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This text has been proofread but is not guaranteed to be free from errors. Corrections to the original text have been left in place.
Title: The Tender Mercies of the Good, an electronic edition
Author: Coleridge, Christabel R. (Christabel Rose), 1843-1921
Publisher: Isbister and Company, Limited
Place published: London
Date: 1895
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THE TENDER MERCIES OF THE GOODTHE TENDER MERCIES OF THE GOODBY CHRISTABEL R COLERIDGE Author of  "An English
Squire" "Waynflete" Etc. Etc."The quality of mercy is not strained"LONDONISBISTER AND COMPANY  LIMITED15 & 16, TAVISTOCK STREET COVENT
GARDEN1895Copyright information for Coleridge's The
Tender Mercies of the Good.Table of contents for Coleridge's The
Tender Mercies of the Good.Table of contents for Coleridge's The
Tender Mercies of the Good.CHAPTER I.A PEEP BEHIND THE SCENES."WHAT will the cousins think of me?
'Diaphenia, like the daffadowndilly,Bright as the sun, fair as the lily.'
My name is my fortune, sir," said Diaphenia Villiers, with a curtsey."Indeed, my dear, I think it's your misfortune," said Mrs. Villiers, with a sigh. " It's too conspicuous for a girl who has to make her way in the world.""Oh well, mother, I'll carry it off somehow; I'm tall enough."She was. In a many times washed pink blouse, and an old serge skirt which had once been of grownup length, but from beneath which her ankles had long since escaped, she looked as lanky and unfinished as a young colt.Her face, when the eye finally reached it, was pretty, but the flaxen curls which "sunned over" her little head, looked almost more appropriate on her mother's, which, equally fair and curly, hardly reached Diaphenia's shoulder."It will be first-rate," said the girl, "to have this dear little place of my very own. Let's live here for a bit, if it's on bread and scrape, and we'll see what turns up. Really, it's not bad to belong to such respectable sort of people as the Fairfords seem to be. I admired Mr. Fairford yesterday very much, and I'm glad you're free from all those horrid little children. I'll get on, if I am five loot nine, and called out of a ridiculous old madrigal. Now, I want to look round."Diaphenia set a little sunburnt straw hat on the top of her curls, and moving a few paces away from the cottage-window at which she had been standing, looked back at it critically, but proudly."My landed property!" she exclaimed.It was a little white cottage, with a French window to the tiny drawing-room, over which creepers were waving wildly. There were a few square yards of grass, separated by a strip of flower-bed from some rows of vegetables, among which were apple-trees now pink with blossom. The whole was shut in by a thick shrubbery nearly as high as the tiled roof of the cottage."Pretty Peep?" said the young owner. "I don't see much peep. What ought we to peep at, I wonder?"She pushed aside the tangled bushes and looked through the opening. There, framed in hawthorn and arbutus, was a little landscape, exactly suited for a sketch in water-colour; green meadows, a clear shallow river, in which cows were standing, a wooden bridge leading to an old church with a square grey tower half buried in elm-trees, and beyond, low wooded hills against the pearly grey and soft blue of the spring sky."Pretty, certainly," thought Diaphenia, "and it's easy to cut out the peep. I'll go and look at it close."She let the branches fly together again and turned out at the little white gate of Pretty Peep Cottage, crossing the lane and the sunny meadows with a springing step and a smiling face.She was very happy, for a piece of great good fortune had befallen her, in the succession to the cottage called Pretty Peep, in the village of Ford-Regis, and to sixty pounds a year. Her father, a young barrister of good family and romantic tastes, had died before his briefs began, and left his widow and little girl with a few thousand pounds for their portion. Mrs. Villiers was pretty, practical, and brave. She took a post as matron in a great orphanage not far from town on terms which allowed her little daughter to board with her. As soon as Diaphenia was old enough, she went every day to a suburban high school, quite understanding that she must qualify herself to earn her own living. A childhood combining the freedom of country lanes and hedgerows with the habit of independence in district trains and busy thoroughfares, and with intercourse with varieties of people, naturally produces self-reliance and a tolerably even development.It has, however, drawbacks for great girls with curly yellow hair and conspicuous height. Mrs. Villiers was "noticed" by every one in Midwell, and much respected, but she hardly belonged to society there, and she did not like the notion of a half-and-half position for her husband's daughter. Here, in Ford-Regis, as the heiress of a lady connected with the Fairfords, the great family of Ford-Regis, and the most influential people in the neighbouring town of Bishopsford, the girl would be inside the magic circle over which at Midwell she had only been occasionally asked to step. Mrs. Villiers herself was tired of her situation, econony was easy to both mother and daughter, the idea of a little home of their own delightful, and they came to Ford-Regis prepared to enjoy life thoroughly.Diaphenia's views were a modification of her mother's. She did not care much for the rise in the social scale, since, as she observed, "if you're out of one set near London, you are pretty sure to be in another, which will do as well," and she was sorry to leave her school, which was an eminent one. But she was not distinguished enough to carry all before her; if she still had to work, she could do so to better advantage in the country, and there would be less hurry to begin, a good thing for a girl who looked "queer" and unfortunately unconventional. At present Diaphenia found her appearance as unmanageable as her name. Many efforts had been made to clip this into Di or Phenie. Daffadowndilly had been her father's name for his little yellow-haired baby, and Daffodil remained the only version that lived.Bishopsford and Ford-Regis lay in the fertile Midlands. Daffodil beheld a world of broad, flat meadows now golden with buttercups, wide-edged lanes shaded here and there with tall elms of luxuriant growth, a scene which told of age-long prosperity and peace. The low soft hills, the wide-stretching plains, the slow calm river, might be dull on a dull day, but responded at once to spring sunshine. The home county from which she came was quite as pretty, but its rural calm was broken by new villas, numberless little railway stations, and by placards of Beecham's Pills and Pears' Soap. Ford-Regis was silent, settled, the same for generations; its ethos was entirely different from the suburban one.Daffodil crossed the river by a wooden foot-bridge, and came through the buttercup meadows into a nice clean village with tiled cottages, in excellent order, and bright with flowers. It was very quiet, for all the children were in a handsome and well set-up school, which Daffodil passed on her way to the churchyard. This was large, with velvet turf, and gay as a garden. Tall elm trees shaded it on one side. The church was old, but restored in excellent taste, and in perfect order. The tower, which was large and square, was evidently much older than the nave, and was covered by an immense tree of ivy with a thick trunk and branches. The lower windows were coloured, so that Daffodil could not look through them, but there was apparently a story above, for a much broken staircase went up to a little built-up door, and on the same level was an open window."Perhaps it's an old priest's chamber," thought Daffodil, who read something besides schoolbooks.Some girlish impulse towards a promising scramble, prompted her to climb up the much broken steps and, stretching to her full height opposite the window, to peep in. She saw a small square room, with a square table in the middle of it, round which three well-dressed men were sitting. One, with his back to the window, had his elbows on the table and his grey head bowed down upon his hands. The two at the sides had middle-aged faces, sad and severe.Facing the window, with the light full upon him, stood a youth with red curly hair, straight level brows and a white, miserable face."The disgrace which your criminal dishonesty has brought upon us——"As these words, in a strong, stern voice, fell on her ear, Daffodil dropped down out of sight and hearing, scrambled down the steps and flew away from beneath the window to the other side of the church.She had seen and heard what she could never forget. She had surprised a secret which seemed of almost tragical importance.She hurried away from the churchyard and hid herself among the trees, fearing to see, or to be seen, when the strange conclave should break up. Her heart beat and her eyes were full of tears. She had come to the place as a stranger, and she knew something about its inhabitants which must colour her every thought of them.She tried to shake herself free of the impression. Some naughty village lad was receiving a lecture. But no, it was not the shame of the young man who was being reproved, but the shame of the elders who were sitting in judgment on him that rested on her mind.Diaphenia did not lack good sense. She perceived and she resolved that her chance discovery must be kept to herself. She ought not even to tell her mother. It would be a great relief to speak of the matter, a great interest to speculate upon it, but Daffodil's conscience spoke with no uncertain sound. If she never told what she had seen, no harm could come of her having seen it. She had done nothing wrong. Who could have expected anything but owls and bell-ropes in such a place? She was both keen-thoughted and keen-eyed. The miserable face of the unhappy boy, with its blank unseeing stare, momentary as had been her glimpse of it, fixed itself on her memory. She had had a peep behind the scenes of life which made an epoch in her youth, and a decision to make which, though she did not think about herself at all, tested to the utmost the stuff of which she was made. Immature and idle curiosity leading to excited and idle chatter could hardly have been blamed in a sixteen years old creature suddenly beholding so dramatic a moment. But this long-limbed, unfinished, curly-headed girl, not only saw exactly with her eyes; she came also to an adequate judgment, and her resolution of absolute silence was one which few girls would have instantly seen the necessity of making.As she stood in the thick belt of trees which divided the churchyard from the river which ran round its western side, she saw a tall, well-dressed gentleman walk rapidly along the river-side path towards the high road. She had seen him before. He was her guardian, her distant cousin, Mr. Christopher Fairford the solicitor, who had come yesterday to meet her and her mother at Bishopsford station and take them to Pretty Peep Cottage, and had promised them cousinly and neighbourly help in their new surroundings. And he was the person whom she had just seen sitting on the left side of the table in the little chamber in the church-tower.He had hardly gone by when, slowly, with dragging footsteps and bent head, came a taller and older figure whose face Daffodil did not see. She turned her head aside, and the tears which had been choking her fell. There was something in his oppressed and desolate aspect worse to look upon than the misery of the boy. Could this be the eldest of her Fairford cousins, the owner of Ford, the great house of Ford-Regis? Could it indeed be so?Daffodil ran away in the opposite direction and came out again into the village street as the children came pouring out of school, stared at the stranger, but dropped various orthodox and old-fashioned curtseys as an elderly clergyman, of composed and dignified aspect, went rapidly down the road."Who is that?" asked Daffodil of a taller girl."The rector, Miss; Dr. Fairford," said the child civilly.Daffodil drew a long breath. He was the man whom she had seen sitting on the right side of the table.Yes, these were the creditable and prosperous connections, the hope of whose notice for her daughter had induced Mrs. Villiers to come and live at Pretty Peep.Diaphenia wondered whether some startling revelation would suddenly dash all their credit and prosperity to the ground.CHAPTER II.FORGIVEN."THE disgrace which your criminal dishonesty has brought upon us can never be undone. It can never be forgotten by any of those who love you, and whose happiness depends upon you."So ran the sentence in the ears of Austin Fairford, as, with unseeing eyes, he stared at the little square of light in the grey wall before him. He had felt much in the last week, but just now he felt nothing. "I am very sorry," he said politely, though cool politeness was not at all in place just then. If only his father would speak and look at him; his uncles were telling him what he knew before."Suppose I go abroad!" he said, and he knew that his voice sounded just as if he had been saying, "Suppose I go and play cricket.""That," said the other uncle, the solicitor—it was the clergyman who had spoken before—" that would undoubtedly make things easier for your friends. But your father does not feel justified in leaving you to temptations which you are evidently so ill prepared to resist.""The army"—he paused a little, and the young man stiffened himself up as if to await a blow—" the army being now out of the question"—he spoke softly and reluctantly—" it is necessary to find some other occupation for you.""Well! I5 can break stones, or drive a cab," flashed out Austin passionately; "but you'd better let me do it somewhere out of sight.""That is not our intention," said the uncle again. "You are aware that we could not place you with any honourable men of business without giving them our full confidence, and we do not choose that the family disgrace should be betrayed to any one. Nor should we think of leaving you in your own weak hands. There will be nothing extraordinary in your applying yourself to the management of the estate of which you are the natural heir. Your father will arrange for you to have lessons in the management of land, and in scientific farming, and in my office you can acquire a knowledge of the other duties of a land-agent. You are aware that but for your cousin Hilda's kindness and the regard we all feel for you, the law must have taken its course.""And I think it had better," interposed Austin."The punishment would not fall upon yourself alone. We think ourselves justified in avoiding it, but we should be greatly to blame if we did so at any risk either to society or to your own chances of repentance. You will comply with our arrangements, and, on our side, we shall keep your secret. You will be treated as usual, and no one shall be allowed to suspect your disgrace. We require your promise as to obedience and secrecy, and—we shall accept it in spite of what has passed.""Under home influences, and away from temptation," said the rector of Ford-Regis, "we hope that you may yet make amends for the past. As your sense of the wrong you have done deepens, as you realise how great your lapse has been, you will feel that no effort can be too great to show your repentance. That a real repentance, a change of heart that may be accepted in the sight of God, may be granted to you, is the whole object of our plans for you."The words were gently, kindly, and humbly said. Austin knew that they were entirely genuine. His face quivered, but he said nothing.Then his father, the head of the family, lifted his face and looked at him. Austin could not see him; he looked past the well-known and honoured head to the wall behind, his eyes were too dim, but he knew exactly how his father looked: how the clear, ruddy skin was pale, and the good, honest eyes, which looked so kindly on life, were stern and miserable. He knew how old his father looked to-day."I make these terms, Austin," said Colonel Fairford; and, as he spoke, Austin saw with his mind's eye, his father's sword against the wall in the hall at Ford, the little bronze cross that sometimes hung at his button-hole, the fair and honourable record of a past without a stain."I make these terms because, after taking the advice of my brothers, I believe them to be the best for your real welfare; had your crime been against a stranger, had I thought even as it is that the punishment of the law would better bring you to a sense of your sin, I would have faced it for you, though to see my name in the law-courts for such a cause, would have been the greatest of miseries, except—except that which must remain—the sense that my son has deserved it."Austin shook so much that he was obliged to hold on by the table. What had he to do before he could bring this dreadful scene to an end? Promise? He heard one of them say, "We are waiting for your promise.""I promise," said Austin."To submit yourself to all the precautions and restrictions we deem essential, regarding them as a milder form of the punishment which you know to be your due?""Oh, yes, I promise," said Austin."Very well, then, this painful scene will never be referred to. Remember that outwardly everything will go on as usual."Austin heard the chairs move and everyone got up. He knew his father was looking at him; but he did not look back."Let us leave him," said the Rector, in a low voice; "the church is empty and quiet now. It is the best place for him."They all went slowly downstairs, and dispersed in different directions, that no hint of their consultation might get abroad.Austin came out of the church and stood in the porch. It was all over, and life was going on. Presently he would go home to luncheon, perhaps afterwards he would play tennis, then there would be dinner. The worst was over. Nothing could ever be so bad again. He looked, and for the first time since his disgrace, he seemed to see the sky and the trees, the familiar world around him. He was alone, unwatched. There was no trial, no conviction, no prison before him, nothing more to come, nothing more to be afraid of. He had been so dreadfully frightened that the relief from fear was comfort: his conscience had been so severely strained that it was tired out and stopped work; the pressure on his feelings had left them blunt. He dawdled for some time, then went away from the church to the river-side, and sitting down on an old bench under the trees, a favourite haunt of his, looked into the slow, shallow water, saw an eel wriggle through the weeds at the bottom, saw the flies make little circles on the surface.He threw in a stone, and saw the mud which it disturbed rise slowly and dim the clear water. He wanted nothing, but sat on in that curious calm which is the reaction from undisciplined emotion. His eyes were still hot with tears; he had suffered to a degree which seemed altogether out of proportion to the temptations to which he had yielded, and he had sinned—he supposed—even more than he had suffered.But escape was so delightful, that if he had not been so tired, so cowed and ashamed, he could have shouted for joy. What a fool he had been, what a double-distilled fool! If repentance meant knowing his folly, he repented in sackcloth and ashes. But he was so tired. As he sat with his head on his hands, he yawned and grew sleepy. It was so long since he had slept properly, so long too since he had been really awake to the outside world. If the past three weeks, nay, three months, could only prove to be a dream. The oddest feeling came over him, that if people could only agree so to treat them, no harm would have been done. He could take up his life again where he had left it, and be once more the light-hearted, inconsequent, happy-go-lucky boy, who giggled when he should have kept his own and his friends' secrets and was cuffed; laughed and sniggered in class or in chapel and was licked; cried when he left home every holiday, or when his contemporary, the big dog, died at sixteen, full of years and honours, and was chaffed by his cousins; lost his head at his first cricket-match, after he was in the eleven, and came very near crying at the consequences. If he could but be again the boy who was always giving himself away to some cooler head, always making the kind of speeches that "have to be lived down," and generally laying up recollections at which his ears would burn and his smooth cheeks grow crimson, but whom, notwithstanding, every one liked, and whose word no one had ever dreamed of doubting—that boy, who was made of refined and sensitive as well as of honest stuff, and whose inherited instincts towards goodness were now stinging him to desperation.He never could depend on himself in any game of skill; if he scored one success, he was sure to come to grief the next minute. Why then, when he found billiards so much the fashion at the army crammer's where he was sent, did he set his heart on becoming a crack player? Why did he continue to play when he had no money left? Why in that and in a dozen other ways had he fallen into a tone so unlike the decent, manly, "good form" of his set at school? Why—why——?Austin's thoughts wandered off into endless vistas of profitless wondering while he was watching the calm, glistening water, and feeling the peace of the opening spring. A few words will tell the story which he had pledged himself should never be told. Three months of conduct and companionship as to which least said is soonest mended. One month of folly which was not all foolish. Daisy, with her fair fluffy hair, her big blue eyes, her simplicity, and her quick response to his quick passion, had been to him like the flower after which she was named. Even now—even now, the moment when she, blushing, had whispered, "You may call me Daysey—if you like," and he, as he repeated "Daisy!" had thought how sweet her voice was, and how delightful it would be to correct her accent, even now the sweetness of such moments came back upon him with a thrill.He had never meant to lose the train back, and compromise his Daisy, that evening when he had with such difficulty persuaded her to come out with him to gather primroses. But the train was lost, and Daisy was in dire disgrace; and her uncle, the proprietor of the billiard saloons, who "had all the feelings of a gentleman," declared that he could never face her parents again unless Mr. Fairford came forward at once honourably, and, moreover, proved his honourable intentions, and his power to carry them out, by at once paying his little account. Otherwise an appeal to the tutor was inevitable, and that Daisy never would get over. She was too much ashamed now to speak to Mr. Fairford. And Daisy was only visible for a second, with her handkerchief up to her face. Austin would not consult any of his fellow-pupils, because they did not speak of Daisy with respect. He could not write home and ask for an advance of his allowance, because, if he confessed that he needed money to pay gambling debts and other foolish obligations, and had borrowed it of a billiard saloon proprietor, he would bring his family down upon him, and there would be an end of his chances for and with his Daisy for ever. And Austin had been seized upon by a passion out of proportion to his power of self-control. And then—what happened then? His cousin, Hilda Fairford, his father's ward, wanted to contribute a pony and cart to the pleasure and convenience of the home party. Austin had seen the right thing for her, and had managed the transaction. The purchase and the account had been despatched direct to the lady, but she, thinking that Austin had better finish the business which he had begun, sent the bill back to him, together with a cheque for fifty pounds, made out to himself, desiring him to pay the account, and at the same time to inquire as to any special management required by the new pony.Austin endorsed the cheque, and in a moment of intolerable pressure paid his debt with it to Daisy's uncle. Gillespie, his fellow-pupil, who was rolling in riches, would, he felt sure, lend him the money when he got his allowance, and the receipt would be taken back to Hilda at the end of the term.But a short delay brought a lecture from his father for carelessness in attending to Hilda's wishes and want of accuracy in money matters. He must send the receipted bill back at once. The receipted bill went back to Ford by return of post. No one thought much of Hilda's innocent remark at the moment, "Why, the man's writing is something like Austin's own, only very bad and in a great hurry."But she took up another letter, and this was from the coachbuilder who had been commissioned to sell the turn-out, to the effect that a white fur carriage-rug was also to be disposed of; if she cared to pur-chase it, the price could be added to her account, which would then amount to £53 10s.This was strange; but it happened that Colonel Fairford was going to visit his son to make some inquiries about his approaching examination. He would take the receipted bill with him and find out what it all meant.Then came the meeting; inconceivable, dull suspicion, then sharp fear, explanations demanded, prevarication, inquiries, shame and horror unspeakable—only half felt by Austin, for Daisy was fatally ill. In a few hours she died of diphtheria, caused by drinking a glass of milk on that fatal outing which was to cost them both so dear. The little butterfly life went out into the darkness, and the foolish idyll was turned into a tragedy. The solicitor uncle came, and Me and the tutor managed the bitter and disgraceful business. What the coachbuilder guessed or what means were taken to prevent his guessing that the unhappy boy was in his power, perhaps even the still more unhappy father hardly knew. Finally the man expressed himself satisfied, all the other comparatively innocent debts were paid, and Daisy was buried.Austin was too miserable for repentance, in too deep shame for grief. He found half a sovereign by chance in a waistcoat pocket, and spent it on a white cross for her grave. He was taken home; he had to do as he was bid. He had to live under the sense of the anguish he had caused, the anguish of which no one dared to speak; and after a few days of terrible doubt came the secret conclave held in this room, where the Rector often sought quiet and seclusion, where its secrecy seemed the most secure, and there the verdict was given.Austin must stay at home, and submit to the restrain which his weakness needed. He must be watcher and guarded, influenced in every possible way for good. They had saved him from public dishonour, they had "forgiven" him, and kept him in his forfeited place; and if his repentance was real, nothing ought to be too hard for him. They would shirk no pain for his sake, and he must shirk none in return. A good and useful life was still before him. No one, not even his sister or his cousins, knew of his fall. There was a great chance of self-redemption; surely the commonest gratitude would lead him to follow it; surely, when he knew that his slightest action must be a source of anxiety to those who loved him, he would think no trifle too small in which to follow their wishes. This at least was the father's thought and hope. He could not, and he would not, trust the boy amongst strangers. His inward as well as his outward life needed too much guidance.So before the sinner there lay a path which would have taxed the self-control of a saint; the alternative from inward penitence and outward self-denial being something hard to distinguish from hypocritical pretence.And Austin was only nineteen, and had never been able to look before he leaped. But just now it was such a relief to have everything settled, to be able to sit still in solitude and in peace, that he could not think about the future at all. His shame came back to him as he started at an approaching footstep. A slender lady in a grey dress and shady hat was coming along the path at a little distance. She stopped at sight of the figure on the bench; and very softly, as if believing herself unseen, she turned and went back on her footsteps."Hilda won't speak to me," thought Austin bitterly.His solitude was peaceful no longer. He heard the clock strike, and, for he meant to be a good boy though all his feelings were so blunt and dull, he got up and turned homewards.He supposed it would be very wrong if to-day he did not get back in time for luncheon.CHAPTER III.THE HOLE.IT is not often that three brothers live side by side from youth to the farther verge of middle age in entire accord and with so fair and even a reputation. The Fairfords sometimes said, and they always thankfully believed, that the blessing of God had been upon them for more than one generation. Their forefathers had been landowners of the smaller sort, good men, and respected in their county; their father, Nicolas Fairford, had been young at the time of the great "Oxford movement," had been the friend of its teachers, and had led his life under its influence. The spirit which defined and idealised the traditional sense of duty of the English landlord and the English Churchman, was never more fully carried out in practice. Nicolas Fairford had led a long and useful and, it is not too much to say, a holy life. His highest ideals were the duties nearest his hand, a condition of thought most favourable to happiness when the nature is noble enough to carry them consistently out. His heart thrilled to his dying day at the toast of Church and Queen; the love of his tenantry was hardly second with him to the love of his own children; his servants were lifelong friends; and if his word was law to his neighbours, it was a law never twisted to his own benefit.When he went to his grave, full of years and full of honour, his sons could think of nothing better than to follow in his steps. The eldest, another Nicolas, was cast in much the same mould. He served in the army, married late, lost his wife in a few years, and came home during his father's lifetime to live at Ford. He was the tenderest-hearted and made of the finest stuff of the three brothers, and, in spite of his experience in the army, was the simplest and most unworldly of them all, and added a certain fine and sensitive idealism to the family high principle. The second, Augustine, the rector of Ford-Regis, was the cleverest and the one with the widest outlook. He had married a lady of rank, and his position in the diocese caused him to mix with varieties of people. The third, Christopher, the solicitor, was a Fairford of the Fairfords. He thought, according to the well-known joke, that the world consisted of Fairfords and other people.There had once been another brother, a black sheep, but he died long ago while still young. The three remaining ones thought of him now, but did not speak of him. He had been sent abroad. They meant to treat Austin differently!In the hands of men of such strong family feeling as these two uncles, the reputation of the heir was absolutely safe, and his secret would be kept even from their own sons and daughters, all of whom were doing well according to their various ages.Of public disgrace or even discredit, Austin's father need have no fear.Yet, as he walked away from the delivery of this merciful and concurrent judgment, his heart knew its own bitterness; there was a soreness and a weight which none could share. He had never been intimate with the boy, his honoured father had never been intimate with him, and now he did not know how to invite his confidence, indeed he hardly wished to do so; freedom of intercourse not entering into his idea of the relation between them; but he knew that he should go softly all his life for Austin's fall. He forgave him—yes, and he believed that repentance would win a yet higher forgiveness; but trust was gone for ever, and with it hope. Austin's father at least would never expect much of him again. As gentleman and as soldier, he felt the social stain to be indelible, and as a man of high and fastidious morals, innate and genuine, the action itself grieved him far more. All the Fairfords were taught in childhood, that a lie once told made them for ever untrustworthy, and they had been so fortunate, not only in circumstances, but in bent of character, that the simple and dutiful Colonel had never seen reason to modify this faith. His love for his son could not change it. That only made his heart heavy as with slow step and hanging head he walked away from the church through his woods and plantations to visit his bailiff, that he might be furnished with a true account of his morning walk when he went home again.There was nothing remarkable about the scenery round Ford-Regis; in fact, it was not "scenery" at all, but simply rich, fertile, undisturbed country. The Colonel walked through fields and copses, sweet and fair with cowslips and blue-bells, vocal with nightingales, and varied with the loveliest alternations of sun and shade. He did not take much notice; even the crowing of a pheasant or the whirl of its wings hardly roused him, though he preserved his game in a moderate, old-fashioned manner, with a certain regard to the convenience of his neighbours, who were not indeed so numerous as to bring the question to a sharp and modern issue.The bailiff inhabited an old farmhouse which lay low in a woodland hollow; the visitor looked down on its tiled roofs before he reached it. Its wide yard and ample barns and outbuildings had all the charm of such places to minds untroubled by agricultural difficulties. Colonel Fairford was an admirable landlord, and his affairs were still as prosperous as in these days is possible. Purcell, the bailiff, rented the Hole, by which unattractive name the place was called, and also received a salary for superintending the Colonel's home farm, and for other work on the estate. He was out, but his wife, a pretty, superior woman, received the Colonel with due civilities and offers of milk, or elder-flower wine, which last was a speciality in the district."For you look tired with your walk, sir, though I know as a rule you take nothing in the morning."Mrs. Purcell had the tone and manner of a lady, and appeared to introduce the "sir," into her sentence as a piece of suitable local colouring. Colonel Fairford, as he sat down, felt how much his morning's work had exhausted him, and accepted the elder-flower wine, which was very nice, and by no means devoid of strengthening qualities. The great elder bushes from which it was made were beginning to set off the farm buildings with knots and edgings of wholesome green."I called partly," said the Colonel, when he had finished the wine, and the little colour it had restored to his face receded as he spoke, "I called to tell Purcell that Mr. Austin is coming home to learn the management of the property. I shall expect Purcell to take him about and give him regularly all the practical hints he can. He'll probably read with Mr. Atkins at Edgeworth, who takes, as you know, farming pupils. Mr. Christopher (the Fairford brothers always went on the estate by their Christian names, even the Rector was often Mr. Augustine) will grind him up in some useful legal matters, and I daresay my brother's curate will keep up his other studies—but I want him to understand, and to do, real practical work. I shall be obliged to Purcell to do all he can for him.""Indeed, you'll be glad to have Mr. Austin at home, sir; I'm sure my husband will like to put him in the way of the work. Then he is not going into the army after Mr. Kit?"Kit was the eldest of the boys at the Rectory."No," said the Colonel, "I have come to a different conclusion."He had given this careful explanation so immediately on his decision, from a nervous dread of the thoughts of his neighbours; but he neither could nor would give a false excuse for the arrangement. A little absence of manner in Mrs. Purcell suddenly alarmed him. Was there anything he could say to make the plan seem natural that yet was true? The proud and independent gentleman was unready with explanations. Before he formed one, Mrs. Purcell smiled and spoke."It's a little odd, sir, that you have taken just today to tell us about Mr. Austin, because my husband was just thinking of speaking to you about our Jack. We are thinking of keeping him with us if possible.""Indeed, I thought he had a clerkship in London.""He had," said Mrs. Purcell, fluently, "but the indoor life doesn't seem to suit his health, and we should like him to be trained up for a land-agent. He has more education than his father, and might perhaps get into the office of some large estate, but there's a good deal Purcell could put him in the way of here.""Well, if he doesn't get into idle ways at home," said the Colonel, a little doubtfully."Oh dear, no sir, his father will make him work. You know we're a man short here since John Wood was taken on at the home farm. John isn't going to keep his hands clean!""Well, Mrs. Purcell, as you like, of course, but I advise you soon to get him away to something definite. Home life doesn't answer for a youth; he'd better learn his trade elsewhere, even if he comes back to help his father by-and-by."With this admirable piece of advice the Colonel took his leave. The visit had done him a little good. The world was still going on as usual, and he realised it with the same kind of relief as the same thought had brought to his son.Mrs. Purcell had received the Colonel in the big front kitchen on purpose. She was clever enough to understand that it was correct to keep it "farm housy" and countrified on purpose. There was a large sitting-room often let for lodgings, which she also managed to arrange in character. When she hung up little blue-and-white curtains to fall across the windows instead of blinds, she knew as well as her lodgers that she was using her opportunities well. The effect was charming, but the cause was not, as Miss Agatha Fairford, the Colonel's sister, thought, because Mrs. Purcell was content with what belonged to her station, and did not aspire after the wax-flowers and glass-shade. It was because she had learned to despise them."Jack!" she called, looking out through the back kitchen, and a slim fair youth, with a pipe in his mouth, came in from the yard beyond."Well," said his mother, "I've paved the way. The Colonel won't make any objection, and you can stop here till everything has blown over, and the clerkship forgotten. Then he'll give you a recommendation for something else.""He wouldn't keep me about, if he knew, nor father either," said the young man with a frown."I quite trust to nothing ever happening again," said Mrs. Purcell."I shan't take to sheep-stealing," said Jack shortly."No. Oh, jack, you won't break my heart any more? You'll be good? If you had to go off to the Colonies I couldn't bear it. What should I have left to care about? You can make shift to be of use, even if you do hate farm work.""I'd rather go round with a kodak and sell the views," said Jack, "but I'll try; I suppose there's no help for it.""Mr. Austin's coming home to live," said Mrs. Purcell. "He's to learn about managing the estate from your father.""Oh! he's got it all his own way," said the young man, disdainfully. "Life's all laid out to suit him. He don't have to do what he doesn't like. But all that'll be altered some day.""Not in my day, nor in yours," said Mrs. Purcell dryly. "Things are always altering themselves, but they don't get altered in a hurry."Jack, whose duties, whatever they might prove to be, were as yet indefinite, strolled off with his hands in his pockets, while his mother went to look after the dinner.The lad went on through the copses, oylogmil midetating on the hardships of his fate. He did not like farm-work, nor woodcraft, nor any kindred occupation. Indeed, he was in that limp and indolent stage of youth when the interests of life seem limited and few. As he crossed the path that led from the village to the Colonel's house, he suddenly met the object of his grudging and half-envious thoughts. Austin stared at him for a moment before a look of recognition came into his most mournful face.""Hallo, Jack Purcell," he said. "You here?""Yes, Mr. Austin, I'm to study agriculture under my father," said Jack with some defiance."So am I," said Austin.And then, for he was a kindly and genial fellow by nature, and Jack was an old play-fellow, he smiled, and said:"We shall see who gets on best.""Yes, sir," said Jack.The two lads looked at each for a moment, and then, with a sense of shame and envy, each glance fell. Austin went on his way and thought no more of the encounter, but Jack wondered and said to himself: "Mr. Austin don't look as if he liked it better than I do."CHAPTER IV.A HERO.THERE were, as Nancy Fairford was wont to say, three old maids of Ford. First, the Colonel's elder sister, Agatha, now close on sixty; secondly, his cousin and ward, Hilda Fairford, somewhere in the later thirties; and lastly, his daughter Anne, or Nancy, who, being only eighteen, had a full right to make the foregoing classification.Miss Agatha Fairford had been the mistress ever since, at her mother's death, she had kept house for her father. The Colonel's wife had not lived long enough to displace her, and Hilda and Nancy had each come under her charge in early childhood.Many years ago she had refused to marry a man whom she certainly might have loved, because she felt herself necessary at home, and the force of character which had enabled her to make this sacrifice to her sense of duty had made her a great force in the Fairfold