CHAPTER VIII.

DRIFTING INTO DANGER.

On Thursday, the quiet country household was stirred through all

its fibres with the thought of Roger's coming home. Mrs. Hamley had

not seemed quite so well, or quite in such good spirits for two or

three days before; and the squire himself had appeared to be put out

without any visible cause. They had not chosen to tell Molly that

Osborne's name had only appeared very low down in the mathematical

tripos. So all that their visitor knew was that something was out of

tune, and she hoped that Roger's coming home would set it to rights,

for it was beyond the power of her small cares and wiles.

On Thursday, the housemaid apologized to her for some slight

negligence in her bedroom, by saying she had been busy scouring

Mr. Roger's rooms. "Not but what they were as clean as could be

beforehand; but mistress would always have the young gentlemen's

rooms cleaned afresh before they came home. If it had been Mr.

Osborne, the whole house would have had to be done; but, to be sure,

he was the eldest son, so it was but likely." Molly was amused at

this testimony to the rights of heirship; but somehow she herself had

fallen into the family manner of thinking that nothing was too great

or too good for "the eldest son." In his father's eyes, Osborne was

the representative of the ancient house of Hamley of Hamley, the

future owner of the land which had been theirs for a thousand years.

His mother clung to him because they two were cast in the same

mould, both physically and mentally--because he bore her maiden name.

She had indoctrinated Molly with her faith, and, in spite of her

amusement at the housemaid's speech, the girl visitor would have

been as anxious as any one to show her feudal loyalty to the heir,

if indeed it had been he that was coming. After luncheon, Mrs. Hamley

went to rest, in preparation for Roger's return; and Molly also

retired to her own room, feeling that it would be better for her to

remain there until dinner-time, and so to leave the father and mother

to receive their boy in privacy. She took a book of MS. poems with

her; they were all of Osborne Hamley's composition; and his mother

had read some of them aloud to her young visitor more than once.

Molly had asked permission to copy one or two of those which were

her greatest favourites; and this quiet summer afternoon she took

this copying for her employment, sitting at the pleasant open window,

and losing herself in dreamy out-looks into the gardens and woods,

quivering in the noon-tide heat. The house was so still, in its

silence it might have been the "moated grange;" the booming buzz of

the blue flies, in the great staircase window, seemed the loudest

noise in-doors. And there was scarcely a sound out-of-doors but the

humming of bees, in the flower-beds below the window. Distant voices

from the far-away fields where they were making hay--the scent of

which came in sudden wafts distinct from that of the nearer roses

and honeysuckles--these merry piping voices just made Molly feel the

depth of the present silence. She had left off copying, her hand

weary with the unusual exertion of so much writing, and she was

lazily trying to learn one or two of the poems off by heart.

I asked of the wind, but answer made it none,

Save its accustomed sad and solitary moan--

she kept saying to herself, losing her sense of whatever meaning the

words had ever had, in the repetition which had become mechanical.

Suddenly there was the snap of a shutting gate; wheels crackling on

the dry gravel, horses' feet on the drive; a loud cheerful voice

in the house, coming up through the open windows, the hall, the

passages, the staircase, with unwonted fulness and roundness of tone.

The entrance-hall downstairs was paved with diamonds of black and

white marble; the low wide staircase that went in short flights

around the hall, till you could look down upon the marble floor from

the top story of the house, was uncarpeted--uncovered. The Squire

was too proud of his beautifully-joined oaken flooring to cover this

stair-case up unnecessarily; not to say a word of the usual state of

want of ready money to expend upon the decorations of his house. So,

through the undraperied hollow square of the hall and staircase every

sound ascended clear and distinct; and Molly heard the Squire's glad

"Hallo! here he is," and madam's softer, more plaintive voice; and

then the loud, full, strange tone, which she knew must be Roger's.

Then there was an opening and shutting of doors, and only a distant

buzz of talking. Molly began again--

I asked of the wind, but answer made it none.

And this time she had nearly finished learning the poem, when she

heard Mrs. Hamley come hastily into her sitting-room that adjoined

Molly's bedroom, and burst out into an irrepressible half-hysterical

fit of sobbing. Molly was too young to have any complication of

motives which should prevent her going at once to try and give what

comfort she could. In an instant she was kneeling at Mrs. Hamley's

feet, holding the poor lady's hands, kissing them, murmuring soft

words; which, all unmeaning as they were of aught but sympathy with

the untold grief, did Mrs. Hamley good. She checked herself, smiling

sadly at Molly through the midst of her thick-coming sobs.

