a congregation more inclined to sympathise with advanced ritualism than were the farmers and farmers' wives and daughters of Rustic-Daleshire. The fact is, Miss Courtney, said the curate, this place is utterly benighted, and the people so love darkness that they resent any effort to enlighten them. They're a well-meaning set of people, I admit, and according to their lights they have been kind to me, but their ignorance and prejudice are something astounding, and the man who remains among them must be content to hide his light under a bushel. How my successor, Mr. Halldemond, can reconcile himself to the idea of vegetating in such a whole! I beg your pardon, Miss Courtney, fair view, of course, is charming, is more than I can understand. You have endured our darkness for nearly three years, said Delcy, with a faint smile at his grave self-importance. Why should it be harder for Mr. Halldemond to bear than for you? Oh, because he is a man of some mark, well I had only just been ordained when I came to Osthorpe. Halldemond is my senior by twelve for fourteen years. He is a Christchurch man and a ripe scholar. I hope he will be good to the poor, said Delcy. I hope he plays lawn tennis, said Francis. Oh, he is one of the best of men, and is sure to do his duty. He is a man of extraordinary energy and earnestness, whatever he takes upon himself to do he will do with all his heart and soul. That is why I cannot understand his putting up with such a contracted sphere for his labours. When last I heard of him, he was cured in charge of an immense parish in Ratcliffe Highway, all among sailors and the dregs of the population. He is a great athlete, Lady Francis, and was a crack tennis player at Oxford when the game was just beginning to be fashionable. I am sure you will like him. And now Mr. Mork, not without a touch of sentiment, took his fair well, invoking all manner of blessings on Delcy before he went. I am rejoiced to hear that Mr. Blake's long illness has taken such a happy turn. He said as he shook hands with her, What anxiety you must have suffered while the result was doubtful. I hope when the happy event takes place I may be allowed to assist in the ceremony. I shall be charmed to come any distance for that purpose. You are very good, faulted Delcy with a pale distressed face, but I think it will be very long before you will be called upon to assist at my marriage. Oh, goodness gracious, you don't mean to say. Stammered the curate, looking from Delcy to her friend in bewilderment. Lady Frances frowned at him, and he held his peace and bowed himself out awkwardly. Oh, fanny dear, stop there congratulations and questions somehow, cried Delcy, hiding her tears upon Frances Granger's shoulder. But is it not a relief to know that he is recovering, that he is not going to die of your desertion? Yes, that ought to make me happy, ought it not, answered Delcy with a faint smile. And I think it would, if— Here she burst into passionate weeping, and sobbed out her grief upon her friend's breast. Frances let her cry, and asked no questions, and uttered no consoling common places. Tears were a better balm for grief than any preachment from friendly lips. Yet Frances was not a little mystified by this vehement sorrow, which seemed inconsistent with Delcy's unselfish nature. Surely the girl ought to have been so rejoiced at her lover's recovery, that her own grief should have been forgotten, or put aside as of little moment. And now, young lady, I am not going to let you mope indoors any longer, said Frances, when Delcy had dried her tears. It is a lovely afternoon, and you shall drive me into the woods, and we'll gather a heap of prim-roses, dog-violets, and wooden eminies to decorate the church with next Sunday, so that this Christchurch scholar may see that stony barn brightened and beautified. Nothing like hard work is a cure for low spirits, and you shall work like a galley-slave, Mr. Delcy. Come, darling, order your carriage, and then we'll go and put on our house. Oh, do you really wish to drive, Fanny? I shall expire if you stifle me indoors any longer. Remember, I am used to an open air-life. Then I'll order the carriage at once, dear, said Delcy, submissively. Half an hour later the two girls were in the wood near Tangley Manor, gathering wildflowers, while the ponies waited in a sheltered corner, and the groomling in charge slumbered placidly in the bottom of the carriage with the reins in his hands. Tangley Wood was a lovely spot on such an afternoon as this, April at her best and brightest, when she has shed her last tears, and tricked herself out in sunshine, before tripping off the stage she has done so much to beautify. The hawthorns were all in leaf, the hollies were gay with the lingering berries of last autumn, and the mossy ground was covered with spring flowers.  Nature is so lovely that even our darkest moods must yield to her soothing power, and Francis Grange was one of those girls with whom it was almost impossible to be silent or dull.  She pretended not to see that Delcy was full of care, and insisted upon discussing Mr. Mork, and his prospects, clerical and matrimonial, with a wealth of absurd conjecture that made Delcy smile in spite of herself. Then again there is a pleasure in all work done for a good purpose. A late Easter was just over, and the hot-house flowers which had been lent for the Easter decorations had been restored to their owners. The idea of decorating the old grey church for low Sunday with these simple woodland blossoms was delightful to Delcy. She worked her hardest, digging up great masses of feathery moss, gathering innumerable primroses and blue centeless violets, until she had nearly filled one large basket, while Francis worked at another. Delcy was on her knees in a hawthorn thicket, her hat thrown off and the sun streaming upon her bright hair through the leafless oaks above her, when she was startled by the rustling of footsteps amongst the fallen leaves. And looking up, saw a woman and three children approaching slowly through the thicket, the children gathering flowers as they came, the woman walking with feeble, uncertain footsteps, as if even a quiet ramble in that lovely woodland were too much for her strength. There was a bank near Delcy, and here the mother sat down to rest, while the children strayed about among the trees. Play hide and seek, dears, she said, while poor Mara rests a little, but don't go far.  