family. She was a soft-voiced, quiet lady, with gentle, retiring manners, which yet had a certain distant and repellent quality. She believed herself to be in possession of an infallible code for everybody in small matters as in great, and by this code, the existence of which an unlucky outsider would never have suspected, she judged her fellow-creatures. She could not imagine that conscience could have one voice for herself and another for other people, and, in her long and quiet life, she, like the Bourbons, had "learnt nothing and forgotten nothing." "I have always thought that was quite right," she said once when this famous saying was repeated to her.Long after the glow and the suffering of her own sacrifice to duty had faded into the past, she had "protected" Hilda from some attentions which she had thought undesirable. The disappointment thus caused was faint and shadowy, and did not interrupt the long, even flow of Hilda's girlhood. Nancy's personal history was all in the future, and had hitherto cost her few thoughts and no anxieties.It had been decided that she was not to be burdened by a knowledge of Austin's disgraces, and on this morning of trouble she came flying out of the house just as Hilda returned from her walk, and Miss Agatha also came in from some parish business.Agatha's dress was frankly elderly, Hilda's so middle-aged as to look odd in these days of prolonged youth; but her face, under her sober hat, was almost that of a girl. She was small, dark-eyed and delicate, and her manner to Agatha was much more deferential than that of Nancy, who in appearance followed the ordinary Fairfold type, and was a fine, handsome girl, with well-marked outlines and auburn tints. In Miss Agatha the same warm colouring had been gradually subdued by the passing years, and the same well-cut features chiselled and defined by the master-hand of a strong character.Ford was a large substantial house of brick, with stone facings covered with long-established creepers. It stood in a big, quiet garden, enclosed by shrubberies. A glass door in the hall opened on to a wide flat lawn, beyond which were peaceful pastures, which it was the family custom to call the "meadows," but which really formed a small and unpretentious park, well planted with a charming variety of ornamental trees."Cousin Hilda," cried Nancy, "Here's a new story; it's awfully jolly!""Nancy, dear child!" said Miss Agatha, "those words from you! When you think of what awful means!""Oh well, Aunt Agatha, I don't think!" said Nancy. "It only means particularly jolly. Shall I say sweetly pretty?"Nancy's strong young tones drowned her aunt's low voice, which nevertheless continued when she had finished speaking with—"Careful choice of expressions has always seemed to me so useful a check on one's high spirits.""I can't think where Austin's spirits are gone to," said Nancy, "or where he is himself. He looked so doleful this morning that I went to get him to ride round the hill with me."Miss Fairford went into the house in silence, and Nancy continued:"Don't you think Austin is rather grumpy? Have you any idea what can be the matter with him?""He has not told me," said Hilda, with a painful blush. "But, Nancy, wasn't it—wasn't it rather pert to talk about 'sweetly pretty' to Aunt Agatha? It was almost like making fun of her reproof.""How can you be so awfully—sweetly—particular?" said Nancy, laughing. "There's Austin coming."She ran after him, and Hilda stood still. She had been saved from an equivocation, the dread of which intensified the pain of Austin's secret; but it had been at the cost of a reproof which it was perhaps not her place to give.The brother and sister came across the lawn together, Austin talking and laughing rather noisily, till the luncheon-bell suddenly silenced him, and they came in at the glass door and crossed the panelled, white-painted hall to the long, handsome dining-room, where he was confronted by his father, now grave and imperturbable.Colonel Fairfold spoke to him, offering him cold beef. Miss Fairfold also made some little remark, Hilda was dumb, and Nancy suggested a ride to him. Austin did not for the moment answer; he had to realise that he could do as he liked about it."It is Wednesday," said Miss Agatha, "and we shall go to church at half-past five. Austin, I think, will like to go too.""Oh yes," said Austin, all his forced interest suddenly fading, as he felt that to this offer of reinstatement—for he knew that the proposal was so meant—he could not say no.He went off as soon as he could to order the horses, while Nancy sought Hilda with the new storybook.Hilda herself "wrote," or rather had written several little stories, in which she had enforced religious principle in a pleasing and graceful fashion. They had had in her youth a pleasant little success; now she found it difficult to obtain a market for them. Her name had never been much known, and she would have scrupled to spend a penny of her little profits on any personal purpose, but she felt herself to have the right to advise Nancy, who was a young person of great moral earnestness, and with the most cocksure convictions.She and Austin were fond of one another, but were given to that sort of fraternal quarrelling which resembles the blissful growls of puppies at play. Nancy frequently preached at Austin, while he laughed at her sermons, for he had never been at all a didactic person, or ideally consistent in trifles.Would he ever laugh at and with her again, he wondered, as he rode heavily on beside her, while she, full of delight of living, held forth about the tiny, innocent, bounded world, which she believed to be the great, perplexing universe."Austin," she said, "when are you going back to Mr. Lawson's?""Never," said Austin bluntly. "Haven't they told you? I'm to stay at home and help to manage the property.""And not go into the army?""No.""Why?""Papa chooses it," said Austin, using the term still in vogue in the family."You take away my breath," said Nancy. "Isn't it a great pity?"Austin was quite cold. He felt that all comfort with Nancy was over with him."Is that what you have been looking so glum about for the last few days?" she said."No," said Austin, "It's all right. I don't make any objection."Nancy looked at him with a light in her fine, ardent eyes."Austin," she said, "you're a dear, good boy, and I have done you injustice. I see it all. You think papa's getting old, and that you ought to give up your own prospects to stay with him.""I never was such a confounded fool," said Austin, passionately."Ah, that's all very well, but I see how it is. It's beautiful, Austin, but—but—are you quite sure he wants you to do it? He would like to see you win honour.""Confound it, Nancy, how you drag everything into a high-falutin' kind of light! It's no such confounded rot. It's simply that I'm a duffer—and shouldn't get through, and—it's settled, and I'll not hear another word about it."Austin's face was black as thunder, as he broke into a rapid trot; but to Nancy he was only showing a delightful roughness, natural when his self-sacrifice was noticed. He was better than any silent, suffering hero. Her heart thrilled, and she pushed away an instinct that whispered that after all the need of such a sacrifice was not apparent."You may be able to be very useful with the boys and young men," she began, but Austin again interrupted her."Bosh! I haven't come home to be an extra curate, so don't expect it. There are quite enough of you to interfere with all the people round already.""Austin!" cried Nancy, "you—you haven't surely become a Radical!"Austin burst out laughing. The incongruity of Nancy's ideas with the facts, struck his overstrained brain and nerves, and he laughed in a way that in a girl would have been hysterical, and was altogether devoid of mirth or pleasure, breaking out afresh at everything Nancy said in a way that tried her temper considerably. They passed Jack Purcell by his father's side at the edge of a freshly ploughed field, and Austin said:"There's another self-sacrificing saint for you. He's coming home to help his father and learn farming.""Oh!" said Nancy with decision, "I don't approve at all of that. It will make him idle. How foolish of the Purcells!"Then Austin laughed and growled again at the little Miss Bountiful who knew all her neighbours' business."Look there!" he said, "look there! There's old Skinner pottering along on his old pony that brings him home safe when he's screwed. Don't you think you'd better try and get him to reform—take the pledge, perhaps?""No," said Nancy, with spirit; "but I think all respectable people ought to avoid him. It's a great misfortune to have him for the parish doctor.""He's a kind-hearted old scoundrel!" said Austin, perversely, but Nancy broke in eagerly:"Oh—look! I am sure those are the new cousins, the Villiers. It can't be anyone else. I must speak to them," riding up as she spoke, and holding out her hand. "Cousin Anna? I'm sure it's you—and Daffodil? I'm Nancy from Ford, and this is Austin. We're so glad you've come."The warm family feeling of the Fairfords accepted "cousins" at once as intimates, and Mrs. Villiers was quite touched by the cordial greeting. Daffodil, usually ready enough, was speechless, the colour flaming over cheek and brow as Austin dismounted and spoke with due propriety. Something strange was a relief to him."We shall come and see you to-morrow," said Nancy, adding, as she rode away, "Daffodil looks very shy. We must bring her out."All the family from Ford went to church that evening. Nancy, as she saw Austin kneel and bury his face, thought that he was dedicating his self-sacrifice, and gave thanks for it in her heart. The hearts of all the others were full of him. He had bent his neck to the yoke. He had promised to lead a new life. They were already less miserable than they had been of late. Only Hilda had been betrayed into saying "yes," when Nancy had whispered to her something of Austin s goodness and self-sacrifice. A word less than true had crossed her lips. It lay like a stain on her soul, and her own sins must be repented of before she could think of any one else's.As for Austin—for one fleeting moment the spring sunshine on Daffodil's fair hair had recalled Daisy's, and the whole service was passed in an anguish of regret for the dear little head that lay low under the. turf, and on which the sun would never shine any more for ever. Everyone was standing up and going out before he remembered anything about his own repentance.CHAPTER V.AN OLD ENGLAND NUN.HILDA FAIRFORD at eight-and-thirty, in spite of sharpening contours and fading tints, set off by sober and suitable clothes, had not yet seen the end of her girlhood. The blossom of her life had never been unfolded, the winged creature had never burst from its chrysalis. In plain words, she had never felt, thought, or acted independently or from any inward impulse; the restraints and supports of childhood were round her still. Obedience and submission, voluntary if not enforced, formed her ideal of duty. Not to judge for herself, but to trust those older and wiser than herself implicitly, was the habit of her life. When she found that she was the person against whom Austin had chiefly sinned, she never even realised that any independent action was possible to her, and both his sin and his repentance were at once so horrible and so sacred, that she shrank from him with something between awe and dislike. She dared not say a word that might do harm in so serious a case. It never struck her that her silence was cruel.Under these circumstances the new cousins were a relief, and she was interested by the ways of Pretty Peep to an unexpected extent.Mrs. Villiers was unlike any one she had ever belonged to; she and Daffodil turned the little drawing-room inside out, and made it look, as Miss Agatha said, with regret, "like other people's."They cut holes in the sacred shrubberies and let in air, light, and the eyes of their neighbours. They made heavy cakes for afternoon tea, and offered them with pride as "first attempts" to their visitors. They had "no discrimination" in their response to the calls of the new neighbourhood. Mrs. Villiers, tired of the "matronly" costume she had worn at the institution, appeared in a dress not very unlike her daughter's. She declared that she must have a spell of idleness, during which she read endless novels and let Daffodil choose them. She looked ridiculously young, and had quite an absurd delight in "one's own house" and "one's own garden," and even "one's own maid," a young person, against whom she was warned as dressy by the Rectory cousins. "I'm so tired of tidy orphans, and they are so disappointing. I'll try a change," said the ex-matron.She had been scarcely more than a girl when she was left a widow, and had had to set to work for her child. She had been a sensible, genial official of the orphanage, and a kind friend to the orphans, but she had a keen sense now of beginning life anew.The cousinly intimacy offered by the Fairfords touched her and took her by surprise, and Daffodil was soon caught into the whirl of cousinhood. The mother and daughter, who shared most things, even jokes about venerable relations, indulged in a little secret mockery at Hilda's shy manner and dowdy dress. On her first visit, when some book of current interest had been mentioned, Hilda had said that she did not think Cousin Agatha would like her to read it. Instinctively she gave the respectful title in speaking to strangers, and Cousin Agatha's likes were the rule at Ford, but Daffodil had to fly out of the window, and pick "Cousin Hilda" a bunch of lilac to have her laugh out unseen, and when Hilda's grey figure appeared on this afternoon at the garden gate, she made a wicked grimace, and whisked her mother's shilling novel, like Lydia Languish, under the sofa pillow.Hilda had read somewhere that relations living in the same place should always ring each other's doorbells, a good rule, no doubt, but thrown away at Pretty Peep, for Daffodil screamed out:"Oh, come in at the window, Cousin Hilda, Maud's washing up, and she isn't tidy."Hilda crossed the little lawn as Daffodil ran past with her hat on, nodding and saying:"I'm going to find Nancy.""She doesn't stand on ceremony, I'm afraid," said Mrs. Villiers, smiling as she made her guest welcome.Hilda had few friends, none made since childhood, and this curly-haired woman inspired her with a curious attraction. She was shy, being divided by her sense of the duty of Miss Fairford to be kind to the new-comer and a feeling unchanged and embalmed since early youth, that she ought not to take the initiative with a married woman."I have brought you a book," she said, producing the object as excuse for her visit. "It is one we like—and I think Daffodil might read it; Nancy has."''Thanks very much," said Mrs. Villiers. "You're very kind. I'm afraid Daffodil had her own way a good deal about books. Indeed, she has had more chances of hearing booky talk than I have. But she'll be very glad, I'm sure, of a new one. So shall I.""I—I suppose you have had a great many visitors," said Hilda, after a short but dead silence.When she disapproved of a remark made by a person whom she ought to "respect," Hilda did not contradict it. She changed the conversation. It was better to be thought abrupt than to be presuming."Heaps! How kind you must all have been in mentioning us to your friends; look here." And she handed a little tray to Hilda, filled with visiting-cards.Hilda selected the names she knew. "These are quite nice people," she said, "but these—it's better not to know them. We don't. I think Agatha would say, leave a card, but don't go in when you return the call, and refuse any invitation. It would be so awkward, being cousins, if you knew people not in our set.""There are always, I suppose, little pitfalls in a new neighbourhood," said Mrs. Villiers, a little dismayed, but without committing herself. "Daff and I have been used to be grateful for any one's notice. We weren't in a set, you know, in Midwell."She watched the effect of her remark with curiosity.A sweet blushing smile transformed Hilda's peaky face."Oh, dear cousin Anna," she said warmly. "That's nothing now. You belong to us We're so glad to have you.""I never thought the world was so kind," said the new-comer warmly. "Now tell me a little about us. Nancy is delightful, and so are the Rectory girls—and Austin, he is taking to farming, isn't he?""Yes.""He is not one of the bookish ones, then? He has country tastes.""Yes—I suppose—no——""Well, everything's smooth for him, lucky boy," said Mrs. Villiers, with the impression that Austin had failed in an examination. "Competition makes it a fussy world for most of us. His father will like to have him at home."Another silence, deadlier than the first, then:"I ought to go home.""Well, it's very kind of you to look us up. Goodbye. Do come again, when you are in our direction."Hilda took the offered hand, and another blush and smile transformed her face."I want—I should like to come very much," she said, with girlish eagerness. "It's so nice to have you."She flew off in a hurry as she spoke, and Mrs. Villiers reflected on the situation till Daffodil came back."Nancy was out," she said. "What's this?""A book Cousin Hilda has brought for you."Daffodil set the book on a little table, and walked round it. It was in two neat volumes. It was not new, and the names of publisher and author were unexceptionable."That book," said Daffodil, "is dressed nicely in grey. It wears a large hat, and a bonnet on Sunday. It wouldn't know a shilling shocker. It was never on a shelf with one.""We'll put it on a separate table," said Mrs. Villiers; then, checking herself, "Don't be flippant, Daff, I'm sure it's a very nice book.""It is; I may read it, Mimsey!" Daffodil had invented this trying pet name for her mother. "Mimsey, you look very solemn.""I feel solemn. I am face to face with a problem.""Goodness, what is it?" said Daffodil, flinging her long length on the floor at her mother's knees. "Now, mother, consult me; I'm the mistress of this house, and much older than you.""Well, Daffodil, I came here for you to have the advantage of your cousin's kindness, and they are kind; I never met such kindness before.""They are—awfully jolly," interposed her daughter."But, of course, their ideas are strict. Now, about society. If we belong, as they say, they'll expect a good deal of us. You wouldn't like to be disapproved of, old girlie.""But we ain't Fairfords," said Daffodil, emphatically and ungrammatically, after a silence."No." Mrs. Villiers mused for some time, and Daffodil watched her. Then repeated, "No. There's such a thing as moral toadyism. I shall take my own line. They must take us as they find us."She spoke in a tone of final resolution. No one thought Mrs. Villiers clever, or mentally uncommon, but she had a way of seeing the outcome of things which is at least unusual, and she knew what she was saying."I'll back you up, Mimsey," said Daffodil, hugging her and only half understanding the point. She seized on the nice book, threw herself into an armchair, and began to read it rapidly.Mrs. Villiers sat still, many thoughts in her mind."I don't feel as if I quite knew what we should come to here," she thought. "But we'll leave ourselves free to come to it." Life seemed as new to her in these new conditions as to her daughter, and she felt almost as much power of growth within.She reserved her opinion about all their new acquaintances, and accepted all the invitations to tea.And when it dawned upon her that Hilda, shyly and awkwardly, was offering her a special friendliness, she accepted all the outward attention, but with a certain ruthlessness she avoided the overtures of that "dear sentimental old goose."The spring of new interest was killed in Hilda's life before she had become aware of its existence.CHAPTER VI.THE FIELD OF THE THREE OAK TREES.AUSTIN sat on a bench in the garden at Ford. Two months had passed since he had entered into the covenant of secrecy and submission. The loveliest lights of summer were shining on the smooth flat lawn; the house was gay with mingled tints of clematis and roses. The ring-doves, which had bred in the trees for a generation and were the pride of Ford, were stepping softly about on the mossy turf; the rooks were in the elms, the little birds had long ago come home from wintering in the Riviera or whatever other health resort they had selected; all the air was full of caw and coo and song. Austin loved Ford. He was born to love it, and besides, he loved what he belonged to. But there was no light in his young face; there was something very like despair in his eyes. What a time it had been! He had been free, of course, to come and go. He was not a baby or a girl, so that people could follow him about. And yet he knew well that he must be able to account for every hour. Not that there was anything in Ford-Regis, or in Bishopsford, or in the world, that he wanted to do! He had no natural dislike to his work; the studies required of an agricultural pupil were not uncongenial, but all the same it was work in a treadmill, work that was made up for him to do. He wondered if he should have minded more being sent to prison. Then his cousins! There was no free friendship for him with them any more. He could not even write to Kit, in India, of whom he was fond. How write, when Kit would expect to hear how many marks he had got at Sandhurst? He would not tell old Kit lies, and he was forbidden to tell him truth. It seemed as if he could have poured out his heart in a letter which would be read so far away, and read by Kit, who had been his mentor, ever since he had been a clean little boy in an Eton jacket at the preparatory school patronised by the Fairfords. But, after all, he could have borne his own thoughts, if his father would not look at him. He fled from the sight of his face, from the sound of his voice. He could never satisfy him any more. Forgiveness was not trust, not oblivion, not comfort. And, after all, the misery all sprang from half an hour's madness, an act of folly. And he knew, yes, he knew, that compared to some fellows, who were going with credit into the army, his soul was as white in comparison with theirs as Nancy's was with his. There was Gillespie now—Gillespie who had just come of age and had all his father's tenants applauding him, and who might be a hero and would be a soldier—what a beast Gillespie could be sometimes! By the way, he supposed he must make himself read the letter which Lawson had sent him about Gillespie's boom, as he called it. Austin had been ordered to keep up intercourse enough with his former companions to avoid suspicion. He took the letter out of his pocket, glanced hurriedly over the balls and dinners therein described. On the last page Lawson, who had been Austin's chief companion at the tutor's, wrote as follows: "Hope you have made all square at home, I saw you were hard hit. Poor Daisy—it's hard to think she's come to an end. But you know, old chap, you were not the first. It is quite true they had a try for Gillespie last year. He was too old a hand for them. Hope your governor has not cut up too rough over £ s. d. Mine isn't all I could wish."The words carried conviction. Austin had been told not to put trust in his Daisy, and now he believed that she had not been trustworthy. There was not even her grave to weep over. Yes, that missing of the train had been her doing, spite of all her anger and distress afterwards. He saw it all now.It is impossible to say what hardness entered into the poor youth's soft heart with this discovery, or what a change came over his point of view. The conviction of her worthlessness cut deeper into his soul than the conviction of his own guilt. No one saw this. His father, in a halting attempt to gain his confidence, had spoken of her death as the removal of a complication; Austin had flashed out with, "I'd do it over again to bring her to life," and had been alienated for ever—stubborn, irresponsive to his father's words, yet sensitive to his every thought. Oh yes, he repented in his sight. That agony before him must be repentance, that sense that his silent father knew when he opened the door, heard every syllable he uttered, saw every change in his moody face, subjected him, in fact, to that love that maddens a culprit who will not, or cannot, fall at its feet.Before his earthly father he repented, but before God, in his bitterness of soul, he felt himself wronged. The Power above was cruel. This was Austin's first spiritual conviction.He saw his father come out of the house with that little stoop of the erect head which shame and sorrow had caused. He saw the faithful, loyal gentleman, whose ideal was that of the Christian soldier, fearless, stainless, without reproach. And his son could not wear the Queen's uniform, and had fallen below the standard of a gentleman, letting that of a Christian alone!He watched him now, and thought of the days, weeks, months that were to come. How could he bear the next dinner, the next evening in the drawing-room, the next time he met that new and pretty girl, whose lively tongue, spite of himself, amused him? How endure his aunt's cold, sorrowful gentleness, and Hilda's shy avoidance. Oh, they meant to be kind, but they made him feel that he had outraged their most sacred feelings. He was a grief to them all, and it requires a much more disciplined nature than poor Austin's not to kick at being so regarded. Even the poor satisfaction of any voluntary repayment of that wretched fifty pounds was denied to him, his father having expressly explained that it was to be taken from his diminished allowance.Even the pony cart had been resold, and the profits given away to charity. No one could have borne to see it. That showed how miserable it must make them to see him.Austin's immature judgment reeled, his young power of endurance gave way. He could not face his aunt and Hilda with their cold gentleness, their subdued contempt; he could not, and he would not, bear again his father's look. His poor allowance was in his pocket, it would last him for a few days: he was young, strong and tall. He would run away. He would spare his friends the sight of him, and himself the sight of their shame. He could enlist, go to sea, work his way to a colony: at least he could go. Perhaps he might drown himself away from home, where no one would recognise his body. He had given his soul for Daisy, and she had been a worthless cheat.Softly and slily Austin slipped away, using his childish knowledge of hidden outlets through the trees and shrubberies to escape from his childhood's home, till he got safe out of sight of the house, then walked at full speed across the park, and over the fields, with a passion of longing to get over the top of the hill and to look out on another landscape. Then he could pause for a few minutes and rest and consider what next.It so chanced that Daffodil Villiers, to whom everything in the place was new, and therefore delightful, set forth that afternoon for a solitary walk to what she called " the field with the three oak trees."With her observant eyes and accurate memory, in two months she knew the details of the country better than did Nancy, who had been born and bred there.The field with the three oak trees was over the top of the hill behind the large oak wood, below which the Hole Farm was situated. As Daffodil came along a path in the upper part of the plantation, she saw young Purcell leaning against a tree. She knew who he was, but something in his look struck her oddly. He was doing nothing, and not apparently going anywhere; there was something in his aspect which suggested a boy "mitching" from school. He had, too, a townish look, incongruous somehow with the rusticity of the place and even with his own clothes. He was whistling the last popular air and peeling a stick. He looked like a stranger even while he instinctively capped Daffodil, whom he had seen with Nancy, and she wondered a little what he was doing there as she went on her way."I believe he's hiding from his father, to have an idle time," she thought; "he doesn't look good for much."The field with the three oak trees looked away from Bishopsford over less familiar country, across rich pasture-land to the country town of Winborough. Between the copse and the field was a wide old-fashioned hedge now pink with dog-roses and sweet with honey-suckle. Three solitary oaks grew in a corner as if they had jumped over the hedge into the field. Daffodil strayed down the hedge-side, gathering pink rosebuds, till she stopped with a start, for on the bank before her lay a man, full length, his head buried in his arms.She drew back, to look more carefully, for this figure she did not at once recognise, and solitary tramps were to be avoided. He started up at the sound of a step, and as he moved she saw it was Austin. He started in his turn, with the look of one caught unawares, and coloured red.He was alone, without even his dog; the field led nowhere in particular. He stammered a greeting, and Daffodil, with her secret on her soul, stammered also, and lost her presence of mind. She spoke, however, holding out her flowers."Aren't they pretty?"Caught in that moment of abandoned self-control, Austin knew not what she might have seen. He glanced at her face, and felt sure that she had guessed something. His heart sank and his powers seemed to fail him. He was a bad hypocrite, but he had been glad this pretty girl was outside his disgrace."My head aches—I was half asleep," he said abruptly."And you came here to have a headache in peace," said Daffodil, " What a pity I turned up! Sit down again, I am going right off, out at the other end." She spoke with almost boyish bluntness, but her lips trembled."Let me reach you some roses first," said Austin. He cut her a great bunch of the fresh sweet blossoms, giving them to her with his usual cordial smile. "Don't say anything," he said hurriedly; "at home they might think something was up.""I never say things," said Daffodil, with needless emphasis. "I'm coming to Ford by-and-by to play tennis—but good-bye."She flew off down the field as she spoke, without a backward look.She felt that this poor fellow was as pitiful as might have been the wandering tramp for whom she had mistaken him.Austin watched her light, long figure for a moment as it sped through the sunshine. His mood was changed; he was tired of misery. If the passionate impulse which had carried him so far had been a steadfast purpose, the passing greeting would never have pushed it aside. But if Austin at this time had had steadfast purposes instead of passionate impulses, he would not have worked his own undoing, and if he had not been made so that with the first pause of emotion a thousand fine instincts and affections rushed into their natural place in his soul, and held him back from madness, he would not have been a son of the Fairfords.He did not run away, he went home slowly and forlornly and played tennis with Daffodil.Some people can amuse themselves in and out, even if they are broken-hearted.CHAPTER VII.STRANDED."THE Hole! A more appropriate, a more thoroughly honest name could not have been invented! It is a hole, though a pretty one. Well, we are in a hole ourselves—and a very ugly one. A semi-detached villa in Bishopsford might have given more support to the spirits."Miss Amelia Worthington stood at the window of the oak-panelled, oak-raftered sitting-room of the farm-house occupied by Colonel Fairford's bailiff, some five years after the summer in which Austin Fairford had begun to learn the management of the estate.Green banks, green trees, heavy with the dull tint of late summer, met Miss Worthington's eyes on all sides as she stood in the deep recess of the window; she had to crane her neck to catch a glimpse of blue sky above them."The sky is blue," she said, with a shrug of her shoulders, as she turned round at an approaching step.She was a tall, upright woman, in middle life, with wavy grey hair, becomingly dressed, strong handsome features, a fine complexion, and large grey eyes. There was a vigorous, living look about her as if she could carry heavy burdens with mind, soul, or body, and she also looked at this moment as if she had a heavy one to carry.The young man who came in at the opening door, had a dark, clever face of some power, but he looked out of heart, as if a burden weighed him down.They exchanged a good morning, and she poured out the coffee, ready on the table, and remarked that it was a fine day.After a silence he spoke."Amy, I have been thinking. I don't believe the thing we have planned can be done.""Why not?" said Amy abruptly, but with a kind of softness in her tone."It's too much to hope. There's too much against me. I shall only drag you too into the pit of destruction, and that I won't do.""No, you certainly won't," said Amy with decision."You'll have to give up all your pursuits, and causes—and works, and waste your life for my sake.""That's not my intention. I shan't give up a single pursuit—or cause—or work, and if my plan is followed, I don't believe they'll give up me. The world isn't so cruel. But as you know, I make one condition.""Yes," said the young man gloomily, "but the condition makes itself. It's no secret.""We might easily make a mystery. I always hated stories of saintly families with skeletons in their cupboards sacrificing everybody and everything to the pride of concealment.""People don't care to sit down with a skeleton," he answered sharply."It only looks like a skeleton in the dark. Gerald, I am certain, absolutely certain, that outward and inward facing of facts is our only chance.""When you say ' our,' Amy," said Gerald huskily, "you silence me. What exactly do you want to do?"Amy looked away from him, and kept her voice steady."As you truly say," she said, "the fact of your misfortune will become known. I want to forestall inquiries, to state openly that you come here under a great disadvantage, that we are the Worthingtons whose name they may have read in the papers. That we know that you could have obtained none but a worthless practice, but that you mean to try what can be done after your drunken old predecessor. The clerical and philanthropical people will probably know something about me.""And will give you the sack because you stand in my shadow.""I don't believe it. Anyhow I'm not going to get into the sack myself. We'll leave nothing to be found out. Now what is the use of beginning the discussion again?""Not much, when your mind is made up."Gerald Worthington turned away from the break-fast-table and stared out of the window. A pistol shot, or a start with a new name in a new country, would have been easier than what his elder sister called " facing facts."A sudden rap at the door, followed by its instant opening, made her start.A tall young man stood for a moment opposite the window, with the light on his red wavy hair, dark soft eyes and sullen face."I beg pardon," he exclaimed, with a start. "Purcell did not tell me the room was occupied. Very sorry I intruded."He retreated before Miss Worthington could speak, and in a minute Mrs. Purcell came bustling in, also with excuses."That's Mr. Austin, ma'am, Mr. Austin Fairford. He looks after things a bit for the Colonel, and is often down here to see Purcell about the farms.""All this property belongs, doesn't it, to Colonel Fairford?" said Gerald."Yes, sir. There's the Colonel at Ford, and Dr. Fairford at the Rectory, and Mr. Christopher, the lawyer, in Bishopsford. They're a fine family are the Fairfords, and much respected.""That young man had an odd face," said Amy. "His eyebrows might have been ruled, they're so straight.""How you notice things, Amy," said Gerald. "I never saw what he was like. Well, I suppose he won't come here among the gooseberries, so I'll go and smoke a pipe. Ta-ta for the present."He went out with a well got-up smile, and Amy, left alone, cried a little in an abrupt, inevitable manner, then wiped her eyes and sat down to accept an invitation from a great philanthropical society to address a meeting of its members.Gerald lit his pipe, and strolled out among the big gooseberry bushes and tangled raspberry canes of the farm-house garden. It was July, and the confusion of spring song was hushed; yet the air was full of life, full of calling and climbing, scratching and picking, the whirr of tiny wing, the tread of tiny feet.The young man neither heard nor noticed. He was a Londoner, and the country sounds told him little even if his ears had been free to hearken.He stood leaning over the garden-gate, young, vigorous, a man certainly, but feeling it a falsehood to say that a man is master of his fate.Presently a step came up from the farm-buildings opposite, and Austin Fairford approached with a greeting.This prosperous and no doubt self-satisfied young squire was a most distasteful personage to the beaten man."You don't remember me, of course," said Austin; "but weren't you at Walton's before you went to Rugby? I was a small boy in your last year, with two or three cousins—Fairfords.""Yes, I was at Walton's, certainly. Fairford—there was a fellow senior to me—went, I think, to Winchester?""That was Kit, my cousin. He's in the army, out in Bombay. Have you really taken old Skinner's practice? It seems too good luck.""Yes, I've taken the practice. I must trouble you with a few words of explanation, Mr. Fairford, before you claim acquaintance publicly.""Yes," said Austin, with a sudden look of reserve.Gerald Worthington leant back against the gatepost. The low gate was still between them. He put his pipe out and began to speak in a steady, dull voice."My father was a London physician of some note. We're a large family. I'm the youngest. I did well in examinations, and before my father's death he bought me a practice in Northborough. I was engaged to be married. A single lady, rich, peculiar, took an immense fancy to me. She was ready to pay any sum for regular visits, and I saw no harm in earning it. She had quarrelled with her friends, and she consulted me on various matters. I gave her advice. She became seriously ill. I advised her to send for her relations—she did not. To make her will—she did, in my presence. When she was on her death-bed—my engagement suddenly terminated, and I was—hardly myself when called on to attend her. The nurse asked me which to give of two medicines. I told her wrong. It was an opiate, and it killed her. That, you will see deserved professional ruin. She had made her will in my favour. I did not know it. I don't pretend to say I had not thought it probable that she had left me something as I was not asked to witness it. There was an inquest, and it was brought in 'death by misadventure through culpable carelessness' The nurse was a lady well known at St.