"It's only Osborne," said she, at last. "Roger has been telling us

about him."

"What about him?" asked Molly, eagerly.

"I knew on Monday; we had a letter--he said he had not done so well

as we had hoped--as he had hoped himself, poor fellow! He said he had

just passed, but was only low down among the _junior optimes_, and

not where he had expected, and had led us to expect. But the Squire

has never been at college, and does not understand college terms, and

he has been asking Roger all about it, and Roger has been telling

him, and it has made him so angry. But the squire hates college

slang;--he has never been there, you know; and he thought poor

Osborne was taking it too lightly, and he has been asking Roger about

it, and Roger--"

There was a fresh fit of the sobbing crying. Molly burst out,--"I

don't think Mr. Roger should have told; he had no need to begin so

soon about his brother's failure. Why, he hasn't been in the house an

hour!"

"Hush, hush, love!" said Mrs. Hamley. "Roger is so good. You don't

understand. The squire would begin and ask questions before Roger had

tasted food--as soon as ever we had got into the dining-room. And all

he said--to me, at any rate--was that Osborne was nervous, and that

if he could only have gone in for the Chancellor's medals, he would

have carried all before him. But Roger said that after failing like

this, he is not very likely to get a fellowship, which the Squire had

placed his hopes on. Osborne himself seemed so sure of it, that the

squire can't understand it, and is seriously angry, and growing more

so the more he talks about it. He has kept it in two or three days,

and that never suits him. He is always better when he is angry about

a thing at once, and doesn't let it smoulder in his mind. Poor, poor

Osborne! I did wish he had been coming straight home, instead of

going to these friends of his; I thought I could have comforted him.

But now I'm glad, for it will be better to let his father's anger

cool first."

So talking out what was in her heart, Mrs. Hamley became more

composed; and at length she dismissed Molly to dress for dinner, with

a kiss, saying,--

"You're a real blessing to mothers, child! You give one such pleasant

sympathy, both in one's gladness and in one's sorrow; in one's

pride (for I was so proud last week, so confident), and in one's

disappointment. And now your being a fourth at dinner will keep

us off that sore subject; there are times when a stranger in the

household is a wonderful help."

Molly thought over all that she had heard, as she was dressing

and putting on the terrible, over-smart plaid gown in honour of

the new arrival. Her unconscious fealty to Osborne was not in the

least shaken by his having come to grief at Cambridge. Only she was

indignant--with or without reason--against Roger, who seemed to have

brought the reality of bad news as an offering of first-fruits on his

return home.

She went down into the drawing-room with anything but a welcome to

him in her heart. He was standing by his mother; the Squire had not

yet made his appearance. Molly thought that the two were hand in hand

when she first opened the door, but she could not be quite sure. Mrs.

Hamley came a little forwards to meet her, and introduced her in so

fondly intimate a way to her son, that Molly, innocent and simple,

knowing nothing but Hollingford manners, which were anything but

formal, half put out her hand to shake hands with one of whom she had

heard so much--the son of such kind friends. She could only hope he

had not seen the movement, for he made no attempt to respond to it;

only bowed.

He was a tall powerfully-made young man, giving the impression

of strength more than elegance. His face was rather square,

ruddy-coloured (as his father had said), hair and eyes brown--the

latter rather deep-set beneath his thick eyebrows; and he had a trick

of wrinkling up his eyelids when he wanted particularly to observe

anything, which made his eyes look even smaller still at such times.