We know the big oak tree, and we'll come back soon. Off they scampered. Shabby knickerbockers and grey stockings, chubby legs and scarlet socks all disappeared in a rush behind the brown oak bowls. The mother sighed and then coughed and sighed again, and laid her thin hand upon her chest as if in pain. Delcy looked up from her prim roses, and at the sight of the one cheek and its hectic flush she was moved to compassion. She left her basket and went to the bank where the woman was sitting. Oh, I'm afraid you are not very strong, she said, sitting beside her and looking at her with sweeter sympathy.  I get weaker and weaker every day in spite of this fine fresh air and all the kindness that has been shown to me, and the pain in my chest gets worse. She lifted her head and looked at Delcy, and at sight of the sweet pitting face and innocent blue eyes gave a little start. Oh, surely no one else could have just such eyes as those, she said. You must be Miss Courtney. Yes, that is my name. I thought you were a stranger here for I know almost everyone about. How do you happen to recognise me? Oh, because I lived for four years in your mother's service. I knew you by your likeness, too. I have been expecting to meet you somewhere or somehow for the last ten days, for I knew you'd come home, and you have been a good deal in my mind. But it was not guesswork when I recognised you. You have Miss Alice Rothney's eyes. I have often been told that I'm like my mother, and you were really in her service before she was married. Oh, before and after a marriage. I was with her till she died. Delcy turned very pale and looked at the woman uneasily, wistfully, as if she would feign have questioned her, yet shrank from doing so. Strange that I should meet you like this, she said thoughtfully. Oh, hardly strange, dear Miss Courtney, if you are in the habit of walking in this wood. I'm living in a cottage close by, and I come here every day. I'm just able to crawl as far as this, and I sit here and work while my children play about. I am glad to have met you. There are no servants at Fairview who remember my poor mother, said Delcy, with more reserve than was usual to her. Oh, no! The servants were all dismissed when Sir Everard went abroad. I am more than glad to see you, Miss Courtney. I have been open and praying that I might look upon your face before I died. Oh, do not talk of dying. I hope the summer will bring you strength. The summer will make no difference to me, dear young lady. I doubt if I shall see the beginning of it. I know I shall not see the end.  Then why did you not stay to take care of me when she was gone? I should have loved to have someone about me who had known her, someone who could have talked to me of her. Oh, Sir Everard dismissed us all when he broke up his household, answered Lucy. I am not saying that as a complaint against him, for he was a good and generous master to me. But I want you to know that I should never have left you of my own accord. I would have been true and faithful to you, as I was true and faithful to her. Oh, tell me about her! cried Delcy impulsively, forgetting her reserve of a few minutes ago. She was the loveliest woman I ever saw, the loveliest and the sweetest. Her nature was as beautiful as her face. And was she happy, quite happy? asked Delcy. Dear Miss Courtney, did you ever know anyone that was quite happy? She had many things to make her life bright and pleasant to a devoted husband, plenty of money, many friends, youth and beauty. But you must know if all these things made her happy. Was she very fond of my father? She looked up to him and admired him, faltered Lucy. But she did not love him. He was not her own free choice. I heard that hinted once by a lady I know, and it cut me to the quick. There was someone else my mother liked better before her marriage, was there not? I am not going to talk about the past, Miss Courtney.  She treated me more like a friend than a servant, and anything that I came to know in that way must be sacred. Oh, yes, I understand. I ought not to have asked you, said Delcy hurriedly. Mrs. Aspinall's light talk was true then. Sir Everard had not been his wife's favourite suitor. There had been someone else, someone who had been rejected by her family, to whom her heart had been given. The stranger startled her presently by a sudden question. Is it true that you and Mr. Blake had to be married, Miss Courtney? Oh, no! Our engagement has been broken off. Oh, I am glad of that. Indeed! exclaimed Delcy with some otor. Pray what fault have you to find with Mr. Blake? Oh, none! He is my benefactor. I owe it to his kindness that I am spending the last weeks of my life in this sweet country place, that I have a servant to wait upon me, a pretty cottage to live in, and I am troubled about nothing. But I do not think it would have been for your happiness to marry him. That is what my father tells me, said Delcy with a sigh. Come, Delcy! cried Lady Francis, coming out of a green hollow where she had been on her knees, gathering wooden enemies for the last half hour. I have filled my basket, and I hope yours is full too, for it is time we went home to tea. End of chapter 33