——, and she spoke up for me, as did others. She thought I was drunk. I was not, only mad. It was in the local papers. Doubt was thrown on Miss Humphrey's fitness to make a will. She was fit to make a proper one. Her heir turned up—a cousin, a clergyman. He did not want a lawsuit if he could get his money. Of course I resigned all claim, and there was an 'amicable settlement.' I was fortunate and mercifully dealt with. She was 'under my influence,' and I had shortened her life. So I am only ruined. Just one word more, please. As I didn't shoot myself, I meant to go abroad anywhere and die decently out of sight. But my eldest sister, who is of some note, I believe, in the religious and philanthropic world, said that one sort of suicide was as cowardly as the other. She said that if I told the truth about myself she believed the world would give me another chance. She offered to make her headquarters with me, meaning to keep up with her various public occupations. This practice went for a song, and we came here. I won't leave the onus of confession on her, and you will no doubt do me the favour of making my position known, and will act—as you think proper."The young man's voice never changed through all this long statement. He might have been discussing a case. Austin Fairford listened in silence, his large eyes fixed on the speaker. When his old school-fellow ceased speaking, he opened the gate between them and came through it."I'm—I'm very sorry for you," he said oddly and simply."I'm sure you are," said Worthington. "But of course that doesn't make it necessary for you to know me.""Yes—I think it does," said Austin. "I'm glad you came here. May I come and see you?"Worthington slightly shrugged his shoulders."You're too good," he said. "I remember you quite well at Walton's. You are Tosty—the little one. Fairford senior used to watch over you, and also fag you.""Yes, I'm Tosty, or used to be. Well, good-bye. I'm often here to see Purcell."He smiled and moved away, while Gerald Worthington said to himself:"Well, the Fairfords were always a good sort, but this one behaved as if he, not I, was on approval. I imagine his word will go for something in the place."Gerald Worthington had told his story with perfect accuracy. The combination of his patient's foolish will and his own carelessness had brought about his ruin, a ruin apparently out of the course of nature for the clever, clear-headed young doctor who had in him all the elements of professional success.Nevertheless, he had himself paved the way for it. A practice among wealthy patients, whose fancies it was his interest to encourage, is not always wholesome for a young man's soul. Gerald was ambitious, and anxious to marry. He had thought himself quite justified in encouraging a predilection for himself and his advice, which resulted in hard cash and many other advantages. A man with higher ideals would have hated the situation: he made use of it. He looked to the main chance, and the main chance had brought him to destruction.He had often laughed at his sister's enthusiasms, and had regarded all her pursuits as feminine fads. He was immensely astonished when she came forward and held out her hand to him, for in early life he had seen little of her. There were twenty years between them, and she had had work away from home before their father's death, and had an independent life and interests. It had been the fashion to laugh at Amy, who, like many other prophets, had small honour in her own family. Now the intermediate brothers and sisters all thought it a great mistake for poor Gerald to stay in England, and had declared that his chance would have been much better where he was not known, and where his friends would forget his existence. Amy was, however, an influential person, and she induced Gerald to try the experiment on her own lines. His encounter with Austin cheered and interested him, and he went in to tell her about him, finding her paying attentions to an enormous black Persian cat, the one personal possession to which she clung."I am buttering Mokanna's toes," she said, "then he'll be happy."Mokanna's green eyes glared, and he spit at Gerald before licking the butter off his toes, a process supposed to reconcile him to new quarters."By Jove, Amy," said Gerald, "that fiendish beast is enough to give us a bad name in himself. He'll meet his deserts in these preserves to a certainty."His tone was so much enlivened that Amy looked up, surprised."I'll tip the keeper," she said. "What had Mr. Fairford to say? I have met a Lady Barbara Fair-ford on various philanthropic platforms. I find from Mrs. Purcell she is the rector's wife.""This one is a good fellow," said Gerald, "and I've saved you the trouble of telling my story.""Sir, sir," exclaimed Mrs. Purcell, suddenly opening the door. "Tom Harris, the woodman, has cut his leg with his axe, and is bleeding to death.""Good business!" cried Gerald, rushing off in search of the needful implements and remedies. "I'll come at once."He had had three months' idleness, and the summons was as the sound of a trumpet.CHAPTER VIII.THE PASSING OF THE YEARS.AUSTIN FAIRFORD walked slowly through the summer woods. His active figure in its brown country suit, looked appropriate and at home, but there was something in the wistful gloom of his face, and the deep auburn tints of his eyes and hair, that rather fitted some Italian lover sighing over his fate among roses and nightingales, than a young English squire looking after the welfare of his father's estate.Five years had made the home life habitual, and had buried the cause of its commencement in silence deep as the grave. There was nothing to distinguish his outer life from that of other young men in the same position, except that Ford was too small a property to justify the idleness of its heir. There was very little to do there, but Austin did it. He hunted and shot, and played golf, and cricket and tennis, went into society, and followed apparently the lines expected of him in politics and religion.He knew that he was especially watched, and that any shortcoming on his part caused a peculiar anxiety and fear. Outward compliance was much easier than any sort of self-assertion, and he did what was expected of him. But there was a dull resentment underneath.He went to inspect a cottage which wanted repair, interviewed the keeper as to a mortality among the young pheasants, heard of the neglect of the lad whose business it was to feed them, with a disappoint-ing absence of righteous indignation—it was one of his defects as a manager that he never scolded any one—heard that the tenant of a little farm was backward with his rent and thought he had better have another chance, and finally went home to find his family all gathered under the verandah in an unusual state of excitement."Austin, such news!" cried Nancy. "Aunt Barbara has been here, and they have heard from Kit at last. He has been very ill with fever, and he is coming home. Only fancy, dear old fellow—won't it be delightful. He'll get well directly in England, and we haven't seen him for six years!""Kit?" said Austin. "They're pleased, I suppose?""I should think so. Aren't you pleased too, you slow old boy? Have you taken it in?""Yes," said Austin. "When is he coming?""Why, very soon. That's the thing. They're all flying round to get ready. And Nicolas is going down to Southampton to meet him.""There's something else too," said Miss Agatha; "your Aunt Barbara says that Purcell's lodgings have been taken by a man whom we must all avoid—a doctor, about whom there's a very awkward story. And the worst of it is that his sister, Miss Amy Worthington, lives with him, and she, your aunt says, is an excellent person and well known to her. So, even if she is ill-judged in supporting her brother, there can't be exactly a cut. But the brother is to be avoided.""What is he supposed to have done?" said Austin."I never like to ask about scandals," said Miss Fairford gravely. "Your aunt's word is enough.""Nick says that he thinks he was at Mr. Walton's school; do you recollect him, Austin?" said Nancy."Yes," said Austin, "I recollect him.""Well," said Colonel Fairford, "it is much to be regretted that he should have come here. I hoped we might have got some one better than old Skinner.""I suppose he had to come somewhere," said Austin."It would have been better to begin fresh in a new country. I do not wish to prejudge any one, but until we see what sort of person this young man is, I don't wish any acquaintance to be formed, Austin."There was a little silence, then Austin said:"I don't think I ought to cut an old schoolfellow because he is in disgrace."There was no emphasis in Austin's sombre tones, nor any in his father's grave reply:"You ought to be prudent for your own sake and that of the neighbourhood;" while Miss Fairford rejoined:"It is sometimes necessary tor the good of society to show one's opinion. I have always thought that Miss Worthington rash in the little I have heard of her ways."Austin said nothing about his interview of the morning. It was perhaps inevitable that there were many things in his life as to which he was silent. His father did not press him for an answer, and Austin knew that he was wondering whether it would be wise to make his wish a command. The uncles had practically forgotten the past, but the father and son never ceased to feel its effect on each other. Austin said hastily:"Has Kit been very bad r Are they uneasy?""Not now, we hope," replied Miss Fairford. "It seems he had a fall, his horse put its foot in a hole, and before he was well of that he got this fever; but he writes cheerfully.""He always would," said Austin gravely. He had long ceased to be impulsive and confiding, but six years ago he had hardly had a thought unshared with Kit—with Kit, who was now coming home."Nancy," said Hilda, as a move left them alone together, "do you remember hearing Miss Amy Worthington speak when Aunt Barbara took us to that meeting of ladies at Winborough?"Yes, when Daffodil said she'd follow her eyes to the world's end.""Yes, I remember, but I didn't see my way to agreeing with what she said.""I don't know—" said Hilda.She had a way of beginning sentences and then leaving them unfinished.Nancy had developed into a handsome, spirited young woman, with energy which made up by intensity for any want of expansion. She flung all the force and push of her young spirit into the parochial and ecclesiastical channels approved by her elders, whom she often astonished by the logical outcome of their own opinions.She found life satisfactory on these lines, and, as was thought most proper, contented herself with supplementing Miss Fairford's rule in domestic matters. But nature is all-powerful, and no one knew how much the young, strong will had its way. She prided herself on obeying her father and being companionable to her brother, while the social restrictions which, would have cost a fray, were rendered agreeable to her, as they are to many, by the pleasing sense that they indicated a special social position. The Rectory girls had rank and social claims, but the peculiar reserve and refinement, characteristic of a county family devoted to the best ideas in politics, religion, and conduct, was something more delicate and distinguished still.Lady Barbara Fairford, who was great in the world of ecclesiastical and charitable societies, declared that it would be too awkward to take no notice of Miss Worthington, but that beyond the needful call, it would be very undesirable to visit at her brother's lodgings, and in pursuance of this not unreasonable arrangement, invited the Ford ladies to meet her at tea a few days before Captain Fairford's expected return. Agatha did not go. Lady Barbara set the family fashions, but Miss Agatha did not always fol-low them. She did not really believe in public good works for women, and much preferred giving away her own blankets in her own hall, to any society whatever. Besides she had once heard that Miss Worthington had spoken at a meeting that had something to do with the rights of women, and without inquiring what rights, or whether the lady had advocated or opposed them, she viewed all her other utterances with suspicion.Hilda and Nancy went without her to the hand-some, well-kept Rectory, almost as much a country-house as their own, and much fuller of young people and young life. There were three girls there, who did their duty as Fairfords and rector's daughters admirably, but nevertheless believed that their natural world was among their mother's relations. They gave in to Nancy and criticised her among themselves.There, on this occasion, was Daffodil Villiers, looking smart and up to date, in a shilling sailor hat and a print at sixpence a yard. Her tall head with its fringe of yellow curls and her long graceful figure caught Miss Worthington's eye first of all as she came in with her cordial smile and hearty voice, but with the knowledge in her heart that her part was not an easy one.She was a sociable soul, as many influential women are, and for her own sake she hoped for friendly relations with all these other women. She did not care, indeed, to discuss the misdemeanours of their individual cooks, but she did greatly enjoy discussing the wisdom of various measures for the benefit of cooks in general; nor to exchange local gossip, as women when together are supposed to do. But she did like to exchange ideas on Piato or Dante or girls' clubs, over the teapot, as is the manner of the modern female bachelor.And then, neither she nor her brother was accustomed to live together, or to live with any one but themselves, and Gerald, poor fellow, was in no hu-mour for the exchange of ideas of any kind; so on all accounts the moment was critical.Lady Barbara, after due introductions, began upon a burning question then agitating the Society which united herself and Miss Worthington, and they discussed it con amore while the younger ladies chimed in.Lady Barbara always took things seriously. Miss Worthington gave humorous twists to the discussion."One has to realise," she said at length, "how it feels to be the object of improving efforts. I always try to see things from another point of view.""I'm sure," said Lady Barbara, "well-meaning young people are always grateful for kindness.""Well—was one oneself, is one, if one finds it out?""Miss Worthington," said Daffodil, impulsively, "I believe you could improve a girl without her finding it out.""After that, my dear," said Miss Worthington, "I can only hope that you will never feel youself improved by me."Daffodil laughed out, a clear ringing laugh, which was one of her characteristics. It was very sweet, but rather noticeable."There's room," she said, "I don't know if I should mind it."There was a little pause, and then Amy Worthington said slowly and deliberately, looking at Lady Barbara:"It is kind of you to have invited me. I don't know how far the circumstances of our coming here are known; but my brother and I wish to be quite open and above-board. We have been talking about giving failures a fresh start. Well, we are trying to make one. We want every one to make all possible inquiries into Gerald's trouble. I am convinced that it ought not to make an end of his prospects for ever. But it is a terrible drawback for him."She rose as she spoke, and went on: "Then, Lady Barbara, we shall count on you for the 29th, that will be very kind. Good-bye, now."Her large bright eyes were full both of appeal and resolution, and Lady Barbara smiled, and pressed her hand, saying something about a "good sister," which committed her to nothing."She had better have let it alone," she said, as the door closed on the good sister."I think—I think," said Hilda, suddenly, "that she really believes that her brother is innocent.""I am sure she does," said Daffodil."My dear," said Lady Barbara, "it's impossible to say. She ought not to introduce the subject.""I never find talking makes much difference to girls," said Nancy, "I should never be converted by another person.""It's a very difficult thing to be converted," said Daffodil, after an odd look at the speaker."I don't think it's often desirable," said Nancy as she took leave.CHAPTER IX.DAFFODIL.Miss WORTHINGTON walked home by herself with a failing heart."Faith can remove mountains,"she thought sadly, "and I have always believed that knowing that a thing was right went far to make it possible. But I'm of little faith. Was I right in speaking?"Suddenly Daffodil's slim light figure came down a field-path into the lane by her side. She said rather abruptly:"I've always wanted to know you, Miss Worthington, since I heard you speak at Winborough. Mother and I are coming to call.""I shall be very glad to see you. Let me see; you are not a Miss Fairford, I think?""No, I am Daffodil Villiers. We live at Pretty Peep. I'm a sort of cousin of the Fairfords. I teach Latin grammar at a little boys' school in Bishopsford. I'm a mixture.""I see,"said Miss Worthington, struck by the brilliance of the girl's appearance—she could think of no other epithet—and by a certain daring in her tone."I'm a girl,"said Daffodil, "and you go in for girls, don't you?""Yes—I've a turn for girls," said Miss Worthington, composedly."I like them.""I thought I'd let you know that I'm ready to hand," said Daffodil, smiling, and turning off as their ways parted."Now, has that girl any stuff in her?" thought Miss Worthington, "or does she pose for effect?"This was a question often asked about Daffodil Villiers. She certainly produced an effect. Her appearance, to begin with, though not above criticism, was effective. Her hair, her height, her way of dress was effective, so was her clear, distinct voice, and her self-possession. Then, as Nancy put it, Daff had always something going on. When she went to classes of any kind, she got into relations with her teachers; when she took up any sort of good work—Ford-Regis had few unoccupied spheres, but she went in for some of the newer and more sensational forms of benevolence, such as teaching, wood-carving, or musical drill in Bishopsford—when she took up anything of the sort, there was sure to be some pupil who attached him or herself violently to Daffodil, and needed all sorts of unlikely helps. Daffodil's protégés always wanted to learn Greek, or to be got into some hospital for unusual complaints, or to be rescued from exceptionally cruel relatives. And somehow Daffodil managed to get for them what they wanted. She didn't care whom she worried, or how much trouble she took; she managed her anomalous position perfectly, simply because she did not mind it a bit, took all the advantages of her Fairford connections, and taught the little boys for her extra pocket-money quite happily. Then, wherever she went, she could pay her shot, for she could act and sing and invent entertainments, quite well enough to be effective. And last, but not least, in the last five years, while only one marriage and one rather humdrum engagement had occurred among all the eight Miss Fairfords, Miss Villiers had had, it was well known, three offers, and was intimate in the way of friendship and comradeship with most of the very few young men in the place. She and her mother were perfectly happy together, and enjoyed life immensely, admired each other, and contributed to each other's satisfaction.The various cousins did not altogether approve of her, and yet it was Daff who knew that Mary at the Rectory meant to be a hospital nurse as soon as her parents thought her old enough, and had been told by Grace, the eldest Bishopsford girl, of that officer, whom she had met, on that visit, and who had never been mentioned at home. Nancy never had anything to tell, and Hilda had a curious shrinking from the vitality of this vigorous girl.It was one of the standing terrors of the Fairford circle that "one of the boys" would want to marry Daffodil. However that might be, it did not appear that she wanted to marry any of them.Daffodil was thus accustomed to secrets. That one secret of which she had become possessed by no effort of her own, might well have been crowded out of her memory. Certainly, it had been faithfully kept.She went home now with a characteristic step, which had a curious lightsome spring in it, and darted in on her mother, just as the long lights and shadows were falling on the tiny lawn of Pretty Peep, and the dusk of the summer evening was beginning to fall."Mimsey!" see cried, "I've fallen in love with Miss Worthington, and I mean to know her well; you are to go and call, and you are to tolerate the wicked doctor, and ask him to tea.""My dear Daff," said Mrs. Villiers, "for once I agree with all the cousins, and I don't think a wicked doctor has any business in respectable families,""Oh! but perhaps he isn't wicked, only unfortunate.""Then I think his acquaintance would be still less desirable for young ladies," said Mrs. Villiers, demurely."Mother," said Daffodil, "do you imagine that when one knows and has to meet all sorts of people in all sorts of ways, one more or less would matter in that way?""I know that you're a wilful puss, but I must see this man before I promise anything.""Yes; then I'll tell you what to think of him," said Daffodil, saucily."My dear, I don't trouble myself to think much about people; I take them as they come. I'm not 'tearing like' after intimacies, as your schoolboy said about treats.""No," said Daffodil, with rather an odd look. Mrs. Villiers, like her daughter, "got on" with everyone, and she had something of the same kind of attraction; but she always held herself and her friends in Hand, and as with Hilda long ago, never would involve herself in anything that gave trouble.She had solved the difficulty of dealing with her daughter by leaving her alone—and, as might be expected, the call on Miss Worthington at once took place. Her brother was not asked to tea, though introductions passed, and indeed, the good people of Ford-Regis, with their rector at their head, did not notice him distantly. They would have been very sorry to misjudge him, and they knew that he was possibly only a much injured man. Only until they knew whether he was certainly so, they did not wish him to be intimate with their sons and daughters. The poor, sore-hearted fellow was a little inclined to throw back in their teeth attentions offered with this very natural stiffness, but Amy felt that she had not been mistaken in the kindness of her world.It will not, however, surprise anyone, that a variety of little assistant fates seemed to work so as to throw Daffodil and Miss Worthington together, nor that a sudden shower found the girl paying a call soon after the Rectory tea-party, and obliged her to stay to tea, and make those delightful discoveries of common subjects of interest which are found by examining the backs of new acquaintance's books and observing the odds and ends that adorn her sitting-room.While the kettle boiled, they fell into discussion on the "novel with a purpose," then agitating society, and after a little fencing to find out, as Daffodil said afterwards, what they might talk of, were soon face to face with its problems.The girl talked fast and freely, partly with the gaieté du cœur of youth which finds decision easy, partly with the wistful something in eye and voice which shows that while the old decide, the young have to live out the decisions; and partly, too, with that power of dealing with new thoughts that belongs to minds that are new also.Miss Worthington listened, and made remarks at intervals, of which Daffodil appreciated the force."I like to discuss," said Daffodil, "and we don't discuss much in Ford-Regis. We say if we think a book is nice, and if it is not quite nice we don't talk any more about it. And it is nice when it tells us nothing we did not know before. Mrs. Chris Fairford—cousin Christopher, you know, is a solicitor—said once that she liked one of the curates because he never preached anything that a child of four could not understand. So no one could dislike his sermons. Don't you think women would preach delightful sermons, Miss Worthington?""We can mostly find some sort of pulpit, if we're genuine, and have really got something to say," said Miss Worthington."Being genuine isn't the same thing as being consistent, is it?" said Daffodil, and Miss Worthington felt that a genuine utterance was coming.It was checked, however, for the opening door suddenly admitted her brother and Austin Fairford."You'll get tired of seeing me, Miss Worthington," said the latter, before he caught sight of Daffodil, which he did with a perceptible start. She knew quite well, as she smiled a greeting, that no one at Ford knew that Austin was giving Miss Worthington a chance to be tired of his company.The "wicked doctor" also looked startled as the firelight flashed on Daffodil's sunny hair as she sat in the corner.He was introduced, and began to talk about the pleasures of a fire in September, coolly and without any apparent consciousness, while Austin was a little silent.Daffodil, with that lively spirit of opposition natural to her years and temperament, had been a little inclined to make a hero of the man with a story, the falsely suspected brother of so faithful a sister. But, as the idle talk went on, he did not please her. She felt no impulse to take his part, and presently she stood up to go."I'll walk through the wood with you, if you are going, Daffodil," said Austin."Do," she said, adding to Miss Worthington, "I shall come again and finish our discussion.""Is that a case?" said Gerald after showing them out."I don't know. They are cousins.""He is going to make her promise not to tell of his visit to the abodes of vice.""Gerald, I won't have that said of my house even in joke!""You'll find there are people here who'll say it in earnest," said Gerald, bitterly.Meanwhile Austin and Daffodil walked through the wood together.They were friends in a way, and Austin, he knew not why, had a certain sense of an understanding between them."Daffodil," he said presently, "I'm going to know Worthington, as you see.""And I'm going to know his sister," she answered."That's all square, I suppose," he answered. "And of course distant politeness is all right for ladies if a man's record is queer. But, as I must be in and out here, I can't insult him by half measures.""I suppose you think he didn't do it," said Daffodil."What, poison the old lady? Certainly not. In the first place she would have died soon enough any-how. But I daresay it was his own fault that he got into the mess. Very likely he had an eye to the main chance. It isn't saints and heroes who get hard measure in real life for the most part—but poor sinners, who deserve much—and get more. He's a clever man and knows his trade, as the people here are finding out. I shan't turn the cold shoulder on him.""Well," said Daffodil mischievously, "you are quite welcome to tell cousin Agatha that I went to tea at the Hole, but I guess I'd better not say that you did."Austin's mobile face took its blackest look."Austin, I mean nothing. You know we have often had a little fun of cousin Agatha's restrictions. Of course what you do is not a bit my business or cousin Agatha's either."He was silent for a minute, and then said slowly and reluctantly:"I had much rather there was no fuss. But I shall take my own way anyhow in this matter.""I should," she answered, "and fusses are always a mistake."She had too much tact to make him a promise; but he knew that the "fuss" would not come through her agency.When their ways parted, she stood for a moment and looked after him.Words, thoughts, even feelings, veil the inmost self as thickly as reticent silence.CHAPTER X.KIT."WHERE'S old Tosty? When's he coming up? Didn't you say he was at home?"So spoke Kit Fairford on the day after his return home, as he sat in the drawing-room of Ford-Regis Rectory, with father, mother, sisters, such brothers as were at home, and such dogs as had survived his six years' absence, all gathered about him and rejoicing in his return.He was a true Fairford, tall and large-framed, with large handsome features and the auburn colouring of the family in its fairer tints. Just now he was thin and looked woefully out of health, but that was all to be set right by English air and home comforts, and only gave his family another excuse for making much of him."He never writes," Kit went on; "but I don't know that I am much of a hand at that myself, and—oh!"A figure stood in the open window, the sudden recognition of which brought more sense of his long absence to Kit Fairford's mind than the growth of his sisters, or the slight increase of grey hairs or of portliness in his handsome, happy parents.Austin stood still for a moment, and his face was still too. He was pale, and the sombre look of his eyes was more marked than ever as he came forward and took the eagerly offered hands."Well, Kit!" he said."Well, Tosty, old boy, here I am! All that's left of me and glad enough to be at home, and see you all. But I say—I don't think I should have known you. Is it Tosty?""Yes," said Austin.He sat down near the great chair in which his cousin was sitting. He was glad to sit down, and he had difficulty in speaking. He was not naturally reticent, and the impulse to some sort of self-expression was almost ungovernable. When in two minutes the moment of crisis was over, and he could see and hear and speak again, he knew that almost any mad outbreak had been possible to him. Kit, however, thought it natural enough that soft-hearted old Tosty was a little upset at seeing him changed by his illness, and said cheerfully:"I'm going to pick up as soon as possible. How's uncle Nicholas, and Nancy?""Very well; they're coming up by-and-bye to see you.""And so you've taken to the line of the English gentleman? Turnips and mangolds, eh, Tosty? Ride to hounds, and build model cottages, and prosecute poachers?""Not a bit of it," said one of Kit's brothers. "Austin never knows when a man's on the wrong side of the hedge. Lets the place go to rack and ruin. I wish I had his chances.""There'll be some pheasants if you can hit 'em, Nick," said Austin; "but you know that my father won't have big shoots.""No," said the rector rather sententiously, "I like manly sport as well as any one. I'll take out a gun once more, and have a day with Kit, but your grand-father would never have shut poor people out of his woods, and sent them three miles round to their work; and I'm glad my brother isn't to be over-persuaded by you young men.""Well," said Kit, "we haven't yet begun to breed tigers in India. When we do, I suppose the philanthropists will be down on us.""The ladies won't let you," said Nick, while the girls chimed in."We've a lady here now who goes in for the franchise. You'll see her soon, Kit?""Daffodil goes in for it.""Oh, Daffodil—she'd go in for anything, just for fun.""Well, Dr. Worthington has cured Tom Harris's leg, if he is a villain.""Austin, someone saw you taking a walk on Sunday with Dr. Worthington, and smoking!""Yes, I smoke with the villain, now and again.""I'm bewildered with villains, and Daffodils, and advanced women," said Kit."They've no business in old Ford: never used to grow here."There was a great deal more disconnected chatter, but Austin was nearly silent, and, when he went away, felt as if without such protection he could never bear to see Kit. What could he say? Neverthless, old habit and affection on both sides proved stronger than any inward shrinking. Kit suffered a good deal from returns of the fever, and from the original accident. The doctors ordered rest, and were not very definite in their promises of amendment.He needed companionship, and Austin had only too much leisure. The morbid consciousness lessened, Kit was the same as ever, and Austin found his old self again. Kit was a simple and straightforward person, who began where he left off. His own life was as fair and square as a life could be. There were times when Austin's soul cowered before him, and other times when he resented Kit's certainty that a fellow could keep straight if he chose. Kit believed in his country and his profession, and his family. He thought British rule an arrangement made by a merciful Providence for the benefit of India, and the British army the finest possible school for character.There was not a grumble in him. When he was pitied for being laid by, probably for many months, he answered:"Not a bit of it; why should I expect exceptional luck? I've had as much as most fellows. All's fair."There was merit in this philosophy, for Austin, in moments of confidence soon learned that Kit had had hopes which his illness had indefinitely postponed. He was in love, his courtship was hopefully advancing, all external circumstances were favourable; but the decisive answer had not been spoken, and till he knew how far recovery was certain he was too scrupulous to ask for it. He believed that she liked him, that she would have listened to him: but no doubt it was as well that she was free. He told it all so simply that Austin had to think the matter over before he felt that the situation was a sad one. Kit did not wish his parents to hear of it, it would only worry them, but he was glad Austin knew. He must keep the secret."You were rather a sieve, old boy, once," Kit said, "but I suppose you have learned to keep a secret by this time.""I suppose so.""We aren't given to secrets among ourselves," said Kit, "but this would only worry the dear old pater"Then Austin felt with what uncommon loyalty his secret had been kept; Kit did not know that there was one. No hint, no glance, had betrayed the nephew to the son. Why, then, could not Austin himself rest satisfied with silence?Kit duly accepted Mrs. Villiers and Daffodil as part of the cousinhood, but the latter, he said, wanted repose. Austin said nothing about his friend "the villain" to Kit; the one belonged to the upper, the other to the under side of life. He continued, however, silently and pertinaciously, to do what he could to show fellow-ship with Worthington, and probably the hand he held out did just make the latter's position bearable.Gerald eased the weight by making bitter game of the situation, by laying bare to the bone the hesitating kindness that was shown to him."People behave so well to me," he said, one afternoon, when he and Austin were standing smoking by the gate of the Hole together. "They give me nothing to complain of. However I turn out, they will have nothing to reproach themselves with. It is the consummate art of good conduct.""I think they want to be kind," said Austin, gruffly."They do. They want to be kind," returned Worthington, in a dry, level tone. Then he smiled and said, "You don't.""I?" said Austin, with a shrug. "Hallo, there's Kit driving his mousetrap."Captain Fairford, who was not allowed to walk much, or to ride, had insisted on an independent means of locomotion. He had promoted the"governess cart" of schoolroom days and its contemporary pony, from merely trotting with baggage to and from the station, fetching the clothes home from the wash, and other humble services, to taking him out for what he called a stroll, and he maintained that a man ought to be able to go for a stroll by himself, without even a sister, when sisters had work and play on hand, and that he and Stubbs could take care of each other."Pony looks like the mouse before Cinderella's godmother changed it," said Worthington, looking up the bank at the rough woodland road, some twenty feet above the Hole garden."Stubbs? He has the outline of the elephant in Noah's Ark," said Austin. "He's an institution—Hallo! I say, what's up?"For either Stubbs stumbled, or the edge of the road gave way, there was a jerk and an overturn, and the two young men rushed up the bank, to find the cart half over the edge, and Kit sitting on the ground."Tosty, by all that's lucky, look after Stubbs.""Hang Stubbs! Kit, are you hurt?""No, shaken about a bit. But if I've broken the knees of that precious beast——""The pony's sound, Captain Fairford, but not so the cart," said Worthington. "Here's a wheel off!""It's my weight," said Kit, as Austin helped him to his feet."You must come in and wait for a conveyance," said the doctor.So it came about that the doctor was master of the situation, for Kit was shaken and faint, Austin frightened, and too thankful for skilful help to feel surprised to find himself and his cousin sociably established in the Worthingtons' sitting-room, while Stubbs was consoled by some corn in the stable, and the farm boy went to fetch a conveyance from Ford.Miss Worthington was out, and Gerald was too much occupied with his guest's condition to think about himself. He made him lie down, administered remedies, and watched him intently."I hope you've sent for the omnibus, Tosty," said Kit, recovering, "that we may take Stubbs home inside; I daren't appear without him.""I hope you'll leave off going out with a rat in a rattle trap," said Austin. "What would you have done if you had been pitched out half a mile ahead?""Sat there till you came up with me, I suppose. It was no end of lucky that you found me. Indian fevers play the deuce with one, Dr. Worthington, as no doubt you know. I had a fall, too, to begin with.""They do," said Worthington. "I wouldn't risk any more falls, I think, till the effects of that one are over. Don't move, pray, you had better rest. I'm going to give you some coffee, my sister keeps it brewed on a plan of her own. I'll ask for some hot water."His manner had grown a little more distant, but Kit said:"Thanks, I should like it. I believe we were two or three terms together at Walton's, weren't we? Good old times we had there, on the whole."Gerald took up the cue. He dropped his professional manner for an easy tone, and they recalled old schoolfellows while the coffee was prepared, and Austin wondered what each thought of the other. Would Worthington say that Kit was "behaving beautifully?".He certainly was. As they talked they did not hear the sound of an arrival, till Mrs. Purcell's maid opened the door and said composedly:"Miss Hilda, sir," and a slight figure stood in the doorway, hesitating whether to advance."Cousin Hilda!" exclaimed the two Fairfords at once, in amazement."Oh! Kit," said Hilda nervously, "I didn't know what had happened to you. No one else was at home, and I thought I ought—I did not know Austin—That is it seemed so unkind not to come——""It was awfully kind of you, cousin Hilda," said Kit, pulling himself up. "Stubbs and I are both safe, Dr. Worthington has been most kind.""We are very much indebted to him," said Hilda, in a tone which united the condescension of a grandmother with the timidity of a girl, and, as Worthington bowed, Austin said:"I think you have not met Miss Hilda Fairford." Another bow, and Kit said:"I think I had better get back. They'll expect me. Ah, thanks, Tosty—my side's a bit stiff still. Shall I drive you, Hilda; who is with you?"Hilda demurred; she would walk; but Miss Worthington, returning from her ramble, gave her a frank greeting, and begged her to stay and finish the coffee."Oh, no," said Hilda; "no, I don't think——" But she stayed.The doctor helped Kit into the pony-carriage which Hilda had brought, and admonished Austin to take care that he got no chill, looking after them for a minute or two as they drove away; then, after a few words to explain the incident to his sister and Miss Fairford, went off and left the ladies to their coffee.When he came back Amy was alone."Well, how did you get on with cousin Hilda?" he said."Very well; she interests me.""She looked exactly as if she was going" to jump into a lion's den for conscience' sake, "said Gerald, standing with his back to the lire, and speaking as if the little excitement had enlivened him."Kit Fairford is just the same as when he was cock of the games at Walton's. Shouldn't think he'd changed a friend or an idea since. Good sort in his way. Good boy then and good boy now. That's some folk's luck.""Was he hurt?""No; but I should say there's a good deal amiss.""Ah, that's sad. They all seem fond of him.""Yes. Tosty worships him. I don't make Tosty out at all. I haven't fathomed him; Kit no doubt is his good angel, my adversary.""I wonder," said Miss Worthington composedly—"I wonder, Gerald, that you're not ashamed to talk like the villain in a melodrama. Angels and adversaries! I never heard such nonsense.""You'll see we shall contend for the soul of Tosty," said Gerald, perhaps to provoke her."Do you know, it strikes me that in the long run Austin Fairford will manage his own soul for himself.""Do you think so?" said Gerald, with some respect for her opinion. "The Fairford yoke seems heavy.""Yes, but he is a Fairford, I suppose; strong to bind is strong to break if needful.""That's so," said the doctor; "you're a clever woman, Amy. We'll watch the result."CHAPTER XI.A NEW START.HILDA sat over the fire in her own room on the night after her sudden visit to the Hole, and tried to set her mind in order. She had practised a nightly self-examination all her life, had asked herself a set of questions with scrupulous care, and had confessed and repented of all the sins and shortcomings which she could discover. She had never let herself off when she felt that she had failed in her daily duties, had steadily repressed all feelings of discontent, had resolutely shut her eyes to other people's failings, and told herself that the fault was all her own. That was the way she had been told to attain humility. What was the matter with her now r Crowds of thoughts, gusts of feelings that could never be classed nor catalogued, rushed in on her and frightened her unaccustomed soul. She felt that she was old, and that life's chances had all passed; yet she felt also that she was young, that she was full of eagerness and interest, and desire for work and pleasure and knowledge. She covered her face with her hands, and thought of that young barrister who had danced with her oftener than the regulation twice approved by Miss Fairford, who had paid her a little, a very little, attention five-and-twenty years ago, and who had been "discouraged" as undesirable for reasons she had imperfectly understood.She had been a little sorry, had felt a little fiat; but the impression he had made had been so slight that she had given him up, pleased at being able to be so obedient, believing that she felt " the joy of sacrifice." Surely it was not disappointed love that made life seem so blank to her? Yet had Agatha been right in huffing him away? What did she want now? She recalled her fancy for Anna Villiers, her feeling that intercourse might be more entertaining and exhilarating than she had ever known it. She remembered the impression made at the Winborough meeting long ago by Miss Worthington's face and voice, and now a feeling of dissatisfaction with all her daily occupations had fallen on her. But what did she want now?Suddenly almost, as if a voice spoke to her, came into her mind the words:"I want my own way."Her own way. Hilda started. To give up her own way had been the principle of her life, and yet, here she was, forty-three years old. At forty-three Agatha had had her own way. But Agatha was getting old, was not strong; why vex her about a trifle? Surely the higher part was to yield, to be content, to do what was best liked, to escape responsibility, never, never to let those who had guided her youth feel that their power was over.Again the voice sounded:"I want my own life." Oh, had she not better say her prayers and stop those wicked selfish thoughts?Hilda's long brown hair was unfastened and hanging round her face. She pulled out the long locks and counted the grey hairs in the firelight. Yes, the loosened hair was thick and soft and pretty. She felt young."I want to be my own self." A moment's pause, and then she said aloud:"And I will!"And what was the point of all this mental conflict? Had she had an offer of marriage, or had her heart been stirred by a lover at last? Did she want to cast off the faith of her childhood, or at least to leave her home and seek a career for herself?No, she only wanted to go and see Miss Worthington and hear her talk, and she knew quite well that Agatha would tell her she had "better not."On such small issues do the life histories of gentle, humble eventless lives not infrequently turn.Hilda got up the next morning with her mind made up for action, but with a sense of tension that would have befitted