He had a large mouth, with excessively mobile lips; and another trick

of his was, that when he was amused at anything, he resisted the

impulse to laugh, by a droll manner of twitching and puckering up

his mouth, till at length the sense of humour had its way, and

his features relaxed, and he broke into a broad sunny smile; his

beautiful teeth--his only beautiful feature--breaking out with a

white gleam upon the red-brown countenance. These two tricks of

his--of crumpling up the eyelids, so as to concentrate the power

of sight, which made him look stern and thoughtful; and the odd

twitching of the lips that was preliminary to a smile, which made

him look intensely merry--gave the varying expressions of his face

a greater range "from grave to gay, from lively to severe," than is

common with most men. To Molly, who was not finely discriminative

in her glances at the stranger this first night, he simply appeared

"heavy-looking, clumsy," and "a person she was sure she should never

get on with." He certainly did not seem to care much what impression

he made upon his mother's visitor. He was at that age when young men

admire a formed beauty more than a face with any amount of future

capability of loveliness, and when they are morbidly conscious of the

difficulty of finding subjects of conversation in talking to girls

in a state of feminine hobbledehoyhood. Besides, his thoughts were

full of other subjects, which he did not intend to allow to ooze out

in words, yet he wanted to prevent any of that heavy silence which

he feared might be impending--with an angry and displeased father,

and a timorous and distressed mother. He only looked upon Molly as

a badly-dressed, and rather awkward girl, with black hair and an

intelligent face, who might help him in the task he had set himself

of keeping up a bright general conversation during the rest of the

evening; might help him--if she would, but she would not. She thought

him unfeeling in his talkativeness; his constant flow of words upon

indifferent subjects was a wonder and a repulsion to her. How could

he go on so cheerfully while his mother sat there, scarcely eating

anything, and doing her best, with ill-success, to swallow down the

tears that would keep rising to her eyes; when his father's heavy

brow was deeply clouded, and he evidently cared nothing--at first at

least--for all the chatter his son poured forth? Had Mr. Roger Hamley

no sympathy in him? She would show that she had some, at any rate. So

she quite declined the part, which he had hoped she would have taken,

of respondent, and possible questioner; and his work became more

and more like that of a man walking in a quagmire. Once the Squire

roused himself to speak to the butler; he felt the need of outward

stimulus--of a better vintage than usual.

"Bring up a bottle of the Burgundy with the yellow seal."

He spoke low; he had no spirit to speak in his usual voice. The

butler answered in the same tone. Molly sitting near them, and silent

herself, heard what they said.

"If you please, sir, there are not above six bottles of that seal

left; and it is Mr. Osborne's favourite wine."

The Squire turned round with a growl in his voice.

"Bring up a bottle of the Burgundy with the yellow seal, as I said."

The butler went away wondering. "Mr. Osborne's" likes and dislikes

had been the law of the house in general until now. If he had liked

any particular food or drink, any seat or place, any special degree

of warmth or coolness, his wishes were to be attended to; for he

was the heir, and he was delicate, and he was the clever one of

the family. All the out-of-doors men would have said the same.

Mr. Osborne wished a tree cut down, or kept standing, or had

such-and-such a fancy about the game, or desired something unusual

about the horses; and they had all to attend to it as if it were

law. But to-day the Burgundy with the yellow seal was to be brought;

and it was brought. Molly testified with quiet vehemence of action;

she never took wine, so she need not have been afraid of the man's

pouring it into her glass; but as an open mark of fealty to the

absent Osborne, however little it might be understood, she placed the

palm of her small brown hand over the top of the glass, and held it

there, till the wine had gone round, and Roger and his father were in

full enjoyment of it.

After dinner, too, the gentlemen lingered long over their dessert,

and Molly heard them laughing; and then she saw them loitering

about in the twilight out-of-doors; Roger hatless, his hands in his

pockets, lounging by his father's side, who was now able to talk in

his usual loud and cheerful way, forgetting Osborne. _V¾ victis!_

[Illustration: V® VICTIS!]

And so in mute opposition on Molly's side, in polite indifference,

scarcely verging upon kindliness on his, Roger and she steered

clear of each other. He had many occupations in which he needed no

companionship, even if she had been qualified to give it. The worst

was, that she found he was in the habit of occupying the library,

her favourite retreat, in the mornings before Mrs. Hamley came down.

She opened the half-closed door a day or two after his return home,

and found him busy among books and papers, with which the large

leather-covered table was strewn; and she softly withdrew before he

could turn his head and see her, so as to distinguish her from one

of the housemaids. He rode out every day, sometimes with his father

about the outlying fields, sometimes far away for a good gallop.

Molly would have enjoyed accompanying him on these occasions, for

she was very fond of riding; and there had been some talk of sending

for her habit and grey pony when first she came to Hamley; only the

Squire, after some consideration, had said he so rarely did more

than go slowly from one field to another, where his labourers were

at work, that he feared she would find such slow work--ten minutes

riding through heavy land, twenty minutes sitting still on horseback,

listening to the directions he should have to give to his men--rather

dull. Now, when if she had had her pony here she might have ridden

out with Roger, without giving him any trouble--she would have taken

care of that--nobody seemed to think of renewing the proposal.

Altogether it was pleasanter before he came home.

Her father rode over pretty frequently; sometimes there were long

unaccountable absences, it was true; when his daughter began to

fidget after him, and to wonder what had become of him. But when

he made his appearance he had always good reasons to give; and the

right she felt that she had to his familiar household tenderness;

the power she possessed of fully understanding the exact value of

both his words and his silence, made these glimpses of intercourse

with him inexpressibly charming. Latterly her burden had always been,

"When may I come home, papa?" It was not that she was unhappy, or

uncomfortable; she was passionately fond of Mrs. Hamley, she was a

favourite of the Squire's, and could not as yet fully understand

why some people were so much afraid of him; and as for Roger, if he

did not add to her pleasure, he scarcely took away from it. But she

wanted to be at home once more. The reason why she could not tell;

but this she knew full well. Mr. Gibson reasoned with her till

she was weary of being completely convinced that it was right and

necessary for her to stay where she was. And then with an effort she

stopped the cry upon her tongue, for she saw that its repetition

harassed her father.

During this absence of hers Mr. Gibson was drifting into matrimony.

He was partly aware of whither he was going; and partly it was

like the soft floating movement of a dream. He was more passive

than active in the affair; though, if his reason had not fully

approved of the step he was tending to--if he had not believed that

a second marriage was the very best way of cutting the Gordian knot

of domestic difficulties, he could have made an effort without any

great trouble, and extricated himself without pain from the mesh

of circumstances. It happened in this manner:--Lady Cumnor having

married her two eldest daughters, found her labours as a chaperone to

Lady Harriet, the youngest, considerably lightened by co-operation;

and, at length, she had leisure to be an invalid. She was, however,

too energetic to allow herself this indulgence constantly; only she

permitted herself to break down occasionally after a long course of

dinners, late hours, and London atmosphere: and then, leaving Lady

Harriet with either Lady Cuxhaven or Lady Agnes Manners, she betook

herself to the comparative quiet of the Towers, where she found

occupation in doing her benevolence, which was sadly neglected in

the hurly-burly of London. This particular summer she had broken

down earlier than usual, and longed for the repose of the country.

She believed that her state of health, too, was more serious than

previously; but she did not say a word of this to her husband or

daughters; reserving her confidence for Mr. Gibson's ears. She

did not wish to take Lady Harriet away from the gaieties of town

which she was thoroughly enjoying, by any complaint of hers, which

might, after all, be ill-founded; and yet she did not quite like

being without a companion in the three weeks or a month that might

intervene before her family would join her at the Towers, especially

as the annual festivity to the school visitors was impending; and

both the school and the visit of the ladies connected with it, had

rather lost the zest of novelty.

"Thursday the 19th, Harriet," said Lady Cumnor, meditatively; "what

do you say to coming down to the Towers on the 18th, and helping me

over that long day. You could stay in the country till Monday, and

have a few days' rest and good air; you would return a great deal

fresher to the remainder of your gaieties. Your father would bring

you down, I know: indeed, he is coming naturally."

"Oh, mamma!" said Lady Harriet, the youngest daughter of the

house--the prettiest, the most indulged; "I cannot go; there's the

water-party up to Maidenhead on the 20th, I should be so sorry to

miss it: and Mrs. Duncan's ball, and Grisi's concert; please, don't

want me. Besides, I should do no good. I can't make provincial

small-talk; I'm not up in the local politics of Hollingford. I should

be making mischief, I know I should."

"Very well, my dear," said Lady Cumnor, sighing, "I had forgotten the

Maidenhead water-party, or I would not have asked you."

"What a pity it isn't the Eton holidays, so that you could have had

Hollingford's boys to help you to do the honours, mamma. They are

such affable little prigs. It was the greatest fun to watch them last

year at Sir Edward's, doing the honours of their grandfather's house

to much such a collection of humble admirers as you get together at

the Towers. I shall never forget seeing Edgar gravely squiring about

an old lady in a portentous black bonnet, and giving her information

in the correctest grammar possible."

"Well, I like those lads," said Lady Cuxhaven; "they are on the way

to become true gentlemen. But, mamma, why shouldn't you have Clare to

stay with you? You like her, and she is just the person to save you

the troubles of hospitality to the Hollingford people, and we should

all be so much more comfortable if we knew you had her with you."

"Yes, Clare would do very well," said Lady Cumnor; "but isn't it her

school-time or something? We must not interfere with her school so

as to injure her, for I am afraid she is not doing too well as it is;

and she has been so very unlucky ever since she left us--first her

husband died, and then she lost Lady Davies' situation, and then Mrs.

Maude's, and now Mr. Preston told your father it was all she could

do to pay her way in Ashcombe, though Lord Cumnor lets her have the

house rent-free."