a Prime Minister who meant to resign and go over to the Opposition."I hope Kit is no worse for his spill," said Nancy, at breakfast."Worthington thought not at the time," answered Austin, while Miss Agatha remarked in the gentle, shy tone in which she usually said severe things, "It is rather unlucky that Dr. Worthington is so clever in his profession.""Why?" said Austin, abruptly."It gives him an advantage. I am afraid we might be tempted to forget his moral character. It does not really make any difference that he happened to be able to help Kit.""Do you think of calling him in, Aunt Agatha?" said Austin, sedately, while the Colonel lifted his eyes and looked astonished and attentive."No," said Miss Fairford, "but one has always been told that surface good qualities are worth nothing without real principle. It always seems a pity when worthless people are amiable.""It strikes me," said Nancy, in her undoubting voice, "that it's one of two things. If Dr. Worthington is a murderer he ought to be hung, but if he has been falsely accused we ought all to do our best to make up to him for it. Then he would be a great hero for bearing it so well.""He's not a hero," said Austin, with a short laugh, "so I suppose you think he is the other thing.""I don't quite follow the point of the conversation," said Colonel Fairford. "I understood that nothing has been proved against the young man. I should be careful to give him the benefit of the doubt. I have given it him in allowing any recognition. I do not think a cut would be justifiable or Christian. But intimacy is another thing. That can only be granted to proved worth. I think we have taken the right line in a difficult case."Austin looked down and fingered his teaspoon, as his father gathered up his correspondence and went, according to custom, to prepare for the family reading of the Bible, which always followed on breakfast."The prodigal," said Austin, "shall have a neat little hut built for him not too far from the pig-sties.""Is—is that quite the way to quote a parable, Austin?" said Miss Fairford, softly. "Ought you?""No, Aunt Agatha, I ought not," said Austin, in his still, level voice, as he followed them into the study.They read a chapter, verse by verse, according to the long-standing habit of the house. To-day, Hilda got her voice with difficulty and lost her place. She was glad when it was over. Her face flushed under her hat as she started at the usual time for a morning walk, like a girl going to meet a lover. She went through the wood, and when she saw Austin by Purcell's side inspecting a broken bit of fence some yards ahead of her, she slipped off" the path on to a little track which crossed the rank undergrowth of the summer wood, and pushed her way through bracken, willow-herb, and cow-parsley, till she came down into the clearing, now gaudy with great bunches of yellow ragweed, in which Purcell's farm stood. She saw Mrs. Purcell standing at the door, and was told that Miss Worthington was at home, and in another minute she found herself in that lady's large, bright presence, and had put the prepared excuses for her visit forward."These are the dark blue forget-me-nots I told you that we have at Ford, and I wanted to know the hour of the Women Workers' Meeting at Winborough; I want to go.""I'm glad of that," said Amy; "it's at three o'clock on the 29th—next Wednesday. And how pretty! These cobalt forget-me-nots with their pink buds are new to me.""They're from the North," said Hilda. "Our grandmother came from Westmorland; she introduced them.""That's a long time for a little plant to flourish undisturbed.""Nothing is ever disturbed at Ford," said Hilda."That's rare—and sometimes good.""I suppose things don't change when they're frozen," said Hilda, "but if they grow the ice splits."Miss Worthington turned round and looked at her. She had heard the signal of a soul in distress often enough to recognise it at once in Hilda's quavering tones, in the odd flash of her quiet eyes, and the twist of her thin fingers.She was cautious, but she flung a rope. "And it will split," she said; "it must.""I—I—I wanted——" stammered Hilda, with returning self-consciousness.Miss Worthington laid a hand on her shoulder and put her down into a low chair by the window."Speak," she said, in soft abrupt tones, "speak out. To a stranger, one can."Hilda was not of the inarticulate sort; custom, conscience, diffidence, had gagged her lips, and even her thoughts, but her passion was not new, and had long since taken form in her soul. Was it not written over and over in those manuscripts which no one saw?"I'm desperate!" she said with a gasp. "I can't get loose.""Take it easy," said Miss Worthington. "You'll get loose presently. Tell me how you know you are frozen."Hilda tossed off her hat—she had never taken it off on a visit unasked before—and began."I have done everything—always—that I thought was right—that Agatha wished. I never neglected the smallest duties, if I knew. I never did my own things when I was wanted for family things. It seemed all the more right to be dutiful because I wasn't really a daughter. I obeyed Agatha about my clothes and everything. And I was quite happy. I did not think about being old. The old things were just as nice, and though there wasn't much to do, one was safe from self-will, keeping to the little home things. And I kept to all the old books—and readings.""And when did you find them insufficient?" said Amy, as Hilda's voice faltered.Miss Worthington was leaning back in her chair, her chin on her hand, the rough waves of her abundant brown-grey hair glittering a little in the sun, her big eyes fixed on Hilda's face. "Soul-full" is an expression open to mockery as applied to eyes. Amy's were "mind-full" in every sense. Her large open arms seemed to offer a refuge. The black cat did not monopolise them. Her voice, at once sympathetic and impersonal, invited answering speech."What began to upset you?" she said."Something happened," said Hilda, "which shocked me. It was bad in itself, but I thought suddenly that when that sort of thing could happen—the world—the world was dreadful, and I tried to shut myself up. I don't know—I can't think at all why I minded it in that way—but I seemed to wake up. And suddenly—I never had any special friends—hardly any one we knew was quite what we thought best. But then—well, there was some one and I could have liked her—but I saw she just thought I was an old maid. That's not a nice expression. I know, of course, it's best for one—but she didn't care about knowing, that is about having me—and I felt that I was dull and dowdy. Then—I used to write little tales—no one knew, and I never spent the money on myself. But the publishers took to refusing them. I write—but that's different. There was nothing——""How long ago was that?""Five years or so. Of course, I know at my age——""Oh, never mind your age," said Amy. "Age is quite conventional. How did you get on after you made these discoveries?""You see," said Hilda, with more ease of manner, "I began to think that there might be outside interests. I remembered that after all I am independent. Only it never seemed quite loving to think of that. And it's so difficult to do anything at home. Every one must know about it, I—I don't like to try and publish things, because you see all letters come in the post-bag, and we always tell whom we hear from, Uncle Nicolas hands them all round. Once I thought I should like to adopt a Kilburn orphan, but Agatha said some of their methods were unwise. And now Nancy has got a working party for them, and no one seems to mind. I—I might have consulted a clergyman, but I thought I ought to ask Uncle Augustine, first, and—I think he'd say, ' consult me'—I've no life of my own—I've nothing."There was a note of passion underlying these trivial grievances, patent to the sympathetic ear. It was the cry of a soul in chains, even though Hilda herself held the key of the padlock."I would take it all as discipline," she continued after a few questions and answers, "but it makes me wicked. I am wicked, I have awful thoughts, shameful thoughts! I am jealous. I am jealous of Nancy. She's quite loyal to the home standards, and she gets a life out of them. And Daffodil—if any one tried to stop her she'd just laugh. But I've always stopped myself, and yet I haven't won content.""I've told you," Hilda went on after a moment's pause, "I've told you, because something drew me to you—when you spoke at Winborough, long ago. I was sure you'd know. But these years have been awful. And it gets worse and worse! I have hated every one. I have wished I was wicked so as I could break through!""The first thing you have got to do," said Amy, "is to be honest—honest in your soul. What do you want? And what is your real position? Have you been pretending—making-believe at all—as to your relation to the rest? Have you tried to believe or to feel as if you were not a full-grown independent woman? Just think that out first. What do you owe to your relations, exactly? Anything that is unreal is sure to be morbid.""Morbid!" said Hilda, rather hurt."Why, yes. When people's feelings are repressed and denied, there's pretty sure to be something morbid in them. But that doesn't condemn them altogether, you know."It had been said once of Amy Worthington, that her counsels fell like sledge hammers with a soft touch. There was something in the abrupt unshaded words combined with the tender voice and the kindly gaze, that seemed unique to Hilda, and exactly what she needed."Take it easy," said the counsellor smiling.Hilda laughed a little, but she did not feel snubbed. She did not fully understand, and while she was hesitating how to express herself, something came between her and the light. Daffodil's tall, long figure leaned in at the open casement, and her clear young voice called out:"Miss Worthington. Something most important is on foot. I want your opinion."Hilda started up, nervous and miserable."Oh! what shall I do?" she said."Sit still," said Amy. "You wanted—didn't you—to come and see me? Why not?"CHAPTER XII.KIT'S OPINION."HILDA!" cried Daffodil as she ran round to the door and came in. "Has Nancy told you? Are you going to back us up? You will, won't you; and not let Cousin Agatha think it's too dangerous?""What is it—what do you mean?" said Hilda nervously, as she looked about for her discarded hat."Well? something's wanted. It really doesn't much matter what—Oh—I know, new desks for the school—and the idea sprang up at the Rectory that we might have an entertainment to get the money. We've coaxed the Rector and Cousin Barbara, so they're all right; and I've told Nancy it shall be edifying. So I've come to get tips and hints from Miss Worthington, for we want to have some tableaux to conclude. Hilda, think of subjects."Hilda did not answer. She was wondering if Daffodil was wondering why she was there.Daffodil's eyes did twinkle a little, when she was left alone with Miss Worthington, but she made no comment, only sketching out her ideas for the proposed tableaux which were clever and practical, showing a quick sense of what every one could do best, and a frank desire to show them off to advantage.She had become very intimate with Miss Worthington; but though they discussed topics on which Hilda could not have expressed an opinion without feeling that she was laying bare her inmost soul, Amy always knew that the young spirit had its own reserves; Daffodil took the busy interests, the active energies of her life, with a certain coolness. She was not possessed by them, and this gave her much power, and, though in one way she was an incarnation of enthusiastic youth, in another her aloofness gave her an odd impartiality seldom found—while the world is all young.Miss Worthington felt that she herself was more easily excited than this eager bright young girl, who, nevertheless, made so much of her life."I'll just go and give Mrs. Purcell the 'Academy Notes' to look at," said Daffodil before she went."She's got all sorts of funny aspirations for something beyond the Parish Magazine, or even the lending library, for the farmer's wives and daughters.""Yes, she has been to look at my pictures and ask about the artists. She has a peculiar face.""Hungry, don't you think?" said Daffodil. "She is very unpopular, both with the other farm ladies and with the authorities; but I rather like her."Daffodil found Mrs. Purcell busy in her kitchen, her quiet normal apron and turned-up sleeves having an odd and costumy effect upon her. She paused as she mixed her suet pudding, and glanced with keen interest at the "Academy Notes.""Thanks, Miss Daffodil; that'll be a great interest, I shall imagine the colours. That young knight is like Mr. Austin."Daffodil looked at a very aesthetic representation of an Arthurian legend."Well—I think it is," she said. "I declare I've got an idea from you, Mrs. Purcell. And how's Jack getting on r And how's Mr. Purcell?""Very well, Miss; I hope Jack's qualifying for a good appointment. My husband's none too well, thank you.""He hasn't been looking well—but I must be off—I'll come another time and talk about the pictures."Mrs. Purcell returned to her pudding, setting up the "Academy Notes" opposite to her, against a milk jug, and proceeded to imagine the colours and mix in sugar and bread-crumbs at the same time. The pudding, be it observed, was quite eatable.Daffodil went through the wood, planning out her little show. Her pupils were having a holiday, and she was trying to cram as many of her other interests into the space so provided as possible. "Thoughts," she was wont to say, "must take their turns." Yet it seemed no interruption to her thoughts when she met Austin coming up from the woods towards the Rectory, and at once challenged him to help her in the new scheme."You'll vote for it, won't you, Austin, and help us? The girls are quite keen about it at the Rectory. And all the boys will give in if you do. Otherwise they'll say it's a grind, and not good enough for holidays.""I don't see that we're any of us much to look at except Kit, and he isn't strong enough," said Austin. "Won't it be a grind?""I tell you what none of you are, and that is, made to take in an idea," said Daffodil. "Cannot Art combine and use the most unpromising materials? You'll find, perhaps, that you are picturesque. If it's a grind you shall all be ground into shape."Austin laughed and gave in, and presently found that a scheme for a little combined amusement would not be so very unpleasant."Miss Worthington?" he said, as Daffodil mentioned a suggestion made by her. "You keep on with going to see her?""Yes, I think she's a splendid person. Do you know that Dr. Worthington has three new patients near Bishopsford?""Yes."Austin's face, which had brightened, grew dark again."Daff," he said, knocking the hedge with his stick as he walked along, "I choose to stick, you know, to Worthington. But I don't set him up as a saint. People climb up into a tree, commonly, before they get stuck in it.""Well, Austin," said Daffodil, "I don't know that cousin Agatha would say worse than that!""What Aunt Agatha says is very often true," replied Austin. "But I mean a man may be innocent, as you say, and yet not a girl's hero."Austin looked cross. He could not tell why he so disliked the notion that Daffodil could fall into intimate acquaintance with this man who was under a social ban."I suppose," said Daffodil, with a little excitement, "that you make friends with him because you think it cruel to visit an unproved accusation on him, and because you want to give him a helping hand to regain his position. Because, in fact, it would be mean if you didn't.""Yes, it would be mean if I didn't. But for all that I mayn't feel him the best acquaintance for a girl.""And pray, is a girl to be always thinking of herself, when she makes an acquaintance? Mayn't a girl help a lame dog over a stile? What sort of a restitution do you call it if a man mayn't know a girl? What's a girl good for if she mayn't have a good influence? That's not my opinion of a woman!""I hate opinions of woman!""Being a man, I daresay you do. Besides, you're all so dreadfully afraid of damaging yourselves by contact with other people.""I tell you," said Austin passionately, "I'd sooner be ruined body and soul, than entertain such a feeling. I——""Well! You! Then why me? No, don't say because you're a girl, say because I think you're a goose. All girls are."A rush of confused feelings silenced Austin. If he had been quite cool it would have been difficult to explain himself suitably. As it was he knew not what to say. At last he said stoutly:"I shall never give into the idea that you are the same as I am.""I never said I was!" cried Daffodil, laughing. "Do you know we have been discussing the greatest problem of the day?""I didn't mean to discuss anything," said Austin."No?—well! I think Cousin Agatha's right. Dr. Worthington doesn't look at all a good companion for a young man. His eyes don't look straight, and he doesn't impress me as likely to elevate your standard. Besides, you know he's rather attractive, and—and—so—I've never met him but twice at Miss Worthington's, and once you were there all the time yourself. Good-bye."Daffodil turned off as they came to the path that led to Pretty Peep, and was out of sight in a moment. When she was quite sure that Austin was not following her, she stopped, with hot cheeks and shining eyes. What had suddenly blown up this breeze out of the calm? She laughed, and looked happy, and hummed a little tune."I can't bear Dr. Worthington," she said to herself, as she went in at her own white gate.Austin meanwhile, a little out of temper, crossed the Rectory garden, where he found Kit sitting in a shady corner by the house, with a selection of dogs and brothers on the grass beside him. The dogs barked a greeting; through the open window of the drawing-room a girl and three canaries were singing at once; the holiday boys shouted at Austin, demanding whether he was going to act, because Daffodil said it would be a jolly lark, but they didn't altogether see it. At Ford the note of home-life was struck by the habits of a passing generation, at the Rectory the young ones unconsciously held sway. Nancy and Austin came there much oftener than their cousins went to the Hall.Austin spread the intelligence that there were rabbits spoiling to be shot, which produced an instantaneous dispersion of boys and dogs."Well, Kit—none the worse?" said Austin, as soon as his voice was audible through the retreating hubbub."No. Only a bit tired and shaken. Stubbs is always judicious, and he couldn't have brought on the smash at a better place.""What did you think of the ' wicked doctor?'" asked Austin as he subsided on to the grass."Good at his work," said Kit; "knows his business. You'll see he'll be the fashionable doctor some day, in spite of everything.""Think so?" said Austin, rather surprised."Yes,—but he ain't my sort, Tosty. It's a ticklish question. I don't think a murderous flavour ought to hang about him. The mistake or mischance is of course against him professionally, though he'll never make another. But it oughtn't to taboo him in general society. Still I don't know that I should take him to my bosom—or to the bosom of my family.""In short," said Austin, "he's morally seedy and out at elbows, so the feast of reason and the flow of soul are not for him; but you might ask him to dinner, as his coat is quite good."Austin apparently had either been converted by Daffodil, or adapted his sentiments so as to disagree with his company."You've grown so infernally clever, Tosty," said Kit, "that you're quite too many for me. Hang Worthington! No one ever talks of anything else. You never have anything to say, even about turnips. Aren't you going to get married—you're extremely eligible? Or don't you want to abolish the game laws, or nationalise the land, or something? You used to be a scheming fellow with hobbies.""Marry?" thought Austin as he walked home. "Kit little knows."If Kit had known how—to keep the fear out of his father's eyes—he had been forced into accounting for every hour; how last Saturday the game of billiards with Worthington had been snatched during leave of absence obtained for a cricket match; how on Sunday he had gone to church at eight o'clock, because he had learned so to buy peace all round, because he was a coward and a slave. Well, most people would have relegated it all to the outer conventions of life, and gone happily on their inward way independently."I wonder," thought Austin, "if they knew the whole, which would think me the greatest fool, Kit or Worthington?"Why think about himself—a hopeless subject? Was there really any reason to suppose that Worthington and Daffodil would get intimate? There was nothing inconsistent in choosing a man's company for himself, and disliking it for the ladies of his family. And Daffodil was so wilful and unmanageable, so fond of upsetting conventions, and really somehow, he supposed, so attractive, that she was just the girl to run counter to prudence.Austin dawdled and reflected on the number of times that Daffodil had probably visited Miss Worthington, till he found luncheon nearly over, and heard the courteous, inevitable, semi-anxious question, which he had intended to avoid."Been detained anywhere, Austin?"CHAPTER XIII.AN OUTING.As Hilda walked home with a firmer step than usual she began to see dimly that the deliverance must come to her own soul.It was not what her friends did, but what she thought, or rather felt, that made all the difference.By slow degrees she was finding either herself or her soul, it is not always easy to tell which, and then—well—that self could speak, and did, on paper; and perhaps a few morbid poems and unwholesome stories locked up in a drawer, are as harmless a form of self-expression as neuralgia, a not unlikely alternative.She felt confused and excited as she came down to luncheon, where the question of attending "Miss Worthington's meeting," as Miss Fairford called it, came under discussion."Are you going to this meeting, Aunt Agatha," said Austin, "because I'm afraid Stella's still too lame to drive into Winborough?""I do think," said Nancy, "we ought to get a new carriage-horse. It's very inconvenient to have Stella useless so often."Neither Colonel Fairford nor Austin replied, and Miss Agatha said, ignoring a suggestion, which she did not think it had been Nancy's place to make:"Then that will settle the question, I am not very sorry, for I do not care about going to the meeting except to oblige your Aunt Barbara.""Can't Nancy and I go by train?" said Hilda.Now, going by train to Winborough for the day-was one of the things which Miss Agatha thought "unnecessary" for ladies. it was a troublesome little journey, and had never been regarded as an agreeable or suitable proceeding."I don't much care about going," said Nancy. "There's the sewing class, I don't want to miss that, and I daresay there'll be a report of the speeches.""Well, we can tell your aunt that the horse is lame," said Miss Agatha.Hilda sat still. Her hands went cold and her heart beat. A whole vast issue seemed to her to hang on this tiny question."I think," she said, "that I should like to go to the meeting. I don't mind the train; I can join Aunt Chris at Bishopsford, if they go; or go with Daffodil.""Miss Worthington, I suppose, will be going from here herself," said Austin."I don't care," said Miss Agatha, gently, "to put ourselves forward as anxious to hear Miss Worthington. It will be better, I think, dear, not to go. And we don't, you know, go in by train to Winborough."It may be incredible, but for the moment Hilda could not speak, for fear she would cry. Tact she had none, and she felt that the choice lay between a sudden and open defiance, and self-surrender for ever.Austin looked at her."I'm going to Winborough," he said. "Can't Hilda go with me if she wants to go to the meeting?""Yes," said Hilda, emphatically, "I—I think I might—I—I—do want to go to the meeting.""Have you business, Austin?" said his father."Yes, I want a new tennis racket.""Then I'll go with you," said Hilda, with a long breath."My dear Hilda," said Agatha, afterwards, in her softest and most deprecating voice, "do you think it quite wise of you to make such a point of this meet-ing? It looks so marked to separate yourself from the rest of us; and, forgive me, dear, do you think it is setting Nancy quite a good example? You see we have decided on our line about Miss Worthington. Why depart from it?""I don't think—I don't think—I am quite in Nancy's position," said Hilda, desperately. " I'm older—and it's different."When people did not agree with each other at Ford, they always closed the discussion. Agatha looked a little surprised and sad, and turned away, and Hilda felt quite degraded. She went to her room and cried, but she did not give in.Austin gave her an odd look, as they started together in the pony carriage for Bishopsford Station. He did not often experience a fellow-feeling for Hilda, while she, a little excited with her victory over herself, rather than over Agatha, talked more than usual, and presently asked him if Stella was ever going to be any good again."I'm afraid not," said Austin; and then added deliberately, "I suppose, a few years ago my father would have bought another horse long since. Nowadays no one has any money."Hilda looked startled, she felt suddenly open to new impressions, and she then received an unexpected one.At the station they met Daffodil and Miss Worthington, while Lady Barbara's carriage and pair, containing herself, Mrs. Christopher Fairford and two daughters, drove up as they reached the Town Hall at Winborough, and the parties merged into one as Austin went his way.The meeting was as other meetings of the kind, interesting in the main only to those concerned with its objects. Hilda listened to the speeches. She made small resolutions, but there was a large impulse moving in her soul.Daffodil for once did not listen with lively interest.That thought that lies so often behind the deferential attention of the young to their elders was working within her."What has all this to do with me? It is clever, but is it—life?"Behind her gay, girlish aspect, her pretty face, and her lively youth, there was a feeling of the frivolity of all these middle-aged people who discussed the outsides of things with cool heads, and did not know what anything really meant.There were moments when life retreated to its inmost depths, when the young, vivid soul, clever enough to analyse its own experiences, knew that views and thoughts and interests, even affection, were all outside. In youth, sometimes, we cannot get at our own personality, if we are not a part of all that we have seen, all our surroundings are part of ourselves, and we do not know ourselves without them. But there is another stage, when we cannot stretch beyond our inmost desires.The moments of fainting and defeat come unexpectedly, and one such was upon Daffodil now. But she looked quite pink and fresh and attentive all the time, and, when the meeting broke up, was ready, according to promise, to take Miss Worthington to see Winborough parish church, which was large and striking, and to have tea with her afterwards at the coffee-tavern before going to the station."Will you come, Cousin Hilda?" she said, half mischievously, and Hilda agreed.To walk through a neighbouring town, look over the church, and have tea at a temperance coffeehouse with a friend, may not strike people as a piece of wild dissipation; but as she sat down at the little marble table and looked about her, Hilda had the same feeling of seeing life and being in an irresponsible condition which makes some people enjoy Continental travel. Miss Worthington's presence also excited her, and she looked quite young and pretty in her Sunday bonnet. She had long" felt herself too old to wear a hat on public occasions.The coffee-tavern was out of the way of the assembly-rooms, where the meeting had taken place. It had been planted opposite to a popular hotel not far from the station, round which one or two conveyances and some bicycles were standing. Hilda looked about her with the amusement of a tourist in a new place. A window on the first storey of the hotel was open; some men were in the room outside, one, leaning half out of the window with a cigar in his mouth, was looking at a fine young horse being put into a dogcart, Hilda gave a little start of surprise as she recognised Austin's peculiar gloomy face. Some one came up behind and looked over his shoulder—Dr. Worthington.Hilda's first feeling was that Austin would see her. She had to remember that it did not matter if he did, before it crossed her mind to wonder why he was there. Then, somehow, for the first time it struck her that he had little more freedom in his life than she. Both of them would be asked at dinner what they had been doing during the afternoon.Hilda did not say "There's Austin." She wondered if either of the others had seen the pair. Neither of them said so.Austin came into the station just before the train started, with his new racket in his hand. Hilda did not ask him what he had been doing at the King's Head; but when, at dinner, he merely said, in answer to inquiries, that he had been trying his new racket on the tennis ground, and she found it an effort to mention her own little doings, an extraordinary sense of constraint came over her as she tried, with staggering, unpractised effort, to see another point of view."It is the same thing," she thought, "only he was smoking and looking at horses. That is what men like, I suppose?"But she perceived that Austin did not know that she had seen him, and did not mean to tell where he had been. She, under the pressure of the home standard, had had a secret life of thought and feeling. Was it possible that he had one also, only, being a man, it included action? And, if so, was it necessarily less than good? No woman really thinks it well for a youth to keep his ways secret from his family, but Hilda's mind was in a curious state of reaction and revolt; she had lost her balance, and her sympathies went reeling about, unable to fix themselves. She went over, temporarily, to the Opposition.CHAPTER XIV.THE LADYE'S BOWER.DAFFODIL had seen the two young men at the window quite as well as Hilda had done. It was not the first time she had seen Austin in Winborough; she knew all sorts of tiny facts about him which no one else noticed. But then she also knew much of the crisis through which Hilda was passing. She was good at noticing, and, in spite of the insolence of youth, she was clever enough to have a kind of amused sympathy with Hilda's belated efforts "to wriggle out," as she phrased it."If I'd been mother, I should have taken her on," she thought. "I wonder what Miss Worthington will make of her." Of course, she could not help noticing the doings and the feelings of other people. If she was conscious of the undercurrent of Austin's life, she was conscious also of much below the surface in other lives around her."The Purcells now at the Hole"—Daffodil paused that night, as she brushed out her curly hair; she paused to think of the Purcells. What undercurrents there were in that house! Mrs. Purcell with her odd refinements and queer aspirations, quite as much at war with life as Hilda could be, and Jack Purcell, in an estate agent's office in Winborough, "doing very well," as his mother said, but who, as Daffodil was convinced, would never do very well anywhere. She was quite sure that Mrs. Purcell made up stories about him deliberately.Daffodil went on brushing her hair, after this pause, and went on also thinking about Austin Fairford. She let herself think till the firm hold she usually kept on her thoughts relaxed, and they melted into memories and feelings.How that first strange glimpse of Austin had marked him out in her mind from every one else. How she had noticed him, in those first gay girlish days at Ford-Regis! How she had pitied him when she found him broken down and abandoned to his grief in the field of the three oak-trees! How often she had seen what she had grown to call "the ghost in his face" appear in the midst of smiles and chatter! How irreconcilable was the actual Austin with the idea of him still current among the cousinhood. And after all, how unaccountable by any boyish lapse was the constant gloom and suppression that she at least saw so plainly! How foolish the policy seemed that had condemned a lad of nineteen to so empty a life!"It's their own fault if he's not good now," she thought, with the vehement sympathy of youth for youth. She knew that the fetters that bound him were not all put on in the past. He did exactly what was thought proper for a Fairford. Why should his father watch him—as Daffodil thought, with young impatience—as a cat watches a mouse? And why should she herself never feel at ease about him? Why should she think about him at all?Ah well, the moment when Diaphenia Villiers had discovered Austin Fairford's fate had fixed her own. "She grew up in love with him," as she expressed it to herself, and, being what she was, she had long ago faced out what that implied. A deep motive underlying every other, a constant reservation, a knowledge that the essentials of life were not likely to alter for her, for she was much too shrewd and too constantly in Austin's company to imagine that he was in love with her. Of course, a passion unreturned and unknown, and which Austin had done nothing to foster, could not flood the whole life of so strong and many-sided a young woman; but, none the less, it was the chief factor in the making of Daffodil. It settled, or at any rate she thought that it settled, her future for ever, and what a difference that fact makes in the kaleidoscope of a girl's outlook! It called forth, for its concealment and control, all the strength and courage of her soul, and, because of its own strength and importance, it gave that odd, ungirlish coolness to all the other interests and emotions of life. They were all outside. She was never possessed by them, just as, though full of spirits and energy, she was never exactly light-hearted.She had been scarcely more than a child when she first found that she had to carry this burden in her bosom, and she had borne it with a great and even splendid courage.Daffodil disliked the severe standard of Ford; but her severity towards herself could never have been dictated by any outward rules. She was unmerciful to every little sentimental pleasure; no flower, no scrap of writing, no precious relic did she ever allow herself to cherish—no delusive fancy based on Austin's smiles or kind words. It was not on those lines that her love was bound to run. She read novels widely, much more widely than for many girls might have been good, but the use she made of them was to classify her own experience and let it fall into place in the world's history, one among many others, nothing out of the common, nothing of which to complain.She stopped her thoughts, like the hands of a clock, when she felt it needful, chained them up again tight, and turned them on to the entertainment. A performance in a schoolroom in aid of some local need is not usually regarded as a new departure in a country place. But it was the first time in Ford-Regis that Fairford money had not at once been forthcoming for anything that was wanted. Colonel Fairford had not proposed to give the new desks, and Kit, fresh from regimental theatricals and sing-songs for his men, had backed up the idea of an entertainment. The other young people took it up eagerly. The Rector would begin by reading something improving, the girls could play and sing, Nick thought he could recite, so could Daffodil, their neighbours would help, and the tableaux would form a conclusion.Kit could not be induced to appear as a wounded hero of any sort, kind, or description, though Nancy declared that it could not have tired him to lie still and be wept over, and Austin was nearly as obstinate, but was at length caught in the toils, having a less reasonable excuse. There was an overflowing audience. All the household from Ford came; it was right to support the Rector, even if you had doubts as to the wisdom of his proceedings. Mrs. Purcell was there, looking pretty and ladylike, really thrilling with eagerness to hear and see, and having dragged a rather unwilling husband in her train. Purcell had been ailing and depressed of late; a little change would do him good. "And wasn't it interesting to see the old Colonel and the young Captain together? Captain Kit was pale, but so handsome, so like the Colonel! Much more like him than Mr. Austin was! Might be his own son!"So thought Austin as he found them places, and noted his father's kindly solicitude that Kit should be sufficiently comfortable, as he had made something of an effort to come. Talks about military affairs between Kit and the Colonel were occasions to be avoided, if possible, by Austin.The Rectory dining-room curtains defended the stage, and when drawn back disclosed the Rectory piano, on which Nancy and Mary played a duet, and then the Rector read his parish Wordsworth's "Happy Warrior," during which the audience felt as if it was in church, and listened decorously and with a sense of improvement. But when the Captain led a little modest applause, every one felt proud of encouraging the reader, who preached out his poem in a fine scholarly fashion, and filled the little room from end to end. There was a song by a Bishopsford young lady, very enjoyable, then Mr. Nicolas was extremely funny in the person of a gentleman who was so over-punctual that he missed the express, and caught a slow train that was shunted to let it pass. More music, then the curate read "King Robert of Sicily," which is a work that takes some time to deliver, and things were getting a little flat, when, at a signal, Dr. Worthington left his place, and stepped on to the platform, and, in the finest baritone that had ever been heard in Ford-Regis, began to sing "A wet sheet and a flowing sea," with force and fire that produced the first note of real enthusiasm, and an irresistible encore. And then he made them all laugh with "Tommy Atkins." The Colonel laughed, and the Captain clapped, and every one was worked up and ready to cry, when Miss Daffodil, by no means badly, told a moving tale of infant virtue and early death. That was really touching, and to be enjoyed. Then more music, and, last of all, the performance, which was intended to appeal to the more cultivated among the audience, entitled, on the programme:"MY LADYE'S BOWER"