"I can't think how it is," said Lady Harriet. "She's not very wise,

certainly; but she is so useful and agreeable, and has such pleasant

manners, I should have thought any one who wasn't particular about

education would have been charmed to keep her as a governess."

"What do you mean by not being particular about education? Most

people who keep governesses for their children are supposed to be

particular," said Lady Cuxhaven.

"Well, they think themselves so, I've no doubt; but I call you

particular, Mary, and I don't think mamma was; but she thought

herself so, I'm sure."

"I can't think what you mean, Harriet," said Lady Cumnor, a good deal

annoyed at this speech of her clever, heedless, youngest daughter.

"Oh dear, mamma, you did everything you could think of for us; but

you see you'd ever so many other engrossing interests, and Mary

hardly ever allows her love for her husband to interfere with her

all-absorbing care for the children. You gave us the best of masters

in every department, and Clare to dragonize and keep us up to

our preparation for them, as well as ever she could; but then you

know, or rather you didn't know, some of the masters admired our

very pretty governess, and there was a kind of respectable veiled

flirtation going on, which never came to anything, to be sure; and

then you were often so overwhelmed with your business as a great

lady--fashionable and benevolent, and all that sort of thing--that

you used to call Clare away from us at the most critical times of

our lessons, to write your notes, or add up your accounts, and the

consequence is, that I'm about the most ill-informed girl in London.

Only Mary was so capitally trained by good awkward Miss Benson, that

she is always full to overflowing with accurate knowledge, and her

glory is reflected upon me."

"Do you think what Harriet says is true, Mary?" asked Lady Cumnor,

rather anxiously.

"I was so little with Clare in the school-room. I used to read French

with her; she had a beautiful accent, I remember. Both Agnes and

Harriet were very fond of her. I used to be jealous for Miss Benson's

sake, and perhaps--" Lady Cuxhaven paused a minute--"that made me

fancy that she had a way of flattering and indulging them--not quite

conscientious, I used to think. But girls are severe judges, and

certainly she had had an anxious enough lifetime. I am always so glad

when we can have her, and give her a little pleasure. The only thing

that makes me uneasy now is the way in which she seems to send her

daughter away from her so much; we never can persuade her to bring

Cynthia with her when she comes to see us."

"Now that I call ill-natured," said Lady Harriet; "here is a poor

dear woman trying to earn her livelihood, first as a governess, and

what could she do with her daughter then, but send her to school? and

after that, when Clare is asked to go visiting, and is too modest

to bring her girl with her--besides all the expense of the journey,

and the rigging out--Mary finds fault with her for her modesty and

economy."

"Well, after all, we are not discussing Clare and her affairs, but

trying to plan for mamma's comfort. I don't see that she can do

better than ask Mrs. Kirkpatrick to come to the Towers--as soon as

her holidays begin, I mean."

"Here is her last letter," said Lady Cumnor, who had been searching

for it in her escritoire, while her daughters were talking. Holding

her glasses before her eyes, she began to read, "'My wonted

misfortunes appear to have followed me to Ashcombe'--um, um, um;

that's not it--'Mr. Preston is most kind in sending me fruit and

flowers from the Manor-house, according to dear Lord Cumnor's kind

injunction.' Oh, here it is! 'The vacation begins on the 11th,

according to the usual custom of schools in Ashcombe; and I must

then try and obtain some change of air and scene, in order to fit

myself for the resumption of my duties on the 10th of August.' You

see, girls, she would be at liberty, if she has not made any other

arrangement for spending her holidays. To-day is the 15th."

"I'll write to her at once, mamma," Lady Harriet said. "Clare and I

are always great friends; I was her confidant in her loves with poor

Mr. Kirkpatrick, and we've kept up our intimacy ever since. I know of

three offers she had besides."

"I sincerely hope Miss Bowes is not telling her love-affairs to Grace

or Lily. Why, Harriet, you could not have been older than Grace when

Clare was married!" said Lady Cuxhaven, in maternal alarm.

"No; but I was well versed in the tender passion, thanks to novels.

Now I daresay you don't admit novels into your school-room, Mary; so

your daughters wouldn't be able to administer discreet sympathy to

their governess in case she was the heroine of a love-affair."

"My dear Harriet, don't let me hear you talking of love in that way;

it is not pretty. Love is a serious thing."

"My dear mamma, your exhortations are just eighteen years too late.

I've talked all the freshness off love, and that's the reason I'm

tired of the subject."