IN FOUR PICTURES.There was a pause and a sound of rushing about, and hammering, frantic whispers and unexplained voices, partially drowned by the piano. Then—soft music—the curtains withdrawn, and, in what seemed a magical and marvellous light, all the available girls, with the exception of Daffodil, draped in art muslin, and with their hair down, were grouped among all the available conservatory plants, skilfully arranged in banks and bowers, while a verse was sung, stating that these maidens, far away from the eyes of man, were living happy lives, and making garlands for their Queen, who dwelt apart in her bower. Roses, pink and white, were liberally heaped about the stage. Then the curtain dropped, and rose again to display them, startled and shrinking, for the eyes of man had discovered them in the person of the destined knight, who had found the Ladye's Bower. The girls had divided on either side, and in the midst stood Austin, an unexpectedly striking figure, in an Italian dress of dull terra-cotta, touched here and there with orange colour. Austin was no actor, he did as he was bid; but his impassive face, straight brows, and melancholy eyes, set off by unexpected costume and colour, fitted the part to perfection, as he stood still, while his long and hopeless search for his lady was recounted in pretty and apparently original verse.Picture three, The Ladye's Bower.—This was heralded by weird and mysterious music, and when the curtain rose, the lights, bewitched somehow, fell with silvery radiance on the knight, as he stood within the Ladye's Bower of leafy, flowery branches and beheld Daffodil Villiers in soft blue-green robes; her yellow hair, displayed like a glory round her, and falling on her shoulders and round her long white arms. She held some lilies in her hand, and her eyes, startled but welcoming, were fixed on the knight. And Austin saw her. As the descriptive verse sounded softly from behind the scenes, it seemed to him that he had never seen her before. Her eyes drew him, her beauty seized him; their eyes met, and he saw, he felt. Suddenly a loud shriek from among the audience broke the spell. One piercing scream, and a sudden hubbub. The singers stopped, the Ladye sprang up. Austin turned his head, and saw that Purcell the bailiff had fallen in a fit or faint back against the people behind him; his wife had screamed. Dr. Worthington was pushing his way through; Austin sprang over the footlights and hurried to the rescue; at the same moment the limelight suddenly flared up in a crimson blaze; some one behind shouted out "Fire!"There was a moment's whirl of movement, then Kit's voice: "Halt!" and the Rector's "Sit still, all of you—there's nothing the matter; sit still, for your lives!"The frightened girls, in their floating garments, ran across the stage, weird figures in the startling light, the doors were flung open; in spite of the efforts of every authority present to scold, coax, and coerce the audience, there was a crazy stampede, girls fainted, children screamed and cried, the whole company broke up, the entertainment ended with that mutual gaze of lady and lover.CHAPTER XV.MAGIC MOONLIGHT.FORD-REGIS schoolroom was a small place, but for the two hundred people that had been squeezed into it, there were five minutes of a panic, such as creates the horrors of the world. Austin, as he tried to fight his way to where Purcell's large figure had fallen prone between the benches, could hardly keep his head in the nightmare of sight and sound. There was a door behind the stage, and the young men began frantically to tear down the curtains and clear a way to it—proceedings which only added to the impression that the place was on fire. Nicolas shouted at the top of his voice, between his hands, that the red chemicals had fallen into the moonlight ones and flared up, but nobody heard or heeded; the Rector and the Colonel ordered and rebuked in vain, the gaslights wavered and flared in the draughts of the open doors, a child was hurt and shrieked with pain and terror. Outside it was a pitchdark night, moonless and starless. The ladies in the front seats, with more self-command than the people at the back, came to their senses more quickly, and obeyed the gestures calling them on to the platform, out of the way. Dr. Fairford plunged into the space left, and seizing his national schoolmistress by the shoulders turned her right round by main force, with half-a-dozen screaming girls clinging to her, and dragged them, as they fully believed, back into the flames. Then a stout farmer, coming to himself, caught up three or four children, and strewed them over the emptying benches, the block at the door lessened, and the crowd poured out into the darkness, many looking back in horror, and expecting to see flames darting from the roof of the school.The doctor was master of the situation. At the first possible moment, with Austin's help, he piled the benches one on another, so as to clear a space round the fallen man, and laid him flat on the floor to examine his condition."Don't you want some brandy for him?" were the first words distinctly audible, and Austin, looking up, saw Kit with his halting step, walking quietly along the front of the platform, putting out the footlights, which were flaring amid broken glass and the débris of the "Ladye's Bower.""We'd better get him home," said the doctor. "Is there any conveyance? Yes—and we'd better have some brandy.""Our carriage," said Austin, "I expect it's here. My aunt didn't mean to go into supper. I'll see about it.""Yes, and I'll go and send someone back with the brandy," said Kit.Here Nicolas appeared, and was sent to fetch the brandy, while Austin went to find the carriage, just as the Colonel, having punctiliously taken his ladies over to the Rectory, came back to see what was amiss with his bailiff. Miss Worthington had come to the help of Mrs. Purcell, who after her first shriek of alarm stood white, shivering, and silent. Worthington drew the Colonel aside and told him that the man had had a stroke, and he could not tell what the result might be at present."Poor fellow, I have thought him looking ill," said the Colonel. "He's an old friend—a very old friend. Let everything possible be done for him.""Everything shall be," said the doctor. "Yes, quite so, Captain Fairford," as Austin came back to announce the carriage, and Kit began to give some directions as to how to lift the sufferer. "I see you have had experience. But excuse me you should not stand about longer, and exhaust yourself. We shall manage now; here's the brandy. Now, Mrs. Purcell, a little of this will keep your heart up. Yes, take it, you must not delay us," as, regardless of her refusal, he got it swallowed in spite of her choking sob. Purcell was lifted, under his orders, carefully and skilfully, and conveyed to the carriage."I'll get some decent clothes on," said Austin, when the transit was over, "and be at the Hole by the short way as soon as the carriage gets there. These togs aren't the things for night-work. Father, won't you go into the Rectory and wait; we'll send back the carriage? Kit, get home—do. Here's night air and fatigue, and everything that's forbidden.""All right, Uncle Nicolas will give me an arm," said Kit, thus clearing his uncle off the scene, while Austin dragged off his Italian dress and resumed his own clothes, in the class-room behind the stage. He felt as if the spell of the "Ladye's Bower" was on him still, and as if the flare of light, the rush and noise in which it had broken to pieces, was exactly what might have been expected to happen. And that something should happen, of any sort, was like a tonic to him. His thoughts were full of the sad and startling event. Purcell's ghastly fallen figure, with his little white shivering wife, came back upon him with a shudder; he could never see the distress of others unheeding. But he himself was full of a curious sense of strong and vigorous life, of something awake and well within him, which had been asleep or sick before, and constantly Daffodil's strange, dragging, compelling eyes returned upon him. How could she look like that? Was it clever acting—or glamour—or the queer light—or—He stumbled into the hedge, and had to set all his faculties towards finding his way in the dark along the field path, which crossed the hill behind the Rec-tory and saved at least half the distance traversed by the road.Darkness and solitude! Austin's life was so conventional and so restricted to what was expected of him, that, absurd as it may sound, the sense of being alone in the summer night without fear of rebuke, came upon him as a sense of freedom. This time at least he was on his proper business. He sped along, his young strength enjoying the hurry, as by a much shorter cut than was necessary, over dewy bracken and down the rough steep banks, over the clearing, where he heard rather than saw the rabbits scuttling away at the sound of his steps, he came down to the gate of the Hole just as the carriage came carefully along the uneven road towards it. Austin got in first, and roused up the farm man, to be ready to help, and the maids to get hot water. The confusion and fright in the empty house seemed to bring home to him the real aspect of what had occurred. Then followed the arrival and the difficult moving and carrying, an experience which filled Austin, useless, after the first need of his strong arms was over, with pity and horror. He could not go away till he knew what report the doctor had for him to take back to the Rectory, and he went into the little den which Worthington kept for himself, next to his sister's sitting-room, and lit a candle and his pipe, to while away the time of waiting.Poor old Purcell! He could not recollect the place without him. He used to give "Master Tosty" rides on the cart-horses, and, later on, apples and pears to take to school. Good old Purcell! How patient he had been with that listless, dull-hearted youth whom he had to teach to be his master, and how impatient when that young master had learnt his trade, and had begun to have a few theories and opinions about it. Stupid old Purcell! He did not know much about modern farming, and he did not intend to learn, but Austin would no more have thought of superseding his father than of putting anyone else in the good man's place. Had Purcell guessed at first that there was trouble? Sometimes by dint of a curious sensitiveness to the minds of others, which had grown up in him because, perhaps, he had so much reason to be sensitive, Austin had fancied that he did.Now, Jack would have to come back and help—Jack, who would never be anything like such a man as his father, "any more than I shall," thought Austin.Steps interrupted his meditations, and the doctor came in."Well," he said, "no change likely at present. He hasn't come round yet, but he will, I think, soon. Left side is paralysed—he'll never be his own man again. I asked his wife if he'd had any shock or anxiety, and she said 'No,' with such decision that I believe she was lying! They'll have to get a nurse; my sister'll help her to-night.""My father'll be awfully sorry," said Austin, feeling sincerely sorry himself."Yes—sad kind of thing always. Have some whisky before you go back? Can't stay, I suppose, for a hand of picquet to amuse me while I sit up, as I must for the present?""No, they'll be waiting for the report," said Austin, pouring out the whisky, while Worthington, who had all along spoken eagerly, suddenly rubbed his hands and exclaimed:"It's the greatest piece of good luck that could have befallen me; I could thank the old gentleman for having his stroke at such an opportune moment, before the eyes of the élite, as Mrs. Purcell calls them. Doctor on the spot in more ways than one. You'll see, I shall be tolerated soon! It's rattling good luck!"Perhaps the sentiment was natural, and the expression of it sincere, but there was something in the fierce glitter of Gerald's black eyes, in the hard, undisguised exultation in another's misfortune, that jarred on Austin indiscribably. He turned rather sharply, but did not speak for a minute. He hardly ever spoke on his first impulse; then he said slowly:"Feels good, does it, to be reinstated?""Ay," said Gerald, briefly, "I'm not going to lie still and be kicked. Give me the end of twine, and I'll pull the rope after me. I'll be at the top of the tree yet, by——I will! When I'm Sir Gerald—come, come "—breaking off suddenly—"this is highly unbecoming and imprudent. If ever I am a leading West-Ender I'll doctor you, Tosty, for nothing.""Thanks," said Austin, dryly, as he relit his pipe. "If the land interest goes to the dogs much faster, I shall certainly not be able to pay you. Good night; I'll be down here early to-morrow."Austin went out again into the dark of the night, over which a faint light was coming, as the moon rose up behind the clouds that veiled the eastern sky.Worthington, who had been "falsely accused," could look life in the face and swear to conquer it. But for himself no outward oblivion could change the actual fact."He is injured, I am justly punished," thought Austin, "or rather, he has undeservedly lost everything, and I have gone scot-free. Yet I wouldn't change souls with him. Kit's right. If he was a rising doctor I'd have none of him. Most likely if he knew, he'd have none of me. What's here?"He had hurried through the wood into a rough little lane, which led from it to the Rectory fields. He emerged from the trees and the moon emerged from the clouds at the same moment. A slender, long, pale figure flitted along just ahead of him so quickly and lightly that for a moment his breath came quick, and he wondered what the form of a woman, in a floating skirt with a shawl over her head, would mean at that hour. The next moment she turned at the sound of his steps, and he exclaimed:"Daffodil! You here, now?""Austin! Oh, you have been at the Hole? How is he? Little Lucy Hatton was knocked down and trodden on, and frightened to death. I had to carry her back home; you know they live just down by Williams' orchard, and when I got there—oh, horror, Austin!—the mother had come in drunk! I always thought there was something queer, and I had to stay to take care of Lucy while the poor man got a neighbour. Such a horrid business.""Daffodil! and were you all alone? And going back to Pretty Peep alone at this hour?""Well, I couldn't go till Lucy was in bed, and some one there to look after her, and I'm sleeping at the Rectory. Mother went home in the Fyttons' fly. She got under a desk, out of the way of the crowd, and came out quite safe afterwards. The only thing is that I'm in this ridiculous dress, so I had to borrow the neighbour's shawl. I should not have liked Mrs. Hatton's."Daffodil laughed a little, and put back the shawl, her hair all sheeny in the silvery light, an odd glitter in her eyes.It seemed to Austin that he had never before seen her loveliness. He felt again as if he had never seen her before at all, certainly as if he had never been alone with her, and all the various agitations of the evening sank away, and a strange delight came into him, with the delicate moonlight, the soft deep shadows, and the fresh woodland smell."The nights are getting cold; pull up your shawl," he said, and she heard a tone in his voice that was altogether new."I never catch cold," she answered, "but we'd better make haste. Lady Barbara will wonder whatever has become of me. But tell me about the Purcells."Austin told briefly; but somehow he did not want to dwell on what seemed now far away."Look," he said, as they came out into the fields. "Look, what a flood of moonlight; it is as light now as it was dark before. The whole place is made into the 'Ladye's Bower,' isn't it?""I felt convinced," said Daffodil nervously, "that Nick would muddle those chemicals. Pitching the sunrise into the moonlight, and bringing the light of common day into the magic bower, produced, of course, disenchantment. It was quite allegorical.""Are we disenchanted yet?" said Austin. "Not under this marvellous and magical moon."Daffodil saw his face, for the moon was indeed very bright. She had seen him while they were acting; had seen that look grow in his eyes, and something new transfigure his mournful face.She laughed, with some excitement, and suddenly quickened her steps."I'm cold; let us run," she said, and darted down the footpath, while the shawl fell back, and her glittering hair floated out in the moonlight till he felt as if he were indeed pursuing a mocking fairy.He caught her mood of mischief, or what he thought was such, and ran after her; and, excited, with laughter hardly hushed, and with bright cheeks and eyes, they hurried up to the Rectory door, which opened at the first sound of their voices, to feel the grave expectancy of the waiting faces come upon them with a shock of surprise.They remembered that a great misfortune had happened, and that they had come from scenes both melancholy and discordant.The closing door shut out the magic moonlight, and Austin came back to the consciousness of his usual self.CHAPTER XVI.LIMELIGHT.DAFFODIL came into the Rectory dining-room, with the old shawl falling back from her wind-tossed curls, her thin dress limp with the dew, and the unaccountable radiance still in her eyes. She always felt other people's feelings, and even as, in turn with Austin, she made her report of what had passed, omitting Mrs. Hatton's unfortunate condition, she knew that Lady Barbara looked at them both with new eyes."You might have run in and fetched a waterproof," said Mary Fairford, in matter-of-fact tones; "and couldn't you do up your hair while you waited?""With one turn of my wrist, like an old-fashioned heroine? Well, I didn't," said Daffodil, "I didn't feel exactly like hair-dressing. But I'll go to bed, for I'm very tired and, as you observe, not fit to be seen.""Why, Daff, I never said so. Do have a sandwich, at least.""I said you observed it, Molly—not said it," said Daffodil, to Mary's bewilderment, and then, with a general good-night, she vanished.The light dazzled her, the voices sung in her ears. She must get five minutes alone before Mary, whose room she shared, came up. The commonplaces of supper, and inquiries and unexcited pity for the two sufferers, and wonder if she need have been in such a hurry, and Lady Barbara's look were intolerable to her.Lady Barbara had never forgotten that last year her nephew, Lord Winton, had danced—well—several extras with Miss Villiers at the Christopher Fairfords' Christmas party; also he had said he was a cousin and called her Daffodil, and Lady Barbara had made her feel herself—quite kindly—a very distant connection indeed. She had then been, the girl said, "indescribable," and she was "indescribable" now."Why," Daffodil thought, "in another minute I might have cried."It would not have been surprising if she had, after that sudden meeting look which had made the game real, then the outburst and uproar, the hurt and frightened child, and the shame and revulsion of the mother's state, the instant need of sense and courage, then the white moonlight, the quiet lane, and Austin—the new Austin—suddenly by her side, the instinct to beat back emotion and excitement, the escape into mirth and mischief, and the sudden fall into "Why didn't you fetch a waterproof?"If Daffodil had cried, she might have been forgiven, but she would have found it hard to forgive herself."Daff," said Mary, the next morning, "mother didn't much like the tableaux; she thought the subject too fanciful and that people wouldn't understand it. I told her it was the Milmans' idea.""Was it?" said Daffodil. "I started the notion that Austin ought to have a 'Burne-Jonesey' part, and Mrs. Purcell put that into my head, by saying he was like a picture in the 'Academy Notes.'""I can't think how you could see it till he was dressed up. Anyhow, Nelly Milman invented the Bower and your dress."So she had. Yet Daffodil knew that the praise or blame really belonged to herself. She felt exactly as if she had been preparing to act the Ladye's Bower all her life. It was a culminating point to which the course of events had tended. Now, however, she was prepared to discuss it with perfect coolness.Behold another outcome of last night had pushed it out of sight.Kit had had a bad night, and nothing else seemed important to his parents."Better send for Andrews," said his fatherߞAndrews being the Bishopsford doctor."Kit says Andrews is an old idiot," remarked Nick, as he cut cold ham."So he is," said Lady Barbara. "I mean he is past his work, and never was up to much. Really, it's a pity.""It's a pity Dr. Worthington is a bad man," said downright Mary, "because everyone says he's a clever doctor. And he ought to be our own doctor. Perhaps he'd do Kit good."Nick sniggered a little. Dr. Fairford muttered something about sending to Winborough and too hard on old Andrews. Blanche, the second girl, who had taken up Kit's coffee, came down with a message that there was nothing the matter with him and that he was coming down. Lady Barbara shook her head, and said that she should make a point of inquiring for Purcell that morning, and the schoolmaster sent up word that the entertainment had produced £6 12s., but that six of the old desks had been pulled off their hinges and rendered useless in last night's scuffle."And the Inspector coming next month!" said Dr. Fairford, as he prepared to go and see the amount of damage, with a long murmur that ended in "school board.""Oh, my dear," said Lady Barbara, "your brother wouldn't permit that for a moment."Daffodil teased the girls by remarking that "a scolding from the Inspector would be good for the model school's soul," and before Mary had managed to ask her what she meant by the school's soul, had run off to ask after the welfare of Lucy Hatton.No one had ever told her that the Colonel was less able to put his hand into his pockets of late years, but she knew it, as she knew many things."Oh, no," she had said once, in answer to a remark, "I don't read thoughts or muscles. I notice."But she would not help any one else to notice Ford.She found Lucy's mother, shamefaced and sullen. Whatever the drawbacks of the model village, its standard of public opinion was dead against such a lapse. Mrs. Hatton longed to beg the young lady to be silent, but could not be sure how much she had seen. Daffodil was not regarded as a parish authority; hence she sometimes had secrets to keep, and she kept them. But this was a chance discovery, and a disgraceful one.Little Lucy's shoulder was swelled and painful, and Daffodil, not seeing exactly what was amiss, suggested that Dr. Worthington should come and look at it."I'm going now to ask for Mr. Purcell, and I'll mention it," she said.Hatton worked for Purcell, and as the woman looked up at her visitor's tall fair head, so near the low ceiling of the cottage room, and met her bright eyes, she felt afraid of her."Take care of Lucy, now," said Daffodil emphatically."Oh, Miss Villiers, I will; dear lamb, I will indeed——"Some shame that came out of the good atmosphere by which she was surrounded held the woman back from asking her visitor not to tell of her to her husband's employer, to the authorities who made her world."Miss Daffodil don't ever make mischief," she thought, as Daffodil went off, making no promises, but with an odd look of comprehension in her eyes, and a little self-reproach in her heart; for had not the story of the evening come out to Austin without a thought except of the relief of being able to tell him?She was soon at Miss Worthington's, to find Purcell slightly better, and such arrangements made for his comfort as told of first-class skill and science.Mrs. Purcell beckoned her into the kitchen, and her first words were unexpected:"Oh, Miss Daffodil! How lovely it was! Now I know what beautiful pictures are like! And the last would have been the best of all, wouldn't it? At least I've got the sight to think of now——""I wonder you can think of it at all," said Daffodil, rather shocked at the sort of gleam that lighted up poor Mrs. Purcell's miserable little face."It just came in and out and helped me through the night," she said. "All that beauty, through the misery.""It was a very tinselly sort of beauty, Mrs. Purcell," said Daffodil bluntly, "and went out with a fizz.""Oh no, Miss, not your hair, nor your face, nor the thoughts. I'll be a better woman for having seen it; it'll hold me up.""We ought both of us to look for better help, Mrs. Purcell," said Daffodil, with an odd sense of being somehow herself to blame."Oh, yes, Miss, we must lean on the mercy of the Almighty," said Mrs. Purcell glibly, and somehow the stock phrase sat so oddly on her lips that Daffodil escaped, unable to say more. She ran into Miss Worthington and told her with a sort of outburst what Mrs. Purcell had said.Amy looked thoughtful."Queer souls sometimes need help through queer channels," she said. "Mrs. Purcell is rather a handful for you.""You mean that I've made her like me, and so I've got her on my hands," Daffodil said. "But most people would say I did her harm.""Well, I don't know," said Miss Worthington; "you would not be surprised if a strain of music or a great picture lifted your soul to the unseen, and such influences must come to people through the medium that is possible for them. Uncultured people have just the same temperament, you know, as cultured ones.""Did you like the 'Ladye's Bower?'" said Daffodil quickly."It was a great hit," said Amy, "but you looked a little snaky. I'm not sure that I like the mystical abnormal type of young woman. And it's easier than it looks.""I'm not abnormal—really," said Daffodil, while a hearty honest blush transfixed her face. "It's all the limelight. You thought I was snaky, and Mrs. Purcell thought I was angelic, and I was just—everyday. Oh, no; I hate the abnormal type."As she moved to go, Austin's voice, sympathetic and inquiring, but full and strong, sounded at the door.He came in as she went out, and greeted her warmly, frankly, with smile and handclasp."You are no worse? That's well!""Austin," she said hurriedly, "you won't tell about poor Mrs. Hatton? I spoke without thinking to you."Austin smiled again."Oh, no," he said, with quite unwonted confidence and decision. "We knew by an accident; we won't tell."She went off in haste. It was as if somehow, for the first time, she had seen the whole of Austin.She found her mother enjoying a tiny fire—the first for the year, for the clear night had produced a fresh morning, and Mrs. Villiers never waited for rules in housekeeping matters.They exchanged experiences, since her mother had no personal concern with Mrs. Hatton's character, and Daffodil chose to mention her walk with Austin.Not that she expected that it would appear anything but natural and simple. But even Mrs. Villiers had not been unaffected by the limelight.She made no comment; but presently she remarked, coolly but decisively:"Daff, those pictures were a mistake. I'm quite for taking our own way, and not minding what the cousins think; but you shouldn't have played that part with Austin. It will make a talk.""I didn't suggest it, mother," said Daffodil, rather weakly. "They chose me because of my hair; nobody thought anything.""There's nothing, I know, to think. But you should have thought before you planned it out, so that your hair was wanted. Because, of course, you did; no one else could have done it so well. A fuss about Austin would be a great nuisance. We've managed excellently so far.""Mimsey!" cried Daffodil, "what has come to you? Lecturing your daughter, who's a whole head and shoulders taller than yourself! And worlds wiser. For shame!""No, my dear, you're cleverer; but as yet you're not wiser. Never mind, I've given the hint."Mrs. Villiers' ways with her daughter might, in form, be subversive of established rules, but she had acted on the time-honoured principle of making what you wish to avoid seem possible by talking about it after the event.Daffodil laughed, kissed her mother, and said no hints were needed. But she felt little thrills.CHAPTER XVII.A NEW BEGINNING.WHEN it is desired to prevent a young lady from turning her eyes on a possible suitor, the fact of his existence and attentions is generally firmly fixed in her mind by good advice regarding him. In the case of a young man, it is usual to proceed by some form of finding fault with the lady.The ebb from that sudden inrush of fresh life had not yet come for Austin. Like all people with a lifelong pain, he had learned sometimes to say "I will not think." He did not analyse the sense of hope and joy, of possibility, that had come to him, but it was apparent in his whole air, as he came down the stairs and said good morning.It was not the way at Ford to notice people's appearance, and Miss Agatha was honestly, not purposely, indifferent to good looks and not observant of them.But, as she looked at her nephew, it occurred to her that he was a striking, probably a handsome young man.Nancy came in, and proceeded to label the events of the evening with cheerful certainty."I think the entertainment was good," she said. "But how could Daffodil run about in that dress? So silly of her.""She was very prompt," said Hilda. "One felt so useless.""I am sure," said Miss Agatha, "one quite ought to feel that Daffodil meant kindly, and when there is not quite—quite the instinctive sense of what's right, one oughtn't to judge, ought one?""Why, Aunt Agatha!" exclaimed Austin, pausing with the bread-knife in his hand. "What on earth do you mean?""Why, dear, the little instincts about what's quite nice—and usual—of course they can't be expected—she didn't perhaps think—altogether—only one is sorry—" said Agatha in soft, hurried tones."She had a very unusual instinct for being helpful," said Austin, "and her help was needed; what would you have?""Well—perhaps the dress at all—in our schoolroom. Oh, I know it was all right—perhaps I'm too strict—only I'm just a little sorry Nancy was in it.""Why?" said Austin."Well, I always like the tall girls to tie up their hair, and when they see ladies with it hanging down—I do so dislike showy hair. One was always taught to hide it out of doors, not to display a personal advantage.""Daffodil's hair is pretty," said Hilda, with courage."I think, dear," said Agatha, "that's all the more reason for being careful."Hilda remembered how, having a liking for her own soft hair, she had imitated several contemporary heroines, in making as little of it as possible, as a check to vanity. The vanity had been checked. Had it been uprooted?Big problems hung on the answer to that tiny question.But Austin only laughed. Just then he could not be angry. Youth for once would have its day, and he looked sufficiently unlike his ordinary self to justify his family in wondering what had come to him.It was not a sort of happiness on which the trouble at the Hole would jar. Rather he felt capable of a new tenderness, as presently he bent over the old bailiff's prostrate figure with softened eyes, and with softened voice tried to reach the ears that were for the first time deaf to him."We'll do everything we can, Mrs. Purcell," he said, with a warm shake of her hand. "Thanks to Purcell, I understand about the woods myself. I'll see to marking the trees. Hatton knows about the farm here. And I can ride over to Wood End.""Well, sir, you are truly kind," said Mrs. Purcell. "And, as it happens, Jack'll be at home for a while. Of course he can see to things for his father.""Jack? Is he going to leave the Bostock Estate office?""There doesn't seem an opening for advancement there for him, and you know he wants to get on the Duke's property. But he'll be at home next week. In any case he would come to see his father.""Of course," said Austin. "Well, it may be a help."Jack Purcell was a rolling stone, but after all the fellow might be doing his best. Fate put spokes in so many wheels.The glimpse of his lady in the morning light only made him realise what the night before had been. He stood upright, his shoulders could bear their great burden, yes—and the lesser ones he had since bound on them should be thrown off somehow.He saw the doctor, and they talked over poor Purcell's condition and said that the chances of recovery were small. Austin at least was sorry. But hope, personal hope, was stirring in both their hearts.Worthington went to prescribe for Lucy Hatton with cheerful haste, and Austin to the Rectory to inquire after Kit. Each of them had the blessed sense of a new chance. For the one it was a chance of heart happiness, for the other of success in life; but who can wonder if it exhilarated both?The moment that Austin saw Kit he recognised, as he expressed it, that "something was up" with him also. Kit scouted the idea of being worse. His eyes looked bright and odd, and as soon as he got Austin to himself in the old schoolroom where he spent his mornings, he began."Just heard by this mail," he said, "Colonel Lyall's coming home on leave. He's Mrs. Milman's brother, and I know they'll come to Bracebridge. Nelly Milman told me so. It's rather good that all this performance has got us so much in with the Milmans. They're a good sort—""Oh," interposed Austin, "now I know why you promoted the tableaux."Kit laughed a little consciously. "Oh, well," he said, "there are always possibilities. But I must get on my legs again. Andrews is an old duffer, and I don't think much of the Winborough man; young fellows are up to all the new dodges, and if the mater wants me to send for Worthington, I don't suppose he'd seriously damage me.""Aunt Barbara wants you to send for Worthington!""Such is maternal folly. I know you think him no end clever?" said Kit, with ill-disguised eagerness."I'd send for Mephistopheles, if he'd do you any good," said Austin, "but—I—well, of course, it'll set him on his legs again at any rate."Kit laughed; but he was too full of his news to pursue this question. Austin soon heard afresh of the charms of the Lyall household—their hospitality, and their special friendliness towards Captain Fair-ford. He heard of "Minna," how she had come out from England, how fresh she was, how gay—how little justice she received from the precious photograph which Kit "happened to have got," and which represented a little round-faced girl with big dark eyes and a dimple; how popular she was; but how she had been more or less "kind" to Kit. All this and much more Austin heard, not for the first time, though now with more hopeful colouring.Good connections, good prospects, and good looks gave Kit a right to be hopeful. He had some means, independent of his parents, from his godfather, which would make an immediate marriage possible for him, and he was most heartily and honestly in love. Health was the only difficulty, and, as to this, he was of a sanguine temper, and there was, as he said, "nothing really the matter with him."Austin renewed his promise of secrecy and discretion, but he laughed in his sleeve, knowing well that the eyes of all the family would be directed towards Minna Lyall long before she arrived at Bracebridge, a village which, by a special provision of nature, was only three miles from Ford-Regis, and was the residence of her uncle, Mr. Milman, whose sons and daughters were the natural companions of the young Fairfords. Everything promised well.When Kit's note arrived at the Hole, briefly asking Dr. Worthington to call upon him and give him the benefit of his advice, Gerald brought it to his sister and laid it down before her."Amy," he said, with a glitter in his eyes, "you've succeeded. Now it rests with me."He put his hand on her shoulder and kissed her, and her heart gave a great leap. For a thousand misgivings had pursued her, and no one had been so doubtful as herself of the success of her venture.Gerald said nothing even to Austin. He took the summons as a matter of course, prescribed for Captain Fairford with the utmost care, succeeded in finding a remedy for the neuralgic pain from which he suffered, and quietly held his own. There was a great deal of discussion, and Ford did not approve of the step of sending for him."People so seldom alter," said Miss Agatha gently."Well, Aunt Agatha, I suppose they can repent," said Nancy."Oh, yes, my dear, yes; but I think their rightful punishment is not to be trusted, and you can never feel so certain of them, somehow."But he listened, and in his heart he agreed.He went away and stood outside, lighting a cigarette with a hand that shook a little. He quite agreed. It was his own opinion, his own inborn, insurmountable instinct. "He that is unjust, let him be unjust still," he thought. Was any force stronger than a man's nature? Apparently, his father and aunt had no real confidence even in religion as such. As for Worthington, in truth he benefited by the pity excited by a false charge.An eye to the main chance would not shipwreck his fortunes, and the whirlwind of anger and misery which had caused his fatal mischance might never recur.It was all right for Worthington who had been misjudged, but for himself?Yes, there was a force which gave new life, a new soul, a force of which he had suddenly become conscious.His past should set his future free. He had another chance, and he would take it.CHAPTER XVIII.THE POWER OF LOVE.THE heroines of old-fashioned novels were mostly divided into two classes, kittens and angels. Minna Lyall was a kitten. She adored balls, and dancing and pretty frocks. She "smiled on many, just for fun," and, unfortunately, they did not always see that "there was nothing in it." She was pretty, and merry, and full of fun, and had a whole host of what she called "partners," over whose attentions and photographs she laughed and whispered with her special friends. She had no views and no schemes, and no thoughts beyond her happy everyday life. She had her little codes of propriety, and took great pains to behave nicely. She was the sort of little girl who, if capable of a serious attachment, would discard her small follies and settle down into the happiest of wives. But nobody knew exactly of what she was capable at present beyond pretty playing. Her existence gave pleasure to a good many people, and she was easily pleased herself on her own lines, and much bored when she was expected to go outside them.She was ready to be intimate with a fellow-girl in a minute, and exchange confidences, or photographs and hats and little ball-room joys; to tell who asked her for the "extras," and who was disappointed because she wouldn't give him a dance; how her card was full beforehand, and what did they think of So-and-so's step? And his eyes? Did they think he had nice eyes? &c., &c.The Fairford girls did not keep numerous photo-graphs, and, though they enjoyed balls, their triumphs were not such as would make a figure in conversation, and they also thought it silly to talk about people's eyes.photo-When, about a fortnight after the tableaux, the Lyalls began to form part of the neighbourhood, and Minna appeared on all social occasions, the Fairford young men thought their sisters extraordinarily wanting in enthusiasm for her. Even Daffodil Villiers, who was supposed to have frivolous tastes and to get on with anybody, made no progress in intimacy. Minna looked askance at her and said she was "dreadfully clever," and professed to be afraid of her, and was so genuinely astonished at finding that she could meet a girl at an evening party who also taught Latin grammar professionally that she never could regard Daffodil quite as a fellow-creature.She was quite ready to accept the fact that "she had known Captain Fairford very well in Bombay," and remarked that his step had suited hers exactly; but though he could not dance now, she somehow managed to have the carpet rolled back at the Rectory for a little impromptu dance, on what was meant to be a musical party, and she danced all the time, heedless of his wistful eyes, actually inducing the Rector to stand up with her for a final Sir Roger before supper. But when Dr. Fairford asked the young men if they meant to leave him master of the field, and Austin offered to take her in to supper, she made a little play which ended in her getting possession of Kit and amply consoling him for his previous trials, Austin instantly taking the hint to retire in his favour, while the Rector was free to conduct Miss Worthington.For this little party was important in other eyes than those of Kit; as it was the first recognition of Dr. Worthington in the society of Ford-Regis, Lady Barbara having decided that he was to be regarded as an injured person, and should be helped to reinstate himself in his profession.She had a strong ally in Nancy, who repeated her sentiment that unless a person was a murderer he ought not to be treated as one, and who patronised the injured hero in her hearty and friendly way, while Hilda felt how much freer the atmosphere was for this younger generation. There had been no change in anybody's views, but in her day dancing had never been impromptu and prejudices had never softened.Dr. Worthington conducted himself with much tact, though he was inwardly triumphant."You see, I'm not a woman," he said to Austin, "so I'll get a second chance."He did not feel grateful, only victorious. They wanted him, and so they put up with him, and he took care not to be in too great a hurry to assert himself.Austin held his peace. It certainly was not his part to object to a reinstatement. For the first time he was inwardly reinstating himself, breaking the invisible chains of self-abasement which had hitherto held him down.For the first time his sorrow and his sin seemed to have fallen back into the long ago. The present was everything.Austin did not suppose that his father would be exactly pleased at his wishing to marry Diaphenia Villiers. He knew, no one better, that if he could have married money it would have been convenient. But he believed, and he believed truly, that Colonel Fairford would have been as unwilling for him to marry for money's sake as Nancy could have been in her romantic youth, and Hilda in her still more romantic middle-age. It is something to be sure that people's principles are thorough. And Austin was quite sure of his father's unworldliness—much more certain than he was of his own.He secured Daffodil now, as soon as he resigned Minna Lyall to Kit, and looked at her as he helped her to cold chicken.She wore an old black net gown, with a bunch of yellow marguerites on her shoulder. Everybody was quite used to her, and she was a little quieter than usual, her keen amused eyes, like every one else's, fixed on the little pink-robed smiling stranger, and on Kit's absorbed and happy face.There was nothing remarkable about her to-night, except her unusual height and her sun-bright hair, but as Austin looked with lover's eyes, she seemed to him a being of another sphere from the charming coquette whom Kit was worshipping. He felt that all her vehement out-giving energy, all her schemes and her views and her doings, came from depths behind. She was more than he had ever thought her, and he felt afraid."What do you think of Miss Lyall?" he said, to make her look at him."I haven't decided," said Daffodil, with a smile. "I think she's awfully good to look at. That sort of girl in a book always turns out a success in the end. I mean the pretty ones that seem frivolous. But——""Do you take to her in real life?""Well, I don't know. If she wasn't such a lady she'd giggle, and say, 'Oh, Captain Fairford, how can you?' She's so elementary."Austin smiled, and Daffodil suddenly flushed."I didn't mean to be spiteful, Austin," she said, and then she did look at him with unwonted shyness.Daffodil could not, as she had once expressed it, "go in for having eyes," as the pair of grey ones with which nature had provided her were unremarkable for size, shape, or colour. They were keen-sighted, and could twinkle at times out of their corners; but now they drooped before Austin's smile."It doesn't matter much what she is like to us," he said, with a daring assumption of the new relation between them."Are—are you afraid about Kit?" said Daffodil, softly. "Of course, one can't help seeing——""Of course not," he answered, laughing, and quite unconscious that if anyone had thought it worth while to look at Austin taking Daffodil in to supper, his own face would have been equally tell-tale. No one, however, took the slightest interest in this familiar pair of comrades. Even Lady Barbara had forgotten them."Well, I'm afraid about it rather," he said confidentially. "I know Kit is hard hit; I'm sure they were all but engaged before his accident. But I think she's giving him his work to do all over again. And he isn't exactly in condition to be tormented." He paused, then said abruptly, "The Milmans have asked Winton to come and shoot.""Lord Winton? Oh!" said Daffodil, "Lady Barbara will look after him; and, besides, he can take care of himself.""He dances well, doesn't he?" said Austin."Beautifully," said Daffodil. "I like his step."And then, as Austin fidgeted, Daffodil felt a distinctly "elementary" pleasure in teasing him. She had kept herself so tight in hand, had been so merciless to her own folly, that she scarcely knew herself with the hold relaxed. Might she really dare to blush and falter beneath the unwonted glow in his sombre eyes? She gave a little sigh, and ceased to ask herself questions.In a minute or two there was a movement, and they went out through the long passage that at the Rectory led from the "parish room," where they had been having their supper, into the dining-room. Others had gone before them, and they were practically alone.Suddenly Austin caught her arm and whispered:"Daffodil—one word. I love you—I love you—say you will?"Her heart throbbed and her fingers closed back on his. He drew her into the old schoolroom, warm and half-lit with ruddy firelight, then turned and looked into her face."Ah!" he exclaimed, "you do!"It was at once as if they had always known it, and as if they had never seen each other before. For Austin, life seemed to begin anew when he kissed Daffodil's lips: and for Daffodil, as she slipped from the strong restraint that she had laid upon her feelings as the fear of self-betrayal passed away, it was for the moment as if she had passed into another state of existence. Presently he spoke."Daffodil, when we knew so well, it was impossible but that we should speak; now I must be more formal. I can't offer you easy circumstances or a life without difficulties. We shall not be rich, now or ever. Times are changing for people like ourselves, and I expect they'll be hard.""The Colonel won't like you to choose me," murmured Daffodil."Yes, he will," said Austin, "if you love me enough—he will."It was an odd thing to say, and there was an odd defiance in Austin's manner, even while he went on with more obvious words."I shall tell him on the first opportunity, and—if you are not ambitious—I am sure he will make our marriage possible.""I—ambitious?" she said, with a little laugh, but just then there was a call of "Austin, Nancy says she wants to go home." Voices approached, and their solitude was invaded by people in search of cloaks, and by a general confusion of farewells.Kit, in a thorough draught, was handing Miss Lyall to her carriage, and his doctor, with a shrug, was remarking to Miss Worthington that this sort of thing was hard on a man who had his reputation to make. Mrs. Villiers called Daffodil to make ready for their little walk back to Pretty Peep, and rejected Austin's unwonted offer to escort them, and keep Nancy waiting, with a look which told her daughter that secrecy was impossible."My dear,"she said, as they started, "I take things easy, but I always know what there is to take. What has Austin said to you?""Of course I meant to tell you, mother," said Daffodil. "We do—care for each other.""His people won't like it, Daff. I don't think I do.""Oh, mother—why not? Why don't you, I mean?""I don't quite know, my girlie. I'd rather have gone outside the cousins, and I never feel as if I knew what Austin was like. Of course, I've always known that he interested you, but I did not know to what amount.""To this amount," said Daffodil, with averted head. "If we have to fight for it, why then I think we shall.""My dear, you won't have to fight me. But, I've always had a theory about Austin.""Why—mother—what?""I have always thought that he had some hopeless attachment—misplaced perhaps—certainly disapproved of. I'm sure there's been something amiss.""You're very romantic, Mimsey. But you like Austin?""Well, Daff, I'm not quite sure that I do. I think I like Nick better.""Nick!""Well, when he comes to me about you, I shall know better, but I don't think—I don't think, my Daffadowndilly, that you're striking out an easy course for yourself."Daffodil wondered, as she broke down a little and laid her curly head against her mother's, if Austin meant to tell her why he was difficult to understand, and if he did not tell her, could she ask by telling him what she knew. And ought he—ought he to speak out? On this last point Austin was answering his own questioning conscience with a most emphatic "No." He was bound to bear his own burden, and not to lay it on the heart of another.CHAPTER XIX.LAYING THE GHOST.COLONEL FAIRFORD was sitting in his library on the morning after the party at the Rectory, looking over some accounts that had been submitted to him by his son. He was very careful and accurate in details, and usually copied out all the statements of his subordinates with delicate neatness into books of his own. He kept himself in this way before the eyes of his underlings, and was able to ask pertinent questions as to details of expenditure which, he felt, kept the reins in his own hands.Yet it may be doubted whether he took in the bearings of the facts he recorded in all their fulness, at least until they forced themselves upon him. The Fairfords had never been wealthy, and their expenditure had always been of a moderate kind; but of late years even a moderate expenditure had sometimes been difficult to meet. The Colonel had recognised that this was owing to bad seasons and various small forms of ill-luck; but that the constant recurrence of these pointed to a permanent difficulty in making small properties pay their way was only beginning to force itself upon him.Perhaps the moment when he was considering how to reduce his expenses was not a favourable one for Austin to introduce his proposal of marriage to a girl with an infinitesimal fortune.Not that Colonel Fairford thought first of money matters when the young man came in, and, after mentioning and arranging about some rents just paid to him, with a very brief preface stated his wishes and his hopes."I hope, father," he concluded, "that you will see nothing to dislike in the notion. There has been hardly time to form even vague plans, but my wishes would be as moderate as I know my claims are."There was a silence. Since the day when he had delivered his ultimatum in the room in the church-tower, the subject of Austin's disgrace had never been mentioned by his father. There had been many times when Austin had been maddened by the silence, which he knew well covered a constant memory. Perhaps it would not be too much to say that no business interview had ever passed without that memory like a ghostly third between them."The question of your marriage comes to me as a surprise. No doubt I ought to have considered the possibility sooner. There is much to consider," said the Colonel."Yes," said Austin, with a decision which took himself by surprise. "I have considered—much."Another silence fell between them which it was difficult to break, and then the Colonel said, without looking at his son:"There should be perfect confidence between those who enter on the life-long tie of marriage, absolute openness in all things.""I do not think so," said Austin steadily. "A man can bear his own burdens. I shall keep mine to myself. She shall not share it.""Is it not due to her—to let her act with her eyes open? "said the Colonel, so sadly and so gently that all the harshness of the words was lost."It's not possible," said Austin stubbornly. "The very telling of such a fact makes a falsehood of it. It makes that present and alive which is dead and done with for ever. There can never be any scandal. I won't give her pain which she does not deserve for the sake of satisfying myself with over-fine scruples.""Can there be happiness without truth?" said the Colonel."That is not the question. I am not thinking of my happiness, but of hers.""If you were Nancy's lover, my son, I should think an honest confession the only test of fitness.""I daresay," said Austin, "but I believe you would think wrong. Father, what does my character or my conscience matter compared to letting hers go free? I will not tell her. And it is my own business. It is a matter in which I have the only right to decide. There is no use in saying, 'If she ever knew.' She won't know, and she shall not."There was more pleading in the voice than in the words, but the Colonel went on:"I don't think it has been your own affair only, Austin; I have never so felt it.""Does not that prove what I say?" said Austin passionately. "How much better if you never had known?""No, no, my son," said the Colonel; "that's not so. I have at least given you my prayers, at least all between us has rested on a true foundation. If I had been more worthy I might have aided you more; but I think you scarcely know what does satisfy a very great affection. Perhaps more after openness would have served us better. But, my boy, do you think I have loved you less for the knowledge?""No," said Austin, so much moved that the word was hardly whispered."And I have my sense of right. If you propose to enter another family—if Daffodil had a father or a brother, what would be thought of concealment?""My uncle knows," said Austin. "He was her guardian. What more can you want? But I will not have her told. I have suffered enough from other people's sufferings. My wife should never have such doubts and fears. If secrecy precludes me from marriage, of course I am in your hands, though, remember, father, you, as well as I, gave a pledge of silence. If it is broken, I will not marry at all.""Austin," said his father, after a pause, "I acknowledge that I am pledged to secrecy. The question seems to me full of difficulty. You may suppose with what reluctance I approach it. I think your uncles would probably see it as you do. But, my boy, do you think your relation to me would have gained if the suffering and the shame had been only in your own breast? Does not even human love imply the need of confession?""There are a good many people who in one way or another have to forego it. Perhaps that is my penalty," said Austin.He was conscious, even while he spoke, that speech with his father on this long-closed topic was a relief, even though it took the form of so keen an argument.He felt as if the chance of getting his life into his own hands was too precious to be let slip.If Colonel Fairford was shaken by the discussion, he did not let it appear; but after a pause began as if it had not taken place."How long has this purpose been in your mind? Have you any plans to propose to me?""Well," said Austin, rather more freely, "it is not so very long since I knew my feelings for a purpose; but they have been there—for long enough. Of course, I am only beginning to think how I could carry them out. But the lease of Wood End Farm falls in next spring, and if you allowed me to take it, and work it as best I can, I don't think either her idea or mine would be extravagant. And, as more must fall upon me in Purcell's stead, you would perhaps think me worth a larger, what I should prefer to call a salary, rather than an allowance. Again, I know that the times are bad, and I expect to feel them as you do.""It is a very reasonable proposal," said the Colonel thoughtfully."I hope so," said Austin; "you see I have learned a good deal about the management of property, I understand the business, and it is a business. There are a good many young fellows, of course, who want to take it, still I could very possibly get an agency somewhere, if you chose to help me. But what I propose, puts me into no new relation to society or to you. And as to my relation to my wife, that is my own affair."The Colonel listened again in silence. After all, his thoughts had had so much in common with those of his son, that they came to the surface with less of a shock than might have been expected. And if it might be so, the thought that Austin was man enough to take his life into his own hands, and to decide for himself, came as a sweet relief from wearing responsibility. Was the past, indeed, at last, all over, and might it be forgotten? Was Austin right, or was the last token of repentance that was required of him, the humble and full confession to the woman whom he loved, of all that might affect her decision? And if his father differed from him, where did the responsibility of the action lie?"I will think it over, Austin," he said; "of course I shall do nothing without the fullest consultation with you. I don't know that I have hitherto thought specially of Daffodil except as a companion of Nancy's. But her want of fortune would never be made an objection by me. You, too, will think, and, I trust, pray, for a right view of the matter; I believe—indeed, I have seen—that you have done everything in your power to redeem the past."Austin flushed, and grew white again. His father's hand lay on his shoulder, and for a moment he put his own upon it, but he made no protest and no assent. He went away in silence to his own room, and sat down alone to think.Yes, he had tried to redeem the past, but how far had he succeeded? If he had failed he could at least keep his failure to himself. He might as well grieve and perplex his father with the bitter thoughts that had lain behind his careful fulfilment of the duties required of him, as with the actions into which those thoughts had sometimes blossomed. The consequences were for himself alone, while, as for Daffodil, in no remotest way could his long past sin touch her, her life should never be saddened by it. In this relation all should be fresh and new. Austin thought much of making Daffodil happy, of the joy of her response to his love, and the future joy of having her for his own. He felt new life in every fibre of his being. But perhaps his father was right, and he did not yet know what the relation was that he claimed so joyfully, or what it meant to have a secret from his heart's love. The lesson of love was new to him, and only half learned.He went at once to Pretty Peep, where he did not expect to find any opposition from Mrs. Villiers, whom, in common with all the other young Fair-fords, he regarded as a pleasant but insignificant cousin who never interfered with Daffodil's proceedings.The autumn morning was crisp and cool; the woods in the last glory of passing colour; Austin felt that now the ice was broken with his father he had nothing to dread, and he would take care to make Mrs. Villiers feel that he did not wish to come between her and her child.He found her alone, self-possessed, and kind."No," she said, in answer to his involuntary look round, "Daffodil's work has begun again, you know, and she is in Bishopsford.""She has told you?" said Austin, looking down at her with his glowing face."Oh, yes, she has told me. Sit down, Austin, for of course we shall have much to say.""I have spoken to my father," said Austin, "and I am sure he will be kind, only you know, Cousin Anna, it is not wealth that we can offer to Daffodil.""As to that," said Mrs. Villiers coolly, "you can no doubt offer Daffodil much more than I have any right to expect for her. I have always wished her to marry, though in these days, girls cannot be taught to count on doing so. I shouldn't think your people would quite like it; but they have no call to dislike it very much, and they will, I know, act rightly.""And so will you, won't your" said Austin. "I hope you don't feel any call to dislike it very much.""No," said Mrs. Villiers, looking at him seriously. "I don't think I do. I'm surprised, I don't feel as if I knew you well, Austin. I shall have to trust you a good deal, for I know no one of whom I can ask a question about you, you see, and Daffodil has no father.""There's my Uncle Christopher," said Austin, and Mrs. Villiers noticed that he did not smile or make any youthful protests in his own favour. The gloomy look so much more common with him fell over his eager face, though he said, after a moment—"I love Daffodil with my whole heart. Neither you nor she shall ever regret trusting me with her. You will know me soon, I hope, better.""I haven't seemed very kind," said Mrs. Villiers, with a changed tone, "but I'm taken a good deal by surprise. I don't pretend that I wish to alter Daffodil's choice, or that I could well do so if I did wish it. Come again this afternoon and you will find her here. If your father agrees, I can have nothing to say.""Oh yes, he will agree," said Austin, but every scruple which had occurred to his father seemed to weigh him down, and he knew that his manner wanted freedom and openness. But he resented the scruples rather than their cause.It was with a passionate sense of humiliation that he sought out his uncle Christopher Fairford to tell him of his intentions. Daffodil was of age, but the trustee of her little property had still a duty toward her, and who could tell what a scrupulous Fairford might consider that duty to be?Austin had no personal feelings towards this stiffest and least genial of his relatives, and did not try to mince matters with him.He asked for a private interview in his office, and as soon as he had stated his feelings and his intentions towards Daffodil, said abruptly:"Of course you are thinking of my past disgrace. It is past. It forms no reason against my marriage. And I do not mean that my wife should share with me a painful memory. I do not mean to tell her anything about it; I think you will agree with me that silence is not only justifiable but entirely right.""It's a serious responsibility," said Mr. Christopher Fairford."The moral responsibility," said Austin, "is mine. My relation to Miss Villiers is my own affair; I have reminded my father, and I remind you, that the pledge of silence was given on both sides. I don't ask you, Uncle Christopher, to be silent, I claim from you the fulfilment of your solemn engagement to be so.""Yes?" said his uncle, thoughtfully.Probably," said Austin, "in the course of your profession, you have helped to keep a good many secrets from coming out before a marriage. Some of them may possibly have affected the chances of future happiness; mine can't and will not.""No," again said Mr. Fairford."Of course," said Austin, "I am aware that the nature of the offence put me under a social ban, technically, which some other things are not supposed to do. That's what makes your difficulty, I presume, if you spoke out plainly to me.""You make a mistake in forcing speech," said Mr. Fairford. "If you were my client, I should under the circumstances of your extreme youth and of the fact that the whole matter ended with no public results, feel quite justified in silence. Nor do I feel bound to interfere with your intentions. We meant the matter to end practically, and it is ended. But as your uncle and a member of your family I do feel bound to say, that I think a higher duty, a higher conception of what is due to your future wife, would prompt you to openness. I should not advise her to refuse you, but I shall honour you for giving her the choice.""That is for my own decision," said Austin, "and you are wrong. I think quite otherwise. I shall not tell her, don't suppose that I shall. That is over, then. Another day, Uncle Christopher, there are a great many practical arrangements as to which I shall be glad to ask your advice and assistance. There is a good deal I would rather say to you than to my father, and that, I think, begins to want saying."Mr. Christopher had never heard Austin speak so many words together in his life. He felt when the young man had left him that he had taken the upper hand and dictated his conduct to him in an unexpected manner."He's right," he thought, "there is no reason for raking up a matter that came to nothing, and once raked up you never know what may come to light. But somehow it doesn't quite seem as if it had been his place to say so."Austin, with a pain and discomfort within which was inconsistent with his own convictions, walked down Bishopsford High Street, with a view to meeting Daffodil on her way to the station, and of trans-acting some business at the Bank and at the coachbuilder's.A name was added to that over the shop at which he stopped. Recently painted up in gold and blue letters, was, "Matthew Macnamara, Coachbuilder and Decorator—late of High Street, Summerford."Matthew Macnamara was the name which Austin Fairford had once written below a receipt, and Summerford was the town where he had spent three months while preparing for the army.CHAPTER XX.CHAINED.DAFFODIL went about her business that morning with a sense of peace within. The fight was over, and the current of her being could find a natural outlet. Heart could feel and face could look as they would. Hitherto both had needed severe control. She knew quite well that Austin's life was not an easy one. She had watched him far too keenly, loved him far too well, not to know that much was amiss. Her conception of the relation between them was unlike Austin's, and was the outcome of a longer experience of the demands of love.Her face, always both strong and charming, was now soft and sweet, with a new repose. But Austin, as he met her, had the scared look of former days.He suppressed it in a moment, smiled, and walked on by her side."I have spoken to my father," he said; "it will be all right for us. Only, you know, I shall never be a rich man. You don't expect that?""No," she answered, "I don't expect a life without worries, Austin. I wasn't brought up in that kind of fool's paradise.""You shall never have a worry that I can keep from you," he said impetuously."Perhaps not," she said; "because I don't think people can hide many worries from those that—those that love them," she concluded bravely, with a beautiful blush.The High Street on a market day limited Austin's response. His face beamed for a moment, and he answered with a would-be jest:"What? Isn't it my business to make you happy? To bear my own burdens and make a soft nest for you?""No," she said, "I'm much too modern a young woman to like to be packed away in a soft nest. Oh, you must prepare yourself. I have theories, and views of life, and everything the perfect woman ought to be without. Perhaps you won't like me, but you'll never find me a coward!""If you found me one?" said Austin."I shall not," she said steadily.The station, and Mrs. Christopher Fairford, very nicely dressed, and going over to luncheon at Ford-Regis Rectory, put a stop to further words."There's all this affair at Bracebridge," said Austin hurriedly, "for the next two days. You'll be there?""Yes, Thursday evening. We needn't say anything till that's over.""So I thought. My father wants a little time to adjust his thoughts to it. We'll not tell Nancy or any one till afterwards. Good morning, Aunt Christopher; can I get you your ticket? Train's up."Daffodil nodded, and vanished into the third-class, while Austin made himself—unusually—agreeable to his relation. He was accustomed to put off thinking till a convenient season.This came in the afternoon, when he got out by himself, and faced his thoughts in solitude. In the early days of his trouble, when the sense of being constantly watched pressed on him with morbid intensity, he had made outdoor haunts for himself where he could feel alone and free. One of these was at the higher edge of the wood above the Hole, at the opposite end from the field of the Three Oaks. Here some large trees had been allowed to grow, and spread their branches over the hedge-row and over part of the sloping pasture beyond. There was a quiet peaceful outlook over the church and village of Ford-Regis, the river and the white-railed bridge, the flat meadows, the shrubbery and chimneys of Pretty Peep Cottage, and beyond the great elms and red roofs of the Hall.Here, on the step of the broad old-fashioned stile, Austin was wont to sit and smoke, and dream, or, rather, give way to whatever mood was uppermost with him. Of late, since Gerald Worthington and Kit had claimed his companionship, he had had much less time for such musings, but now he felt the need of entire solitude.If Austin had been a lucky and a happy person he would still have liked quiet times. Even as a school-boy, he had had his hours of musing, in strong contrast with his sociable and genial nature. He would have come to this spot perhaps, to indulge in hope, to realise Daffodil's love, and to rejoice with trembling at the new spring of life within him. He came now, to indulge and to hide the resurrection of a past which he had thought, indeed, as he had said, "dead and done with."But as he sat staring before him with unseeing eyes, it was not the gay blue and gold lettering of that fatal name which rose before his inward vision, but Daffodil's face, trustful and grand, as she had declared her belief that he would never be a coward. In that look he learned more of what their mutual love must mean than from his father's words, or from his own confused and passionate feelings. Keep a secret from her? Yes, a dead, outside secret. Yes, even the poor little secrets that had come of keeping the great one. That might be, and also be well. But keep from her fine intuition—his fears, his remorse—himself? Could that be done? To wear for her the soul-mask that even before Kit had almost stifled him? Play an inward as well as an outward part to satisfy her standard? That had been well, Austin felt sure that it had been well to save his father pain; but to let her take him for other than he was, was that even possible? Compared with this new conviction, the reappearance of the long-silent name, the fact that the past would now be recalled to his father, to his uncles, to Hilda, to himself, every time that they walked down Bishops-ford High Street, seemed almost unimportant. And yet it entirely changed the situation, it gave the lie to every argument he had used that morning. It made that a treachery which yesterday had been an act of rational prudence.Austin did not exactly know how far his good name was in the power of this respectable tradesman. Silence would be to the man's interest in this new place, where so much would depend on Fairford patronage. He only felt that if he had seen that name yesterday, his offer to Daffodil would never have been made. Now, what was to be done? Tell her, and give her her choice, tell her and leave her? Or withdraw from his proposal under what plea he could—his father's displeasure, the want of means, anything but the truth?"I will not let her marry me if she has to know," he repeated to himself. "Nor will I make any pretences of obeying my father. I'll tell her that it cannot be, no reason given. She shall be tempted to no self-sacrifice. No one else shall ever know and live in fear for me. And then I'll go away. I ought to have gone sooner. They should have kicked me out, and let me fend for myself on my own level. No—I know what she would do. Hold to her word and suffer. Never for me."Austin's impulses were still strong—his power of self-control still weak under their impulse. His love for Daffodil had found words in a sudden unpremeditated rush. He had spoken first and thought afterwards. But the old misery was still strong enough to choke his passion's flow. Not only were circumstances in its way, but the love itself had not the strength, the force, the courage to lay them low, which was a much sadder and more tragical thing. His soul, as well as his actions, was chained.What next was the present difficulty. He felt quite cold and hard; hope and joy would have cost an impossible effort. He made up his mind what to do, and presently stood up and looked over the sunny landscape, bright with the dying glories of autumn, gave one glance at the grey church-tower, and at the sheltered wood from which Pretty Peep peeped out smiling, then crossed the stile, and plunged down into the damp, shady wood towards the Hole. He met Worthington before he reached it, swinging his cane and whistling cheerfully, as he came up the path."Ha, Tosty," he said, "are you coming to look up the poor old chap? I think he'll know you; he is coming round a little.""That's good," said Austin, but without a smile."Yes; he'll never be up to his work again, you know. And, I say, I suppose you can't persuade the Captain to forego the delights of Bracebridge. I should like to prescribe abstinence from ladies' society for the present.""You had better order him abroad," said Austin."Just now he wouldn't go. No; I sha'n't get the credit of curing him when he adds a broken heart to broken ribs.""Well, but she seems inclined to be kind to him," said Austin, diverted for the moment from himself."Trust a cat to be kind to a mouse, or trust a woman at all," said Worthington, bitterly."That's too cheap," said Austin."Long may you think so, Tosty, my boy. I grant you exceptions, but the fair Minetta isn't one of them. However, I'm beginning to think it's a good old world, after all; and when some of my confiding patients pay me, and I've got ten pounds in my pocket, I shall begin to think there couldn't be a better.""Pockets empty?" said Austin.Worthington pulled out three halfpence, and displayed them with a comical gesture."But I'm getting some credit, which will do as well," he called out, as he walked on, still whistling. He had a gay temper, when fate gave it a chance.Austin went down to the farm. He sat by the old man's bed, and held his hand, and settled his pillow, watched for his smile and look of greeting, and told him little pleasant things, in the hope that they might reach his dull brain, turning on him a soft kind face, welcome even to feeble nerves and worn-out faculties.Then he went outside and gave various orders to Jack, inspecting him somewhat keenly. The young man had lost his slouching and injured air, and was an alert and handsome fellow, with all his mother's refinement of appearance, and with more education than his father. He had shown himself sensible and knowledgeable about the business matters that had fallen into his hands, the Colonel liked him and thought him capable of a superior situation."Those repairs to Pascoe's fences, sir," he said to Austin, "I understand that he is behind in his rent, but the fences are in a very bad state.""He has paid the back rent this morning," said Austin. "His wife's brother, I believe, has helped him. That's what I came to speak of. He brought it up to Ford just now himself, £80, a fifty pound cheque from his brother-in-law, and some notes. I have it here. It's too late to pay it into the Bishopsford Bank to day, as I intended. To-morrow I shall be engaged; I want you to go to Bishopsford in the morning, and pay this bill of Jackson's for the new cart, and other matters, thirty pounds, it is. By the way, has that firm changed hands? I see a new name up.""No, sir; Mr. Macnamara's gone into partnership; his wife is Mrs. Jackson's sister, and he's giving up or parting with a business down in Surrey. He is a cousin of my mother's; that's how I heard.""Really. Pay the bill and have the receipt sent direct to the Colonel at Ford. Then pay the rest of the money into the Bank. I'll lock it up in your father's safe, and leave the key with you. I've kept it since his illness.""Very well, sir," said young Purcell. "I'll do so first thing to-morrow. It will be all right. And shall I give the order about Pascoe's fences?""Yes, I think you may. Have them tinkered up roughly, we can't give him new ones."The two young men went into the little office where the old bailiff had managed his business matters for many a year, and Austin locked up the money in the safe where the small rents were kept until it was convenient to pay them into the Bishopsford Bank. Purcell had been accustomed to do this, but of late it had been usually done by Austin, into whose hands the responsibility had gradually fallen. He also had here kept the money which it was his business to pay out in wages and other expenses.He gave Jack Purcell the key, wished him good day and went off to the Rectory, where he sought out Kit, who was very full of the morrow's visit to Bracebridge, his first attempt to shake off the trammels of invalidism."You'll knock yourself up," said Austin, noting with some anxiety that Kit looked much more eager for the exertion than equal to it."Not a bit," answered Kit cheerily. "If I can get affairs settled, don't you know, and I believe I shall—I—I fancy I shall—then I'll give myself over to Worthington to be thoroughly patched up, with my mind at rest. Couldn't be a better prescription," he added with a laugh and a flush, "and between such models of prudence as you and Mary, I can't get into much mischief.""Kit," said Austin, without preface, or change of tone, " I wonder if you'd lend me twenty pounds.""What! Hard up?" said Kit surprised, for Austin had never hinted that such was the case."Yes. Rather, not very. But I can't ask the Colonel for it. I shall pay you again.""Well," said Kit, "I've not much chance of reckless extravagance just now, you shall have it and welcome. Time was, when I paid your bill up at the tuck shop and licked you for running it up. I looked pretty well after your morals in those days, didn't I?"Austin did not speak. His exceeding gravity and the absence of either embarrassment, or of any attempt to make a joke of the request, puzzled Kit."There," he said as he wrote the required cheque, "I'm glad you asked me.""Thanks," said Austin. He put his hand on Kit's, thought for a moment, and then went away with hardly another word, and with none of the clearing of brow and manner which the granting of such a request so kindly and freely might be supposed to bring.He dared not trust himself alone with Kit for another moment.CHAPTER XXI.THE DEMANDS OF LOVE.DAFFODIL expected to see Austin before he went to Bracebridge, but he did not come. She had a telegram from Bishopsford on Wednesday morning: " Detained unexpectedly, will write." It seemed very unlover-like, and she knew that her mother must think so. A great misgiving seized her, which had neither form nor shape. She would neither speak of it nor acknowledge it, but she was too clear-headed not to know that such conduct was strange, and that however busy or hampered he might have been, an ordinary lover would have found a way.As for Mrs. Villiers, she watched in silence. There was something about the whole matter which she did not make out. Daffodil was going to Bracebridge on Thursday—an informal party, with a dance for the young people. The little excitement about Kit and Minna Lyall lent it an interest. Daffodil had prepared herself a pretty dress, and had expected a happy evening. She was young and she worked hard, and a bit of gaiety was refreshing, spite of inward needs and yearnings.On the Thursday morning she received a letter from Austin, as she supposed from Bracebridge; she hid it from her mother and managed to open it alone. To her extreme surprise it was dated "Junior University Club," and began abruptly:"I have run away from you, because I can more easily write than speak, and, as I think, appear to insult you less unpardonably. I love you day by day more fully, but I must withdraw my petition for your love in return."If I tell you why, I shall put it into your brave heart to offer it to me again, and in that case I see now I should be the coward you do not think me. It appears to me that I must not in any way lay the choice upon you, but make it myself once for all. Circumstances have altered since I spoke, but more than that, I have learned what you are and what I am, and I see that I had no right to claim so holy a thing as your love. I shall be at home again in a week, and till then shall be with my friend, Lutterell, at the Temple. It is an old invitation, and this address will find me. I could not go to Bracebridge, and I felt that I could not bear to be near you. I have written to my father. Let your mother know what I say."Your lover more and more entirely,"AUSTIN FAIRFORD.""Daffodil, I must see that letter," said Mrs. Villiers, coming suddenly behind her."Oh, mother, let me think about it first," said Daffodil, white and stunned; but Mrs. Villiers laid her hands on it, and, after all, what was the use of resistance?Mrs. Villiers read it twice over. Then she spoke in a short, incisive fashion."There are only two explanations of that possible, Daffodil," she said, "either Austin is crazy, or there is some entanglement which he meant to break through and cannot. In either case, he is not fit to marry you, and he shall not.""Yes, mother," said Daffodil, "I think there is something which he thinks ought to prevent him from marrying.""Do you know what it is?" said Mrs. Villiers, struck by the steadiness of her tone."No—but it is not—what you mean. Mother—stop, mother. It matters so awfully what we do just now."She took hold of her mother's hands and held them tight. "Mother, you mustn't do a single thing. You must give me time to think; you must trust me altogether. It will be so extremely difficult to do right——""Difficult! There must be an end of it at once.""That doesn't matter so much—about me—I mean. But we must behave as if we were not in it. Mother, don't do anything; don't speak to the Colonel. Let me act for myself. You must, mother, you must let me judge entirely for myself. You must not be in a hurry—I have got to think."Daffodil spoke, not with violence or emotion, but with a sort of solemn insistance, which, as Mrs. Villiers said afterwards, took her breath away. She resisted it forcibly."You can't judge, Daff, that is nonsense. What can you know about the matter? Austin is behaving abominably, and you have no business to do anything at all in such a matter.""Oh, yes, I have. It is altogether my own business. I know Austin much better than you do.""As if every girl did not say that! I shall consult cousin Christopher at once.""No, mother, I daresay girls may say so; now and then it is true. Anyway you must do nothing till we have been to Bracebridge, and you must let me alone. I will promise, no—I can't promise to be open with you exactly, but if you trust me, I shall be worth trusting."The force of her will carried the day, and when Mrs. Villiers spoke again, though it was still to remonstrate, the victory was won."You know, my dear child," she said, "fine-spun ideas are almost always a mistake. Probably this difficulty comes of a quite commonplace piece of bad behaviour, and it is much safer not to think it anything else.""Perhaps," answered Daffodil, but as if she hardly heard."What is it you want to do?""I don't know at all," she answered. "That's what I have to find out."Acute as Mrs. Villiers was, it never struck her during this conversation that Daffodil had any clue to Austin's conduct. The girl escaped at last with her letter and set off to walk into Bishopsford to her daily task.The walk and the solitude would give her time to think, and the conviction of the need of right judgment in the crisis was so strong upon her, that she scarcely felt personal pain. She faced, with a courage incredible in a less exalted moment, the facts as she knew them.Austin, more than five years before, had committed an act which could be called "criminally dishonest." His father and his two uncles knew what it was, and had arranged Austin's life for him, according to their knowledge. The fact had always been at intervals present to Austin himself, and had caused him much suffering. So much she knew; much more she had guessed.Now what had happened? There was apparently some complication arising from the old troubles, and besides this, she gathered that some uprush of hitherto suppressed feelings had overwhelmed him with a sense of unworthiness. That might well be, she thought, for had not her own love found out every deep place in her soul, and brought the Unseen so near as almost to be felt?Ah, outward actions were not all she knew of Austin. She could set against them abiding repentance, a gentleness and humility, which claimed no credit and no merit above the meanest and the worst. There was another Austin. It did not matter so much if he never won her, but it did matter most enormously that he should win himself, his best self.As Daffodil walked on through the clear morning air, she made up her mind that she must tell Austin what she knew about him. So far the way must be cleared. The relation between them might have to be narrowed to a point, but it should be true. He should know that she knew part of his secret, even if he had to tell her that he could not tell her the rest. She had more time than usual, as she was not due at her school on Thursday till eleven o'clock. As she came up Bishopsford High Street, lingering a little to pull herself and her ideas together, she saw Colonel Fairford, with a pale anxious countenance, walking along the opposite side of the street, and looking across at the shops, at the toys and fancy work in the Miss Perkins' windows, at the fashions in Green's the drapers, and at the new name shining out above the bicycles and dog-carts, which showed in the front of the coachmaker's establishment.There was something odd in his look to Daffodil's sharpened senses, something most unlike himself in the earnest gaze which he fixed on the latest Paris fashions in hats and bonnets, and in his sudden start when he saw her coming.Daffodil felt certain that some definite misfortune had occurred. Indeed, unless as Mrs. Villiers said, Austin was crazy, nothing less would account for his changed purpose, after his application to her mother and to his own father.The Colonel hesitated, then came across the street, and spoke to her."My dear Diaphenia," he said—he was the only person who ever