This last speech referred to a recent refusal of Lady Harriet's,

which had displeased Lady Cumnor, and rather annoyed my lord; as

they, the parents, could see no objection to the gentleman in

question. Lady Cuxhaven did not want to have the subject brought up,

so she hastened to say,--

"Do ask the poor little daughter to come with her mother to the

Towers; why, she must be seventeen or more; she would really be a

companion to you, mamma, if her mother was unable to come."

"I was not ten when Clare married, and I'm nearly nine-and-twenty,"

added Lady Harriet.

"Don't speak of it, Harriet; at any rate you are but eight-and-twenty

now, and you look a great deal younger. There is no need to be always

bringing up your age on every possible occasion."

"There was need of it now, though. I wanted to make out how old

Cynthia Kirkpatrick was. I think she can't be far from eighteen."

"She is at school at Boulogne, I know; and so I don't think she can

be as old as that. Clare says something about her in this letter:

'Under these circumstances' (the ill-success of her school), 'I

cannot think myself justified in allowing myself the pleasure of

having darling Cynthia at home for the holidays; especially as the

period when the vacation in French schools commences differs from

that common in England; and it might occasion some confusion in my

arrangements if darling Cynthia were to come to Ashcombe, and occupy

my time and thoughts so immediately before the commencement of my

scholastic duties as the 8th of August, on which day her vacation

begins, which is but two days before my holidays end.' So, you see,

Clare would be quite at liberty to come to me, and I daresay it would

be a very nice change for her."

"And Hollingford is busy seeing after his new laboratory at the

Towers, and is constantly backwards and forwards. And Agnes wants to

go there for change of air, as soon as she is strong enough after

her confinement. And even my own dear insatiable 'me' will have had

enough of gaiety in two or three weeks, if this hot weather lasts."

"I think I may be able to come down for a few days too, if you will

let me, mamma; and I'll bring Grace, who is looking rather pale and

weedy; growing too fast, I'm afraid. So I hope you won't be dull."

"My dear," said Lady Cumnor, drawing herself up, "I should be ashamed

of feeling dull with my resources; my duties to others and to

myself!"

So the plan in its present shape was told to Lord Cumnor, who highly

approved of it; as he always did of every project of his wife's. Lady

Cumnor's character was perhaps a little too ponderous for him in

reality, but he was always full of admiration for all her words and

deeds, and used to boast of her wisdom, her benevolence, her power

and dignity, in her absence, as if by this means he could buttress up

his own more feeble nature.

"Very good--very good, indeed! Clare to join you at the Towers!

Capital! I couldn't have planned it better myself! I shall go down

with you on Wednesday in time for the jollification on Thursday. I

always enjoy that day; they are such nice, friendly people, those

good Hollingford ladies. Then I'll have a day with Sheepshanks, and

perhaps I may ride over to Ashcombe and see Preston--Brown Jess can

do it in a day, eighteen miles--to be sure! But there's back again to

the Towers!--how much is twice eighteen--thirty?"

"Thirty-six," said Lady Cumnor, sharply.

"So it is; you're always right, my dear. Preston's a clever, sharp

fellow."

"I don't like him," said my lady.

"He takes looking after; but he's a sharp fellow. He's such a

good-looking man, too, I wonder you don't like him."

"I never think whether a land-agent is handsome or not. They don't

belong to the class of people whose appearance I notice."

"To be sure not. But he is a handsome fellow; and what should make

you like him is the interest he takes in Clare and her prospects. He

is constantly suggesting something that can be done to her house, and

I know he sends her fruit, and flowers, and game just as regularly as

we should ourselves if we lived at Ashcombe."

"How old is he?" said Lady Cumnor, with a faint suspicion of motives

in her mind.

"About twenty-seven, I think. Ah! I see what is in your ladyship's

head. No! no! he's too young for that. You must look out for some

middle-aged man, if you want to get poor Clare married; Preston won't

do."

"I'm not a match-maker, as you might know. I never did it for my own

daughters. I'm not likely to do it for Clare," said she, leaning back

languidly.

"Well! you might do a worse thing. I'm beginning to think she'll

never get on as a schoolmistress, though why she shouldn't, I'm sure

I don't know; for she's an uncommonly pretty woman for her age, and

her having lived in our family, and your having had her so often with

you, ought to go a good way. I say, my lady, what do you think of

Gibson? He would be just the right age--widower--lives near the

Towers?"

"I told you just now I was no match-maker, my lord. I suppose we had

better go by the old road--the people at those inns know us?"

And so they passed on to speaking about other things than Mrs.

Kirkpatrick and her prospects, scholastic or matrimonial.