called her by her full name—" have you had a letter from my son?""Yes," said Daffodil, neither knowing what more to say, nor able to say it."I am ashamed, my dear, to look you in the face," said the Colonel. "I can offer no excuse for his conduct to you. And for your mother——""If you please," said Daffodil, "will you forget about me altogether? Don't speak to my mother. No one knows about Austin and me. If we cannot be engaged to each other, there is no harm done. Let it be between ourselves. That is all I wish.""My dear, to engage a young lady's affections when the way to marriage is not clear, to withdraw from a proposal once made, is a wrong towards her, which no apology can atone for.""It's not quite like that," said Daffodil. "I've loved Austin for a long time, long before he told me that he loved me. That has done me no harm. Anyhow, I'm glad to know it. Please don't go to mother. Whatever trouble there may be, I don't want it to be complicated with me. You can forget about me. That doesn't matter.""What you say seems to be very generous," said the Colonel, as if perplexed; "but, my dear, I am bound to say to you that I cannot allow Austin to marry you, and I cannot tell you why. At least, unless your mother demands it of me. Then I do not now——""I don't expect him to marry me," said Daffodil, steadily, "and I don't wish you to tell me why. Mother will not ask you, and nobody guesses anything about it. I must go now—to my work."She was gone before he could answer, or before he had time to know what he thought of a decision in which she took the initiative, and she went on and did her business as people do who have to work professionally, whatever may be going on in their own lives; and in an interval of leisure she answered Austin's letter, just as the words suggested themselves."DEAR AUSTIN,"When you come back, I have something to tell you. We cannot forget that we know each other's feelings, but what has passed between us need have no other outcome."DAFFODIL."She directed the letter to the care of Austin's friend at the club from which he had written, and posted it as she went home. Then, as she came back to Pretty-Peep, the clear vision was blurred, the strong purpose wavered, the forceful impulse that had held her up came to an end; the short-lived hopes, the brief delights so suddenly crushed, rushed back upon her brain, and she felt herself nothing but a perplexed, injured, and disappointed girl, for whom life was spoiled, when it ought to have been but beginning.She hid herself from her mother, lest her mother should reinforce this other side of herself.CHAPTER XXII.CHILD'S PLAY.IN a country neighbourhood, in a set of intimate young people, "intentions," however modest, are usually public property. The chief speculation at Bracebridge was whether Captain Fairford meant "to do it then." Every encouragement had been given by the invitation to stay in the house when he could not shoot, for which purpose the other men had been invited, and he had promptly responded by accepting the invitation. Everyone knew what was coming; and as for Minna, she best knew what had passed on that ride which had ended in the fall from his horse which had been the beginning of his illness.Everyone knew what was coming, but for a whole day Minna had managed that it should not come. She sat "prinking" herself for the party on the Thursday evening, adjusting each little frizz and curl to its utmost possibility of becomingness. Her face was quite pink and soft, and every little detail of her dress was carefully attended to. She was still so young, and the world was still so pleasant that every flower, ribbon, and jewel which she put on gave her a separate pleasure. In her abundant leisure of heart, mind, and life, she spent long, contented hours in setting all these little details in order; it was a form of play which she had not yet outgrown. And as she thus amused herself she thought of the "human creatures' lives," with which she was also playing.She rather wished that she had not come across Captain Fairford again. She did not like to be reminded of her fright when he was hurt, or of her disappointment at the dreary ending of a pleasant little time. She had liked himself, too, as well as his attentions, and she had been obliged to feel very unhappy at his danger; indeed, she had been so nearly engaged to him that her mother had offered to manage that she should not go to a certain ball while his life was despaired of. But as that would have done him no good, Minetta had preferred to go. Dancing put him out of her head.Of course if his horse hadn't stumbled at that moment there was no doubt that she would have said "Yes," and she might have been married before she was nineteen, and never have come back to England at all. But now—six months was a long time; she had seen a good many other people; she was having a very good time, and she did not think that she wanted to be married at all. Anyhow, Captain Fairford was not much use as an admirer to-night, because he could not dance; "sitting out" was all very well, but it was a great waste of a good floor and of good music. Now Lord Winton was good for any number of waltzes, and in case Captain Kit should be too exacting, she would take care that her card was full.With such sentiments Minetta finished her charming toilette, and went dowstairs. She had no bad intentions. She did not want to catch a husband nor to spite other girls. Her play was as innocent as a kitten's, only—quite as soulless.The trouble which a day of such sport had brought into Kit's handsome face, did not seem to her comfortable for a ball, and she avoided him, getting her card filled up with smiling pleasure, while he pulled his moustaches and watched her savagely.Daffodil saw him directly she came into the room, a striking figure herself in her pale green gown and her yellow hair, with keen grave eyes, that noted everything, even while she talked and smiled.She saw Kit screw up his courage to put in his claim for a dance with Minna."Is the card quite full? If I wait a minute longer you won't even have a square to give me.""Oh, but I hope we shan't have any squares.""Last time I was at a ball with you, you kept me one dance at least.""Oh, but then you could dance, you know.""And now I can't. Did you only care for the dancing?""Oh, I care for dancing more than anything in the world. I want to dance every minute that I can. When you get well then I'll dance with you again.""This afternoon there was no dancing.""No, but then I was tobogganing. Oh dear, the music's beginning, and I'm engaged to Lord Winton. What a delightful waltz! Lord Winton, if you had waited another instant I should have gone to sit the dance out with Captain Fairford.""As if I should allow that," said Lord Winton, as he carried her off."Well," said another girl, with a few more years' experience, to Daffodil, "I call that a waste of good opportunities. As if it wasn't more worth while to sit out with a wounded officer who obviously adores you and talk sentiment, than to waltz with a boy.""He wasn't wounded, and the boy is Lord Winton," said Daffodil, "not that the little puss cares for that."She turned to speak to Kit, wondering if he knew anything of Austin's movements, and sorry for his ill concealed chagrin even while she wondered what else he could have expected of Minetta.Kit had, however, forgotten Austin's existence. He was brief and cross, and retired into a corner to watch events. He had been a good deal surprised at his cousin's non-appearance, coupled with the previous request to himself, and had made up his mind to "tackle Tosty" on his return. But now he could only think of one thing.Minna's childishness, the absence in her of all strong currents of thought and feeling, her fresh delight in little pleasures, even her shallowness had had a charm in a society where sentiment was often perverted, and "depths" were far from being clear or wholesome. Kit had thought himself quite sure and safe in the innocent liking of this pretty child. He hated society women, and " intense " women, and girls who either had or wanted " experiences." It pleased him much more that Minetta should want dances, as long as the dances had been with himself, and should give him, as he hoped, an affection sunny and sweet as that of a child.But a moment comes when all affection must make a choice, a moment when childish things on some level must be put away. The moment that the choice comes, and the soul on purpose turns its back on painful growth, that moment innocence becomes shallowness, and sport selfishness. Minna's inclination for Kit might have been slight and small, but she turned away from it because it caused her pain. She had forgotten him on purpose, and his pain did not count.Meanwhile her mother, who had seen no reason against encouraging Kit in Bombay, began to reconsider matters. His illness had somewhat impeded his chances of promotion, and health so often stood in people's light in India that even if he recovered now, he might be hampered by it in future. Then, too, it was evident that Minna was very attractive; she was too young to be allowed to make a final choice when she might do so much better by-and-by; even if Lord Winton's attentions meant nothing, they were a straw which showed which way the wind blew. Of course, after matters had gone so far, Captain Fair-ford must be allowed his chance, but she would put no pressure on the child."Daffodil," said Mary Fairford late in the evening, "I'm afraid Minetta Lyall is flirting with Winton.""It looks uncommonly like it," said Daffodil with a laugh."And we thought she was fond of Kit. Is she pretending?""No. I think she is only amusing herself.""I could tell her that Winton never means anything.""I don't think she cares whether he does or not.""I wish Austin had come. He wouldn't let Kit tire himself out, he won't mind me.""Nancy isn't here either.""No, you know they won't let her be asked out without chaperons. I wish mother was here. She thought it would be all settled for Kit. I really don't see why every one wants to dance with Minetta.""No," said Daffodil cynically. "That's just what we can't see."Daffodil was really at high tension, light and colour and rapid motion were like the vain shows of a dream; but with her outer self she remembered that Lord Winton had paid her attention the last time they had been at a dance together. She was not jealous; but she wondered in a cool detached way whether there was any use in entering the lists. Could she give Kit a chance, and try—an experiment?Experiments are very dangerous things, especially when successful. Winton was as ready to be amused by one young lady as by another, Miss Villiers could be very amusing, and Lord Winton was amused, and found that he had to do his best in the little encounter; but Mrs. Milman and Mrs. Lyall, and half the girls present, who had looked on and smiled when Minna engrossed him, felt sure that Daffodil wanted to catch the young nobleman, and set her down as a worldly and wicked flirt. Even the ungrateful Kit noted her with disapproval, while he profited by the chance given him and got Minetta to himself for just long enough to take her to get ices, and to say the words that had been burning a hole in his heart all the evening."Minna," he said, " I began to ask you a question, on that ride which ended so badly for me. You told me that I might ask it.""Did I? I've forgotten.""Haven't I reminded you?""Oh no, it's so long ago. I'm not going to answer any questions now, Captain Fairford. At least, I'll tell you the answer I've got ready.""You remember," blundered on poor Kit."No! No! That's what I'm going to say to everything except dancing. No—no—no!""I'll not take that. I know you cared once.""No!""I think you gave me a right to ask you to listen, the other day at supper.""No!"Minna laughed every time she said " No," and as a youth came down upon them with, "You'll give me this extra, Miss Lyall?" she laughed again, and saying " No!" put her hand on his arm and went off with him."Well," said Kit to himself, "at least I've had 'No' for an answer,"He was pale, and physical pain and exhaustion began to make themselves felt, but he carried himself gallantly.His little child love was not to blame because she could not like him. He had made a mistake.So Mrs. Lyall told him, when—for he knew she had been on his side—he said a word to her. Minna was too young, her heart was still untouched, but her fancy did not seem to turn towards Captain Fairford. There was no use in urging her for the present.Kit took his answer without complaint, and if his neuralgia gave him a sleepless night, who could wonder?Minetta felt that she had managed well and saved discussion and bother. She slept quite soundly, she was not of an excitable sort.Daffodil was quite loyal to her experiment, and when she found that Lord Winton wanted to talk about Minetta, she allowed him to do so, and decided with a mild kind of wonder that she had been beaten. That didn't matter, but she was sorry for poor Kit. One had to be sorry and amused and interested and even a little wicked on the surface, just as one had to be industrious and punctual and teach the Latin grammar, while the great floods were rising and the forces for the battle of life were gathering—while one was waiting for Austin to come home.CHAPTER XXIII.THE SILENT PAST.THE letter which had sent Colonel Fairford into Bishopsford on that eventful Thursday morning ran as follows:—"MY DEAR FATHER,—"When I tell you that Matthew Macnamara's name has been added to old Jackson's over the shop in Bishopsford High Street, you will, I think, agree that the position to which I held yesterday has become untenable. I shall not now marry Miss Villiers, and keep her in ignorance of possible complications. Nor do I choose to make any explanations. I have written to her to withdraw my proposals, and I can only ask you to forget them. I have also written to my uncle Christopher, to whom I had spoken on the matter. It is unlikely that Macnamara will give any trouble, but if he should, it would now be my own business to deal with him. I beg that neither you nor my uncles will take any action in the affair. It is perhaps fortunate that we arranged to pay Jackson's bill at once. I shall be back in a few days, but I thought it best not to go to Brace-bridge and meet Miss Villiers. This address will find me."Your affectionate and dutiful son,"AUSTIN FAIRFORD."Upon this resolute assertion of independence, came Daffodil's entreaty to be left to manage her love affair for herself. Probably the poor Colonel would have felt less perplexed if the young people had left him anything to do. Yet Jackson's receipted bill, which had come to him by the same post as Austin's letter, reminded him, with a little glowing comfort, of his changed relation to his son. Austin had decided that the payment was to be made; it had been longer due than was agreeable to the Colonel's sense of careful rectitude, but the young man had thought of it, and settled it before he went away. His father had come to trust his judgment in such matters, and to feel sure of his promptness in carrying them out. It seemed incredible, in spite of his scruples of the day before, that the ghost of the past should rise again to trouble them. He went to make sure with his own eyes that the fatal name was there, and then, when its miserable associations had begun to gain power over him, and fears half nervous, half scrupulous, to possess him, when Daffodil's words seemed to him but the unconsidered protest of a child, he took his way to his brother's office, to hear what communications he had received from Austin in the matter."Well, Nicolas," said the solicitor, "I expected to see you, and in any case I must have come to hear what you had to say about Austin's proposals to Daffodil Villiers. Now, before we go further, I'll say my say about that. In the first place, Daffodil being of age, I have no power to withhold my consent; in the next, it is of course, however hardly bad times may press on the estate, such an excellent match for a girl with her prospects, that I could not do so with any reason, on her account, though I could have wished, on Austin's, that she had some fortune. And I think the young fellow was right in his demand for silence. He has entirely redeemed the past; you wouldn't find a steadier, quieter fellow anywhere. Augustine was saying the other day how regular he was at church, and so on, and how well we really had managed him. He is not at all a bad man of business, and has taken up no wild notions about property or politics, such as lead away clever youths. I saw no reason to object.""Yes," said the Colonel, "I hoped also that that view might be taken. I have felt that God's blessing has rested on our care of him, and that we had avoided the mistakes made in our own poor brother's case. I did think——""Well, then," said Christopher, "I think so still. There's no likelihood of a scandal whatever. We have Macnamara's written acceptance of our arrangements. He can't have come here with any thought of black-mailing us. Who knows anything about it? Agatha and Hilda are not likely to speak, nor Augustine, even if the name strikes them. Why should Austin's wife, or mother-in-law, know anything about it? Suppose the man should make himself disagreeable, women are not supposed to enter into particulars in these matters. I consider that we had better tell him that his scruples are honourable, but that we will disregard them.""And yet," said the Colonel doubtfully, "if he wanted to marry Colonel Lyall's daughter?""But he doesn't want to marry her," said Christopher emphatically, "and I stand in the position of a father to Diaphenia, and I should be satisfied. Of course she's a very handsome young woman, but girls' prospects in these days are not to be counted on. I agree that, with your brother officer, and so on, there might have been an awkwardness, but as it is, I should let matters go. The boy must marry sometime."Something within the Colonel was still unsatisfied. For the first time he felt that his son would better understand him than his brother. Still the outside view was comforting."Shall you tell Austin your opinion?" he said."Certainly, I mean to write to him. Here's his note to me, much the same as yours. Of course, like all young fellows, he has been in a hurry, and will have to set matters right with the girl herself, having" once set them wrong.""I have met her," said the Colonel, "and she begged that we would do nothing, but leave her to act for herself.""Oh, well, then," said Christopher, easily, "I daresay she wont be implacable. I think you'll find things will settle themselves, Nicolas, and the boy must marry sometime. He's young, but he is steady enough. I expect we shall hear news of Master Kit after this Bracebridge visit. And how's poor old Purcell, any better?""Well—alittle. Young Purcell seems a sharp fellow. I have almost wished I could give him his father's place; but Austin thinks there isn't work for an educated man besides himself. I couldn't make it worth his while either. Well, Christopher, I'll think of what you say; good-morning."The Colonel went on, down the little cheerful, commonplace High Street, with cheered spirits, and at the door of the newly painted shop he saw the old proprietor, Mr. Jackson."Good day," said the Colonel, " good day, Mr. Jackson; so you've a partner, I see.""Yes sir; my wife's brother-in-law has a little capital saved, and, not being as young as he was, any more than myself, he thought he'd give up his place at Summerford, and join forces with me. That was how it came about, Colonel, that I sent my little account in, at an unusual time, sir.""All right, Jackson, I was very glad to settle it up.""Thank you, sir, it's convenient to have everything square before entering on new arrangements.""Yes, your receipt arrived safely this morning.""My receipt, sir? I was just going to say whenever it suited you, sir. But I haven't receipted the bill, sir—I haven't. Had you sent the money, sir?"The Colonel felt in his pocket, and produced the receipted bill, received by that morning's post, opened it, and showed it to the astonished tradesman."That's not my writing, Colonel, there's some mistake. I haven't received the money, sir. That's my bill, but not my receipt.""It is not your hand, nor your head clerk's?" said the Colonel, slowly."No, sir. Besides, I always do business myself. That's the bill, my son's making out, but it's not our receipt, Colonel Fairford, and the money hasn't come to hand. Was it posted, sir?" The Colonel stood quite still and impassive. He felt cold, and his fingers fumbled with the paper. Then he spoke slowly, selecting every word with care."I must inquire into the matter. Rest assured, Mr. Jackson, that your interests are safe in my hands. You will not, eventually, be the loser.""No, sir," said Jackson, warmly, "no one was ever the loser by you or yours, Colonel; all the neighbourhood knows that. Still, it's an awkward thing for a man, and I never was placed in such a position. I'm prepared on my oath to say that's not my receipt—and—thirty pounds——""I will make immediate inquiries, Mr. Jackson. I have full confidence in your integrity.""Yes, Colonel, our firm has served your family before either you or I were born, sir, and it would go hard if there were fraud between us now, sir; I'll make every inquiry at my establishment; but every payment comes direct into my hands. But I'll make every inquiry.""Perhaps," said the Colonel, and a deep blush dyed his pale cheek, "you would wait till you hear from me. Inquiries might defeat their own object.""I shall be cautious, sir," said Jackson," and have every confidence in you, sir; but when a man sees his name where he didn't write it, it's a matter that has to be cleared up promptly for his own credit. And that's not my handwriting, Colonel Fairford; if it was my last word, it's not, though I will say it's uncommon like it."The Colonel did not feel able to speak again: he touched his hat and walked on.Austin had told him on Tuesday that Pascoe's back rent had been paid, and that he should pay Jackson's bill out of it, and bank the rest. The Colonel was passing the Provincial Bank, which had a small branch in Bishopsford. He went in, and with a sort of blind caution, asked if "his agent" had paid in a sum of money on the day before to his account.Yes—fifty pounds by cheque, endorsed Thomas Pascoe and Nicolas Fairford, had been received from young Mr. Purcell, who had the acknowledgment of it.The Colonel remembered endorsing the cheque at Austin's request, and also his remark that the rest of the sum was in notes.The Colonel was much obliged, it was all perfectly right. Then he doubted whether he should mention that, his son being away from home, he had not been quite certain that the business had been carried through, but decided that he could not quite see what might be the question of mentioning Austin's name and so was silent.He must get to the Hole as soon as possible. He had come in by train to Bishopsford, and the quietest thing to do was to walk back through the woods. Purcell's farm lay in his way.There is nothing strange in the awakening of a terror that lies coiled at the back of life. When the thing has once stirred, the time when it made no sign is soon forgotten. The Colonel had not begun yet to reason or argue with himself. He just feared. But he did not show his fear, any more than he would have done in a cholera-stricken camp.The thinning woods looked gay under a clear October sun, the leaves rustled under his feet, and the sweet and cheery autumn song, that was reviving after the silent summer, met his ear as he came along the wood path. That other time—the first time—was the spring—there had been primroses and an incongruous gaiety of sound and colour.Yes, and he remembered as an odd coincidence that he had been then asked to employ Jack Purcell for a little while under his father, and now the young man came forward in his father's stead to hear what the Colonel's business might be.When a sincere and simple person is conscious of the need of caution in speech the effect is often confusing, and if young Purcell had not taken the initiative, the Colonel would hardly have known what to say."I paid Mr. Pascoe's rent into the bank, sir," said Jack after a few preliminaries, "according to Mr. Austin's directions, before he went away. Fifty pounds, sir.""Yes," said the Colonel, "that was quite right. Did Mr. Austin leave you any other directions?""No, sir, nothing. He gave me Mr. Pascoe's cheque, that is to say he put it into the safe and gave me the key, because it was too late to pay it in on Monday afternoon.""Yes," said the Colonel again. "I'll just see, if you have the key, if there are any other papers of importance there. Mr. Austin may be detained for a few days. I—I am in communication with him."The Colonel's manner was a little deprecating. He wondered if it seemed unusual that he should want to look into his own safe.Jack, however, of course led the way at once and opened the cupboard, remarking as he did so that there were only some old bills and receipts there at present.The Colonel fumbled a little with the papers, and, in a vague, half-conscious way, made up his mind that the rest of Pascoe's rent was not there.He would be very cautious, so he went away without even asking to see Mrs. Purcell, or going up for a kindly look or word to his old servant's sick-room.Then as he walked home it struck him that, but for his secret dread, he would have asked Jack Purcell at once whether Mr. Austin had left him any orders about Jackson's bill, and have judged by his face as to the truth of his answer. How could he account for his silence when inquiries came to be made?He was stupefied, and could not get at his own judgment."To practice to deceive" in ordinary domestic life is most difficult, and all the Colonel's faculties were occupied in settling how he should telegraph to Austin without letting any one know that he did so. He did not dare send his message from the little village post-office; he could not invent a plausible reason for going to Winborough. Even a second expedition to Bishopsford required an excuse.He managed, however, to take his afternoon ride in that direction, and to avoid Nancy's company. He was afraid of every action, but he did despatch a message to Austin, in the vague hope that his presence would set everything right:"Come home at once."CHAPTER XXIV.IN THE BACKGROUND.ON the afternoon of that eventful Thursday, Miss Worthington sat over her cup of tea, thinking of many things. Her thoughts might well have given her satisfaction, for her coming to the Hole, which had been a veritable leap in the dark, had proved entirely successful. If Gerald had come alone to the Hole, with a half-understood story against him, no one would have taken any notice of him; but the pains which Amy had taken to make the facts plain, besides her own presence, had received attention from people who, if prejudiced, had every wish to be just and kind."The tender mercies of the good," Gerald had observed, "are not so bad, after all, particularly as I didn't make love to the old lady, but only poisoned her."He was thoroughly grateful to his sister, and he took care to show it; and though the fight before him was hard, and success would have to be won bit by bit, he had the temper to which the struggle for life is congenial. He took every step which was conducive to reinstatement, took to going to church regularly, which in his first despairing mood he had never thought of doing, and said to Austin after, as he put it, he saw daylight:"No, Tosty, my boy, no more cards or billiards for me. One had to put away an hour or so to keep oneself from cutting one's throat in those black times, but not now. If any of the good ladies found but that I fooled away an hour at the King's Head, they'd be sure to think I passed it in incessantly taking pick-me-ups of double strength like the hero of a lady's novel. Young squires like you may have their manly amusements, but the family doctor must mind his P's and Q's. And I shall—for the present."Gerald laughed as he spoke, but Austin frowned and said gloomily:"There was no harm in what we did."Although Amy did not hear these remarks, and though she was thankful for her brother's success, and did not wish him to devote himself to billiards, she felt that there was a gulf between his view of human relations and her own.For herself, she had found many interests in Ford-Regis, and some of them weighed rather heavily on her mind.She pulled Mokanna's long black fur, and smiled tenderly when he spat and swore at her; he was, as she was wont to say, a cat with character, and puzzled herself a little over the people of the house.Mrs. Purcell borrowed books of her, and showed her in confidence verses, books of extracts, and even a novel, which she had written in her leisure moments, and talked about Daffodil, whom she worshipped. She had the temperament of a person whose life was in ideas and books. That her ideas were only a quarter cultivated made no difference.Amy had none of the cold-heartedness that sometimes lies behind the interest taken by influential people in their fellow creatures. Her sympathies were very human. She really entered into Mrs. Purcell's aspirations, and was rewarded by little acts of appreciative devotion. Her tea now appeared with a little green pot, with a yellow leaf and a white chrysanthemum in it on the tray, and Mrs. Purcell was calling her attention to the effect of the sky through the few remaining leaves on the bank above, when with a tap at the door Hilda Fairford came in.Nobody had taken much notice of her ways during this period, when the more obvious interests of the young people were occupying the field, but her face had altered much of late; it was hardly happier, but much more full of life. She had had many talks with Miss Worthington, or rather, as she expressed it, one long talk carried on in divisions. Mrs. Purcell left off talking about the autumn leaves at her entrance, and fell into what Miss Agatha would have called "her proper place," answering inquiries about Purcell, and finally remarking, as she brought in a second tea-cup:"I don't know, Miss Hilda, if you've heard that a cousin of mine has come to live in Bishopsford. Mr. Macnamara has gone into partnership with Mr. Jackson, the coachbuilder, and I think the business will improve. I was going to ask if you and Miss Nancy knew of a nice girl ready for service. It would be a good place——""Mr. Macnamara?" echoed Hilda."Yes, Miss Hilda, Matthew Macnamara from Summerford. He's a very respectable man and a good tradesman."Hilda stood quite still. Her hat and the uncertain afternoon light concealed her change of colour.She said "Yes," in a cold, stiff tone, unable to think of anything else to say. In spite of all her horror at the time of Austin's disgrace, the tradesman who had with herself been concerned in the matter had been a mere name and a shadow to her, and his sudden appearance in flesh and blood close at hand, seemed for the moment like the discovery of the secret. How the Colonel would suffer, and Austin! She recalled that curious flash of comprehension of Austin's position, when she had seen him looking out of the inn window at Winborough. She would have died rather than betray her consciousness to Miss Worthington. Nature and training were far too loyal for any personal friendship to justify the discussion of a family secret; but she had no power of pretence, and her embarrassment of manner even exaggerated her distress of mind. She hardly knew how long it was before she said distantly:"I will ask Miss Nancy about it;" and Mrs. Purcell, a little hurt by her manner, retired, while Amy said tentatively:"Mrs. Purcell says that the colours of the autumn leaves help her through her anxieties.""Does she?" said Hilda, dreamingly; then with a start, "Does she? It seems so funny that she should have ideas of that sort.""Do you think ideas are a class privilege?" asked Amy. "Mrs. Purcell's have a good deal of dross in them. In fact, they are not always much above the sort that go to the making of penny novels, but they are ideas and imaginations, all the same.""Well," said Hilda, after a moment, "I don't think I ever did quite realise that uneducated people could want art and things of that sort.""Or that poor art and literature had a mission since it filled a need?" said Amy. "That's a notion of mine.""But," said Hilda, "since she is a farmer's wife, are ideas that have nothing to do with her duty here of any use to her?""As much as incongruous ideas are to any one, I suppose.""Oh, Miss Worthington!" cried Hilda—she would never have thought of addressing a person so much older than herself by her Christian name, and her instincts would not have led her to address Miss Worthington, as some of her friends did, as "Worthy." "Oh, Miss Worthington, I'm just as bad. My ideas are quite incongruous with what's expected of me. And yet, I don't think they are bad altogether. Have I been utterly horrid and unchristian in thinking Mrs. Purcell ridiculous?""No," said Amy, "only a little ignorant. I suppose you would rather have your ideas, with all the bother they give you, than be without them, and so would she.""Yes," said Hilda, "and yet—I'm quite as much tied as she is. I feel I have a narrow life, but I can do very little to widen it. It is not in me. If I had the chance, I should not take it. As for the things I have written, I've sense enough to know they're of no value—they just pulled me through for the time, that's all.""No, I daresay they are not of much value," said Amy; "but the impulses that make you write them are of value, because they give you understanding of similar troubles in others. You say you have found yourself lately. Now when I was younger, I daresay I should have wanted you to strike out a line somehow, and I do think that your life has been so groovy, that a break, if you could have it, would be very good for you. But if you have found out your own powers of sympathy enough to make all your present relations to other people more vivid and more deep, you won't be dull in yourself, whatever your life may be. You're in a different place in the family, I suppose, to any one else, and that place and its interests are your own.""That doesn't sound very different," said Hilda, "to the old principle of submitting to one's life because it is ordained for us.""It isn't different," said Amy; "it doesn't destroy that law, but it fulfils it. Submitting doesn't go nearly far enough. It's using and glorifying."Her eyes shone a little, and Hilda said:"Instead of being dull here you have looked after me and Mrs. Purcell—found duties——""We're not talking about duties," said Amy, abruptly—"interests, opportunities, fullness of living." Then she laughed and said: "If you're puzzled, think it out."Hilda did think, as she walked away, and first, as was natural, she thought of Austin. She had never exchanged a word with him that went below the surface, not only because of the secret that lay between them, but because she was not the right kind of woman to do so. It was natural to hold herself apart. She was not young nor charming, she felt no impulse to "mother" him, and she had never cared or wondered what he thought of her, as the other sort of woman must, however far away any sort of coquetry may be from her thoughts. But now she felt awake about him. She felt that this new old name must come upon him with a shock, and she speculated, almost for the first time, as to what his inward feelings had been through this long time. And Agatha! The reticence practised had been so delicate and so severe that no word had ever passed between the two ladies on the subject since it had been closed, five years before. They had avoided even a conscious look. Hilda was not even certain that Agatha would remember what the fatal name had been. At the time she had begged to be told and shown as little as possible: Nancy, of course, knew nothing. The matter was taken out of Hilda's hands, for, as she came in, she heard Nancy retailing the fact of Jackson's partner. She had met one of her cousins who had mentioned it. She also wanted the Worthingtons to be asked to dinner; she thought it unkind and foolish to stand out."You know," she said, good-humouredly but decidedly, "I think I might have a voice. I've never made a fuss about being kept away from Bracebridge. It's quite my duty to do as you like, Aunt Agatha and papa, but this is not for my own pleasure. It's because I think it right. I'm sure Austin will say so when he comes back," she added as no answer immediately followed her remark."Austin," said the Colonel, who had followed Hilda into the room, "is not at Bracebridge. He has gone to London, but I expect him back to-morrow.""Not at Bracebridge?" exclaimed Nancy. "Why, he was full of going, and he promised to look after Kit.""He had some other business," said the Colonel."How odd," said Nancy, after a short pause. "Papa, mayn't we ask the Worthingtons to dinner?""I think it is unnecessary," said Agatha, "unless your father wishes it especially.""Oh, papa, wish it!" said Nancy, coaxing him; "wish it especially this minute.""What, my dear? The Worthingtons? Oh yes, if you like. Your uncle Augustine has asked them. Settle it your own way."He spoke absently. He had come to give the information of Austin's absence from Bracebridge, which must come out when his cousins returned, and his thoughts were on the signature of Jackson's receipt.He went out of the room as abruptly as he had entered it, and Nancy exclaimed:"Well, then, Aunt Agatha, when shall we have them?"Agatha did not speak for a minute. The world turned round with her before she answered quite softly:"When you like, my dear.""Next Thursday?""Certainly, and you had better write the invitation.""I will, then," said Nancy. "I'll do it at once." She ran over to a side table, lighted some candles, and scribbled her little note."Let me see," said Agatha, and Nancy quite naturally brought it over to her. It ran in the accustomed style: "My aunt desires me——" "No, my dear," said Agatha. "Write and say that your ' father and you hope——""Aunt Agatha," cried Nancy, " is that because you don't approve of it?""Only in part, my dear. The time has come when your father's daughter must settle these matters. It is time I gave it up.""Aunt Agatha, I think that's a very cruel way of putting it," cried Nancy, stamping her foot, as she had not done since her passionate childhood. " I didn't mean anything of the kind, and I won't write like that. How can you make me feel so horrid when I didn't mean it?""My dear," said Agatha, "I shall do right." Nancy threw the note down, and flew out of the room."She did not mean that," said Hilda."No; but I have seen indications. And one does get to like power, I suppose. Giving up will be good for oneself, in any case. And I don't quite like to take the responsibility of this invitation."Hilda had so long acted on similar principles that she could not readily see the flaw in these statements. She knew that in Nancy's place life would have been made miserable to her, and wondered what the girl would do. She could not bring herself to say anything about Matthew Macnamara, and Agatha gave no sign of having recognised the name.Nancy came back presently, and said abruptly:"Well, Aunt Agatha, I don't think you put it kindly; but I am twenty-four, and perhaps it's better to begin. If you don't mind, we will ask the Rectory people to meet them."Agatha gave a quiet assent. She was exceedingly surprised, to tell the truth, at Nancy's acceptance of the position. "It is good for me," she thought, "but in her, is it quite nice?"A message came down from the Rectory that Kit had come back, was tired and ill, and wanted to see Austin directly he returned. Both Agatha and Hilda secretly wondered if the appearance of Macnamara was already known to the latter. There were other wonderings, kept even more in the.background; while the Colonel thought of little else but his son's return.But the next morning, as he opened the post-bag, the first letter that came out was from Austin. Had it crossed the telegram, or was it an answer refusing to come?CHAPTER XXV.SPEAKING OUT.DAFFODIL was glad that her duties kept her in Bishopsford on Friday till the afternoon. It was very hard to be alone with her mother until she had seen Austin again, or at least unless he made some answer to the note, that had implied that she wanted to see him.She talked about Kit, and Mrs. Villiers pretended to be indignant and interested, and distressed at the effect the fret and disappointment might have upon him. But the talk was all from " the teeth outward."Daffodil's mother did not care just then what happened to Kit, and Daffodil forgot Minetta's delinquencies, even while she discussed them.She felt that if Austin really loved her, nay, if he had any regard for what he owed her, he would have the courage to come and speak to her face to face; and in her intense anxiety that he should have such courage, she thought of him so incessantly that it was with no shock of surprise that she saw him as, on her way home she passed the road to the station, coming towards her."Daffodil," he said, without any other greeting, "I have come, for I will not be a coward. Let me walk with you where we can be alone."It was to Daffodil almost like the action of a dream, as they turned into the lanes and walked on silently side by side till they came to the field path behind the woods from which they could either turn down to Ford-Regis, or go straight on through the field with the three oak trees.An autumn sun was shining" in the clear, cold sky, autumn birds with low minor notes were singing here and there, the yellow hedge shone in the level light. Daffodil's hair, under her little cap, caught the golden glitter.Each had much to say, but momentous issues seemed to rest on their first speech. Each was prepared with what to say, and had rehearsed the interview which was to follow.And so, as they came to this quiet spot, each paused a moment and looked at the other, and then the love that was mighty in both their hearts rose up stronger than thoughts or intentions, and before he had time to give her up or she to set him free, their lips met in a kiss that checked their words, and made their scruples things of no account."I love you—I love you," he said."I know you do," she answered, and there was no room for distrust between them.But the golden moment passed."There is a great deal that I wish to tell you," he began."Yes; but first I've something to tell you—something I have known always. Austin, the day after I first came here before you ever saw me, I went to look round, and I came into the churchyard and went up that old staircase that is quite broken away now. You could climb up it then, and I looked through the window and I saw—you, and I heard——""Yes; what did you hear?" said Austin sharply. Then she strung up her courage to speak. He must know exactly."I heard—words, 'The disgrace that your criminal dishonesty has brought on us——' Then I ran away."Her fingers closed harder on his hand as she spoke; she looked at him, she would not tremble."Then I knew you were—miserable—Austin. If I hadn't loved you, I could never have told you." Her voice broke; she could say nothing further."I did not mean to tell you," said Austin."Why not?" she answered quickly."Because I thought it was a burden I ought to bear alone. And I thought it was over. But it is not quite over, and besides—as you say, I love you!""It—it doesn't matter," said Daffodil."Does your mother know?" he asked suddenly."Oh no. I was sure at once I ought not to tell her. I soon found out that no one knew about it. I should have forgotten it—if I had not cared.""That is all you know?""Yes, all.""Daffodil," said Austin, in the peculiar quiet tone that painful emotion brought to him. " I doubt much if you understand. It is quite true, there was no false charge or mistake.""Yes, I know it was true.""There is no romance about it, nor heroism. I appropriated a cheque of Hilda's, and forged a signature. I was let off; but I had to give up the army. My father and uncles kept the secret, and bound me to do so too. No one was hard or unkind, but the few that knew have remembered. Everything I have done has been noticed and watched. They feared for me, and I have had to account for almost every hour of my life. I was a poor wretched boy, in bad company, and driven mad by a calf-love in which, Daffodil, there was nothing of which I need be ashamed to tell you, and the standard they set before me was—well—what my good-fortunate father has strained after all his life. Well, I have satisfied them. Surely that was my duty at all costs. I could not say my soul was my own; but after all it's no one else's." He laughed a little in a cold, fierce way."Then came Kit," he went on; " I've no right to his affection.""Oh, but, Austin, he's your friend.""How can he know what a guilty secret does for a man? He never had to lie in his life. Of course he'd be kind. Then—then, I found out that I loved you, and it was all fresh and glorious, and I knew there was enough in me to begin again. And I vowed it should be a fresh beginning, and that the old way was dead."She looked at him and nodded, still holding his hand."Then," went on Austin, turning his head away, "then the man, whose name—I wrote—came here. He's in Bishopsford. I don't suppose he'll do anything, but they will all see that name every day. That altered things, and besides—besides, there is what all this history has really made of me, that couldn't be hidden; and in your face, your eyes, I learned that to love means to know. But I was not going to throw myself on your generosity. No; the decision was not to be thrown on you. So I gave you up, my love, my angel, you beautiful, joyful creature, for I know that the thing can't be."He paused, unable to continue, and after a moment she said:"Austin, it is you that look back, not your father. His plan couldn't have hurt or hampered you—if you hadn't been harder on yourself than he was.""Of course," said Austin, " in his place I should be more hopeless, because I know.""Well, but," said Daffodil, "why don't you begin again with—with me to help you?""Because," said Austin, stopping the slow pace at which they had continued side by side, "because I'm not bad enough for that—because I could not to you be other than myself, and because I should cost you pain you cannot measure. You're a girl, and you can't judge. At least, I'm bound to judge for you. I daresay you romance about a repentant sinner. I'm no such thing. I've been giving it you from your point of view. Myself, I think the sin was certainly bad, but the punishment tenfold too hard. All the religious experiences they hoped so much from have been for me nothing but a form, if you like, a pretence. I resent, not the way I have been treated, but the very standard of right which has made me a pariah to myself. That was why I never meant you to know; but since you do know, since I see what knowing me means for you, I'll leave you to walk in white in the blessed company to which I don't belong."It is hard to express the mixture of passionate yearning and of bitter scorn with which Austin spoke, and Daffodil, who after all, as he said, was but a girl, with immature instincts and hard-driven convictions, sorely tried, too, by the part she had to take, could hardly bear the anguish of the moment. She spoke with lips that shook, and with hardly restrained sobs."I think that's silly—and not Christian either.""Christian?" said Austin. "I daresay not. I've never troubled myself much with speculations, but I don't see that any one recognises a force that can really save a man, and if being a Christian means experiences and conviction of sin, and all that. I certainly don't understand about it."Then Daffodil suddenly faced him, with her face in a flame, and her voice at her command."No, you don't understand it," she said; "but I do, if I never did before. Do you think I want to walk in white, and keep apart—I, even I? And He didn't. Now, I know."Austin stood silent, with bowed head. The last rays of the sunset dazzled his eyes, so that Daffodil's face seemed almost lost in light."I'll blaspheme no more," he said at length. "At least I am not such that I cannot understand you. I can only offer you thanksgiving. I'll go now, but we will talk again. It is still my part to take care of you, and to suffer what I deserve, with this to remember."His voice was hushed and quiet. He kissed her hand, and then went quickly back by the way which they had come.Daffodil went forward by herself. Her soul was filled and flooded by the conviction which had found its way to her lips. There was love enough to save Austin, and it was not cabined and confined by the feeble powers of her one heart and soul. Perhaps she could help him to see it, and then, in that moment of exaltation, she did not feel that it mattered much whether she married him or not. The "earthly love" was for the moment a detail.Unlike Austin, from his own point of view, she was a girl of many speculations, well acquainted with all the small dissatisfactions, the trifling disenchantments that vex the religious life of clever women. She was good, too, with a varying goodness, subject to many changes and many-sided issues, puzzling to herself, and perplexing often to others, whose feet were led by different ways. But now that all the outgiving instincts, which she knew were the best things given to her, had been caught up into this great conviction, and swallowed by this great comprehension, she felt that, for her, the moment of salvation had come. She walked on, awed and joyful, full of good courage. Life was not going to be easy, but she would be able to live it.CHAPTER XXVI.SIX OF ONE AND HALF A DOZEN OF THE OTHER."MY DEAR FATHER,"I have received your telegram, but I don't feel that I ought to change my intention of remaining in London for a few days. I shall come back, as I have always proposed to do, and talk over the future, and if I feel that change or absence is necessary, I shall not fail to tell you before taking any steps in the matter."Your affectionate son,"AUSTIN FAIRFORD."This was the note which answered the Colonel's anxious telegram, and, combined with his secret knowledge, it filled him with uniform dread. He could not tell what to do. Every step seemed to him full of danger. Even another inquiry might rouse suspicions. He was afraid of letting the Purcells see that there was anything the matter. He could not ask Jackson, even if he had discovered the offender, for fear he might hear that a clue had been found. Not for worlds would he have let his brothers hear of the incident, lest he might see that they entertained the fears which he was smothering. He could not bring himself to write the question to Austin, lest anger should drive him to some desperate step. He could not tell how far his fear was the mere nervous revival of former misery, or how far it had any reason-able ground. He doubted Austin, and yet, in a strange way, he longed for the help of his judgment. His own did not seem to answer to the call upon it.He remembered what Austin had said, that he could earn his living as a land agent, and the strong and sudden assertion of his own will, which had followed on the years of submission, and he knew that he dreaded a separation, not for Austin's sake, but for his own. He wanted the young man's help, and, in the strangest way, he felt that Austin's return would relieve him of this terrible sense of responsibility for Austin's conduct.That Daffodil had been able to recall him, of course he did not know. He thought of going to London, so as to see him face to face, but sudden journeys were not at all the custom at Ford. He could not take one, especially after Austin had already done so, without setting his ladies and his servants wondering what could be the need of it. He tried to make up his mind in the silence of his study, he prayed with sincere devotion for a right judgment, but his judgment did not clear itself, and, unless the inaction, which his indecision forced on him was really the wisest course, no answering help seemed to be given to him.He had come to no decision, when a message was brought him that Mr. Jackson, the coachbuilder, would be glad to see him if he was disengaged, Mr. Macnamara, the new partner, was with him, the servant said."Say I'm quite at liberty," the Colonel said, and the two men were shown in; greetings passed, and they took the offered chairs, and did not look straight at the pale Colonel, who sat opposite them, and paused for a second before he spoke.Both were simple country tradesmen of the better sort. Jackson, of course, was bound by a thousand traditions of friendly respect to the upright, neighbourly gentleman, whose word had always been as good as his bond. He was a small man, with a gentle resigned face. Macnamara was plump and self-satisfied, with a rosy comfortable face, just now solemn, as if he had been at a funeral of a distant relative. The Colonel took the initiative."You have come, Mr. Jackson, I presume," he said, "about the receipt of your bill?""Yes, sir," said Jackson. "I wish to state again, sir, that I have never received the money, and that I did not write that receipt. If you, sir, could throw any light on the person to whom you gave orders about the payment, we might be able—quietly—to discover the culprit."."I have hesitated to do so, Mr. Jackson," said the Colonel quietly, "in fear of throwing suspicion on an innocent person. But, of course, the inquiry must be pursued at once. My son," he paused and pronounced the words firmly—"my son is away from home, but I expect him shortly to return, and until I hear what directions he gave about the payment, I hardly know what steps to take.""I shouldn't wish," said Macnamara, "to cause any unpleasantness in a new neighbourhood. Colonel Fairford, I know, will act handsome, and he knows I'm not one to stand out about terms, nor to allude to former transactions."The Colonel stood up, and spoke out clearly, "I will write to Mr. Austin by this post. For some years past, all such matters have been in his hands, and I cannot tell, nor should I be likely to inquire in detail what arrangements he may have made during his absence.""Young John Purcell, Colonel, has been doing his father's work of late, hasn't he, sir?" said Jackson, somewhat eagerly, as if wanting to throw in a suggestion of a new idea."Yes, but I have no reason to know that Mr. Austin gave him any directions about this account. It would, therefore, be unfair to introduce his name into the discussion. I believe that my son considers him trustworthy, and his father is certainly so.""Mr. Austin, sir, paid his own little account to me, quite regular by post on Wednesday, and was pleased to say his bicycle gave satisfaction," said Jackson.The Colonel did not move a muscle."I'll communicate with you shortly," he said."I suppose," said Macnamara, "the Colonel wouldn't like to settle the account and have it properly receipted at once to save further difficulty. As I say, I'm a new-comer, and I don't want to make unpleasantness, I'd be agreeable to such an arrangement if made at once. Perhaps you'd like a little private conversation, sir?"Still the Colonel stood firm. He never betrayed that he knew that Austin's bicycle had been bought the year before, and that it was news to him that it had never been paid for."My son will see you, on his return," he said. "I shall communicate with him at once."He let them go without a word as to secrecy or caution, without betraying that he understood what was conveyed by Macnamara's suggestion. But no sooner had the door closed behind them, than a dreadful doubt rushed over his soul. What would these men do—what could they do? Why had he not paid the money, and so bound them to silence? They were sorry for him. They did not doubt that the old shameful story had been re-enacted. Once he had humbled himself before Macnamara, and asked for leniency and concealment. Would he have to do so again?Pluck and breeding had enabled him to bear himself, outwardly, with unshaken firmness and dignity, but inwardly, he quailed and faltered. Old age, with its doubts and tremors, seemed suddenly to have come upon him. Action was impossible, and prayer for the time only the expression of blind dread."Ah!" said Macnamara, with a long-drawn breath, as he walked away. "The Colonel's a gentleman and a game old cock, but, Lord bless you, he knows as well as we do, who wrote the receipt. I declare it's a shame to let that young scamp off again. He'd be in prison fast enough if he was your son or mine, and if this was my business, I'd have not passed it over.""I can't see my way," said Jackson. "If I hinted such a thing without certain proof, we'd lose the whole Fairford connection for good and all. And Mr. Austin! It's not credible!""I tell you it's not the first time. I've seen that poor old gentleman drained of his heart's blood with trouble. Didn't he come and get the truth from me more than five years ago? That was why the young fellow was brought home to live. Nobody can say I haven't kept my word and been silent, but bless you, the old Colonel knows the rights of it. Don't you suppose it's the only time it's happened since. He knows what to expect. He's trying to keep the young man out of the way.""But there's no proof that Mr. Austin ever saw the bill.""Why, you've told me, and his father says that he does all the business. And you say you know the family's hard up, like so many in these days, and Mr. Austin has his little expenses and debts, and a chance £30 ain't always to be despised. And I've no doubt his governor keeps him pretty tight after his games. And who else can it be?""Well—young Purcell ain't of much account. Could it have gone through his hands, his father being laid up? Old Purcell has paid the farm bills to me, before now.""Well," said Macnamara, "of course it's right to make inquiries. I don't mind looking in on them in a friendly way. If I go by myself, it'll make no talk, us being relatives.""But don't you give a hint of your suspicions," said Jackson, anxiously, "you'd be the ruin of us if it got about as we'd been saying such a thing.""Ah," said Macnamara, with comfortable assurance, "you can't believe that I've got the whip hand of them. Never you fear, I've got a head on my shoulders. I'll not commit myself."Macnamara, after receiving directions as to the nearest way to the Hole, went off smiling to himself at his brother-in-law's fear of the great family, for Jackson, ashamed, like most people, of his best motives, had never put forward his real distress at such a charge being brought against the young man whom he had known all his life. Macnamara felt wise and superior. He had never been under any temptation to talk about Austin's former proceeding, as every one concerned with it had vanished from his ken, but now he felt with complacency that the family were under great obligations to him, and that it was no longer a case for so much leniency. Austin Fairford was no longer a mere boy, carried away by temptation. It would, of course, be imprudent to act without full proof, but proof once gained, Macnamara did not see why he should not make full use of it. Probably Jackson might not be willing to prosecute, but he did not see why a sum down in payment for annoyance and inconvenience, might not be accepted.With a comfortable sense of astuteness, and worldly wisdom, Mr. Macnamara walked through the wood, and presented himself at the Hole, where he was at once received by Mrs. Purcell, flurried but much gratified by this mark of cousinly attention.She took him into her little parlour behind the big kitchen, lamented Purcell's illness, and asked what her visitor would take.Macnamara looked round the little room, which struck him as a very poor place. The rough red pots, arrangements of autumn leaves, and greeny-blue chintz curtains, were quite lost on him, accustomed as he was to a blue rep drawing-room suite with gilt mirrors. However, he listened to the story of Purcell's slow betterment, and asked how young John was getting on."Well," said the mother, "I hope he'll soon get settled in a superior situation, but just now he's our right hand, doing his poor father's work, and helping Mr. Austin.""Ah, and what sort of a situation is he looking out for?""A good post in a large estate office would suit him best. The salary wasn't up to his requirements at Winborough; but any sort of place of trust in a large business, cashier or head clerk, might do for him. He is very versatile and talented, is Jack.""Humph," said Macnamara, not considering the power of "doing anything" at all a proof that the young man could do something. "I suppose he has a place of trust here?""Oh yes, cousin, but then that's only temporary. He's trusted entirely in Mr. Austin's absence. Large sums were left for him to pay into the bank at Bishopsford only the other day.""Ha," said Macnamara, "I'm glad to hear it." He was a cautious man, and he began to think that this was worth following up."There's Jack coming. I hear him whistle," said his mother. "He whistles like any blackbird; I often tell him when all trades fail he had better be a professional whistler. That's my little joke."She went to the door of the room and called her son."Jack—Jack! Here's cousin Matthew Macnamara, Mr. Jackson's new partner, wants to see you."The whistling stopped abruptly, and a hasty answer came back about "not fit to be seen.""Oh, never mind, my boy, cousin Matthew will excuse you. He knows you have your work to do.""Ay, ay, to be sure, work isn't done by keeping the hands clean. Glad to find a young man busy," called out Macnamara.Jack presented himself, not looking in truth as if he had done much to make his hands dirty. Tall, slim, and civil, as his mother thought, like a real gentleman, and as his cousin thought, very like a young man in want of a situation.Macnamara turned the conversation after a few civilities on his young kinsman's prospects and capacity."I've been mentioning to cousin Matthew," said Mrs. Purcell, "how lucky it is that you're at liberty just now, Jack, to help poor father while he's laid up.""Yes," said Jack, "but, of course, I don't want to hang about here if I can help it much longer.""What's your own views?" said Macnamara. "I hear you're accustomed to be put in trust of money, and rents, I suppose, and so on.""My mother thinks too much of an odd chance," said Jack. "Mr. Austin attends to everything himself of that kind.""Ah, but when he's away now? I hear you pay the rents into the bank, and the bills and accounts due to our firm, for instance, might pass through your hands, eh?""Certainly not, sir," said Jack, "I can't think what my mother means. She shouldn't have mentioned a business transaction. Mr. Austin was called unexpectedly to London, and commissioned me to pay some rents into the bank; but he'll settle Mr. Jackson's account himself, I suppose, if there is one. I know nothing about it.""But Mr. Austin makes quite a friend of him," said Mrs. Purcell, "which is such an advantage in every way for him.""Mr. Austin's quite a pattern, I suppose?" said Macnamara."Oh, quite! there's not a steadier nor a better hearted gentleman anywhere than Mr. Austin," said Mrs. Purcell. "He'll come and sit by Purcell, as if he was his own son, and so respected in the neighbourhood. If every one took pattern by him!"The little warm-hearted gush was manifestly genuine; but Macnamara chuckled a little and said:"Ha, ha, ha! Is that your opinion too, Jack, eh? Hasn't the young gentleman any little ways that the ladies don't know of?""Ay, that he has," said Jack, "there's times and times when I've seen him in Winborough when I expect no one else knew where he was. Mr. Austin isn't so unlike other people as mother thinks.""And how about the times when he's seen you?" said Macnamara, enjoying the joke. " Six of one and half a dozen of the other. That's the state of the case, isn't it?""Not at all, sir, that wasn't what I meant to imply. I've got my living to get, and Mr. Austin can afford his little pleasures and little debts—if he has any.""Oh, oh, we know what young men say of themselves," said Macnamara. "I daresay you'd either one of you be glad of an odd £30, now, if it turned up, wouldn't you, now, young gentleman?"Jack Purcell echoed his relative's laughter. He went on laughing longer than was needful, as if he did not know what to say, but Mrs. Purcell struck in with indignation."Mr. Macnamara, gentlemen are always ready with their jokes, as I know, but I don't consider such becoming about my son or Mr. Austin either. Money's not a subject to joke about in my opinion, though, of course, no offence.""No, no, no offence. And you're right, Mrs. Purcell, ma'am, quite right. Money's no joke at all. Well, I'll say good morning, and my wife' ll be glad to see you whenever you're able to call.""Oh, cousin Matthew, I quite understand a little joke, but I've a warm heart and I never hear my friends ill-spoken of in silence."Macnamara took his leave, and walked slowly away."Accomplices perhaps," he thought; " I wouldn't trust that young fellow. But does the mother know anything about it? I'm not going to be hard, but I'll have a confession out of young Fairford before I've done with him."Jack Purcell turned round angrily on his mother as the visitor went away."What are you doing, mother, talking about money and my being trusted with it? I tell you I've never been trusted with anything but that one sum to pay into the bank—never anything but that one sum of money to pay into the bank. Mr. Austin can answer for himself if anything's missing. He has his debts and his difficulties as I know very well, though you do think him such a saint.""Anything missing, Jack? What should be missing?" said Mrs. Purcell, growing white as she spoke."Oh, I know nothing about it, but that old buffer didn't come down here for nothing. There's something up, and you've as good as thrown the suspicion on me. I tell you, I never had any money in my hands, but Pascoe's cheque to pay into the bank for Mr. Austin. Recollect that.""I couldn't raise suspicion, Jack, by saying Mr. Austin thought you trustworthy.""Mr. Austin? Look here, if anything's missing, it's just as likely to be Mr. Austin as me.""Oh, Jack——""Well, didn't Mr. Austin come home mysteriously five years ago? Wasn't he stopped from his profession, and didn't he go about as black as thunder for months? You remember about it, and how you said he looked as if he had something on his mind? I remember you saying so one evening when he was down here with father.""And if I did, Jack, though I don't recollect it, it was only that I've often thought when I've read of heroes, gentlemen that had a secret grief, that Mr. Austin had that kind of countenance, so inscrutable and dark.""Well, you remember that you did say it," said Jack, as he flung out of the room, leaving his mother, pale and shaking, not in the least impressed by one word that she had heard about Austin, but full of a fear revived.But she, like Colonel Fairford, must hide such a fear in the depths of her heart.So when the early dinner was over, and she had seen that Purcell was comfortable, and the maid at leisure to attend to him, she dressed herself nicely and, for the first time since her husband's illness, went out to attend Lady Barbara Fairford's Missionary Working Party at Ford-Regis Rectory.CHAPTER XXVII.BROTHERS IN COUNCIL."MINETTA is such a child still, as innocent as when she wore short frocks and pinafores. I do so dislike girls who think themselves experienced and look out for sensations. My Minna is so simple that she really never found out what Captain Fairford was after. Never understood what he was asking for till now. We must let her keep her freshness a little longer"In words such as these, Mrs. Lyall confidentially explained the situation to her sister-in-law, and other friends, and if the ladies thought such simplicity unusual after an Indian winter, they did not say so. Daffodil, afterwards when the plea was repeated to her, remarked that she believed there was a good deal of truth in it, as it was extremely simple to think of nothing but your own little pleasures.When Minetta, in a furry grey costume, which made her more like a sweet soft kitten than ever, replied to Kit's last appeal, just before he left Bracebridge, with a half-pouting, half-appealing plea, that she didn't know she had made any promise, she hadn't known at all what it all meant, she was so sorry Captain Fairford minded so much, it wasn't her fault, she could not help it; the poor fellow retired baffled, and feeling as if he was a brute to blame her. Inconstancy, vanity, ill-regulated feelings are comprehensible, however blameworthy, but the absence of feeling is always a perplexity. Nevertheless, when Minna saw her lover depart, and turned with relief to a game of tennis, egotism had gained its first touch of selfishness, and playfulness was hardening into its first thin crust of frivolity.Kit would have understood the situation much better if she had fallen in love with some one else; as it was, he felt as if every resentful impulse was a wrong to the flower-like and innocent creature who was not ready yet for life's joys and sorrows.He thought that he ought to be able to take a disappointment without whimpering, and without blaming either Fate or other people. But this would have been easier if he had not both looked and felt so wretchedly ill, and it must be confessed that he snubbed off Mary's indignant sympathy on the way home, with a resolution that was more savage than cheery.Why had he let any one know of his hopes, in the first effusion of his home-coming and his confident trust in his darling's faith? He had called on every one to see his rosebud open, and to bring sunshine and sweet air to help, and behold, the bud remained closed, and everybody was occupied in saying "Poor Kit"He could not even pack up his portmanteau and go off by himself, and though he could briefly beg that nothing might be said about it, he knew perfectly well that much would be thought about it.His father came, affectionate and concerned, with as he said "only half a word" of sympathy, and a hope that Kit would take his trouble in a right spirit, and seek help where alone it could be found. Then his mother, with minute inquiries as to his health, and remarks intended to be general, about different sorts of girls, and how easily people might be deceived in them, and a special kiss, difficult just then to receive with grace. Though his sisters did not actually attack him on the subject, their faces and voices were full of meaning, and he knew that a chorus of comments arose the moment his door was shut.It would all be good to remember afterwards, it all meant that life had much love and many blessings for him, but just now, it was hard to take graciously.The Fairfords of the Rectory were a frank outspoken set, the peculiar reticence and the dread of speech on anything but surface matters, which was the ' note' of Ford, and had been there intensified by the sense of something that could never be spoken of, had not withstood the rush of young life among the cousins.It was a most cheerful household, where every one talked, laughed, and discussed, banged doors, and ran in and out, while birds sang and dogs barked, a picture of a home, people admitted to it often said, but Kit, after all, was unused to home life, and felt just then incongruous with it.He thought that old Tosty, with his solemn face and slow tongue, would have been more comfortable to him; but no one seemed to know anything about Tosty, and if Kit had had leisure to consider the matter, he would have wondered what connection there was between the borrowing of the twenty pounds, and this sudden disappearance.He shut himself up in the old schoolroom at last on the plea of fatigue, and heard the ladies of the working-party arrive and settle themselves in the dining-room, while the Rector who was not wanted till he came in to shake hands all round and look benevolent at the end, strolled through the garden much more uneasy about Kit's headache than about his heart ache.He met Mrs. Purcell hurrying up through the shrubbery rather late for the working party, and stopped her to inquire for Purcell. She answered him in a somewhat inattentive fashion, and just as he was saying,"I won't detain you, Mrs. Purcell, from more important business," she suddenly began."Oh, sir, her ladyship, I'm sure, would excuse me for a few minutes. You haven't, perhaps, heard that my cousin, Mr. Macnamara from Summerford has gone into partnership with Mr. Jackson in Bishops-ford""What name did you say?" said the Rector sharply."Matthew Macnamara, sir—a most respectable man. If you were passing, he'd take it most kindly, I'm sure, if you'd give him a call and a word of welcome. And, sir, I do want him to take an interest in my boy. I want to get Jack settled, and Mr. Macnamara knows the gentry round his old neighbourhood, and might be instrumental in getting him a bailiff's or an agent's place. If you could say, sir, how you always found Jack trustworthy and well conducted, it would go in his favour in any case""Yes, yes," said the Rector. "He'd better come up and see me. I haven't had much intercourse with him of late""No, sir; but he remembers all your kindness when he was confirmed and used to sing in the choir, and, of course, I wish all good impressions to be kept up. Jack is so open, so transparent with his mother that I have the greatest confidence in him""I'll see him," said the Rector, more abruptly than he often spoke, and Mrs. Purcell made him the sort of bow that forty years ago would have been a curtsey, and hurried on, wondering if her impulse to prepossess him in favour of her son had led her to say anything imprudent.Dr. Fairford had not thought of Macnamara for years. Austin's disgrace had passed out of the practical part of life. He was satisfied about the young man, and felt kindly to him; but he did not trouble himself about the matter which he believed had been settled with skill and success. But the name could never be really forgotten, and at once recalled the distress and discredit connected with it."Nicholas will attach too much importance to this," he thought, "I'd better go over to Ford and tell him of it, before he hears it in any other way. I might take care to show Austin that I felt all was right"The Colonel was at home, and he was shown into the library."Mr. Christopher is there, sir," said the man, and, as the Rector came in, the solicitor said, cheerfully:"Ha, Augustine, I'm glad you've looked in. I think you'll take my view at once—that no disturbance should be made about this man coming into the neighbourhood. Have you heard—Nicholas forgets how entirely the matter is gone by? You'll agree with me, I'm certain""Just what I was coming to say," said Dr. Fair-ford, advancing to the table where his brothers were sitting.The Colonel did not fail to recollect how once before they had sat in council, they three together. His heart was hardly heavier then than now. His face was set into the same shape of resolute endurance; but the other two were in quite different humour, the repetition of an earlier scene was not present to their recollection."I've been thinking it over," said Christopher, in satisfied and rather sententious tones, "and I think Austin's scruples are misplaced. It doesn't do to be too fine-spun. He has made proposals to Diaphenia Villiers, and he ought to abide by them. We much regret anything that recalls a painful incident, but we haven't any of us any doubt that Austin would make her a good husband, and that, indeed, it's an excellent chance for her, and so I shall tell him. I consider him bound by the offer made, not only to her but to me. Don't you agree with me, Augustine?""What? Austin making proposals to Daffodil Villiers? I'd no idea there was anything between them. Really? Well, he might do better in some ways, no doubt, but she is a fine girl, and well connected. Does Nicholas agree?""He came to me in a very proper manner," said Christopher, "and I gave my consent as Daffodil's trustee. Then he sees Macnamara's name and writes to me that he feels that circumstances have changed and that he wishes to withdraw his proposals. I say that won't do. It's nonsense, and if we did not know the young fellow well, one would think there was more behind it""It is, I think, a morbid and unnecessary scruple," said Dr. Fairford, "we shall none of us recall the past, and Macnamara can have no call to do so. Repentance must be held to wipe out transgression. I shall be glad to advise Austin to that effect""It isn't," said Christopher, "as if he had debts or difficulties or anything of the sort. Really he has behaved very well. I don't see how any complication can arise"The two brothers looked at the Colonel, expecting him to speak. He was very pale and found words with difficulty."Where is Austin?" said the Rector."In London," said the Colonel. "I believe the scruples of which you speak took him away, at least that is the reason he gave me""He had better come back," said Mr. Christopher.The Colonel looked at his brothers, and there was something furtive in the glance, altogether unlike his usual straight, clear outlook. He spoke, too, with an odd kind of lightness, with a new manner, which they did not know."In fact," he said, "there is a kind of complication—" he paused, as some one came suddenly into the room, and Hilda's always rather timid voice said:"I beg your pardon, cousin Nicholas, I did not know any one was here; I came for a book""Stop a minute, Hilda, my dear," said Dr. Fair-ford, "the name would startle you as much as any of us. But I'm sure you will agree with us all that it would be foolish to trouble about it.""What name?" asked Hilda."Why, Matthew Macnamara—you remember the name, of course—has come to live at Bishopsford, in partnership with old Jackson. You'll agree with us, I'm sure, that Austin must not be allowed to feel embarrassed by the fact""Oh no!" exclaimed Hilda, in a startled voice. "No—no!""I was sure you would feel so," said Dr. Fairford. "When we consider how entirely Austin has put the past behind him, it would be unfair on our parts to let this reminder of it trouble us""Yes," said Hilda, "oh, yes"Something in her startled, doubtful look struck Christopher Fairford's keen glance; but she retreated before he could tell exactly what her expression suggested to him, and the Colonel went on still with the same odd, nervous cheerfulness."There's a little complication—a mere coincidence—but I regret slightly that it has come to Macnamara's knowledge. Perhaps, Christopher, a word from you would settle the difficulty""What is it?" said Christopher."Why," said the Colonel, beginning to fumble with the clasp of his pocket-book, "this little account of old Jackson—you understand Jackson has taken Macnamara into partnership, some family connection—but this little account of Jackson's has been returned to me receipted, and Jackson says the signature is not in his hand, in fact he hasn't had the money. It's quite explicable, of course, but I'm sorry that Macnamara—"The Colonel paused and hesitated, and Christopher said:"Have you paid the money?""No—no,I concluded not," said the Colonel. "Austin, I know, intended to do so—but his sudden absence, I suppose, prevented him from doing so. I'll just show it to you. But we want a light"The Colonel put on his glasses, and began to search in his pocket-book, and then to light the candles on the table.Neither of his brothers moved or spoke, but Christopher looked across at Augustine, and their eyes met through the candlelight."I'm loath," began the Colonel, "to mention any names—I don't want to cast suspicion on an innocent person—but the circumstance is so odd—""I think, Nicholas, you had better mention anything that is in your mind about it—to us," said Christopher. "Let us see. Is this the bill?""Yes—here, you see, receipted""And not in Jackson's hand?""So he declares""Any of his workpeople?""He says not, but of course every inquiry—""Who is the person of whom you were just speaking?""Why," said the Colonel, rather more freely, "another sum of money on the same day was paid in to the bank by—"A sound made him pause and look up.There stood Austin within the room, fronting the three brothers."I have come back, father. Why did you send for me?"Then, coming forward to the table, he looked at his two uncles, and said quietly:"What is the matter?"CHAPTER XXVIII."AN AWFUL ROSE OF DAWN."WHEN Austin went away from Daffodil into the darkening woods, the light of her presence remained with him. The strong bright glow of his new-found love returned and once more flooded and filled his soul. Once more it dwarfed and belittled the poor memories, and contemptible facts that came between them. Once more he felt the strength of a new birth, and felt too, that his first conception of a mutual joy from which half his past history, and more than half himself was hidden, was a poor and ignoble thing. No; however it might be with another woman, it was truly in no fool's paradise that he and Daffodil must dwell. The eyes of her love were wide open, and would brook no blinding.They loved each other, and as Austin caught whirling bewildering glimpses of what such mutual love could mean, he felt that it was a blessing that outweighed all his woes. Never had he felt so humbled and ashamed and yet never so hopeful.She knew and yet she loved him. The fact was none the less awful and beautiful, because he believed that in an outward and actual sense she did not know. It was still his part to consider how he had handicapped himself, it might be still his part to refuse to let her join her lot with his, he felt that even yet she probably did not understand how mean a thing he had made of his enforced expiation, what contemptible little pleasures he had snatched on the sly, what small deceptions he had practised for the sake of what insignificant sins, what paltry debts they were that were rubbing and fretting him.He had felt before that love was strong enough to enable him to put aside his past, there now came to him, in an uncertain flash, the thought that it might be strong enough to face and transfigure it.It was with no hang-dog sense of sullen injury, nor with any pretended defiance, that he went back to talk the matter out with his father more dispassionately than at first. He came in at the open front door, without seeing any one, and went at once to the library. A glance had shown him his father's hat and stick on the hall table and he expected to find him there alone.As he opened the door, he saw his two uncles and his father's face."What is the matter?" he said, and no one answered him. He took the initiative and spoke gravely, flushing deeply."You are discussing Jackson's partner?" he said."Yes," said the Colonel, in a tone, half appealing, half would-be indifferent. "I am glad you are here, Austin. You'll clear it up, but there's a little perplexity. That bill of Jackson's, was it paid?""It ought to have been," said Austin. "Haven't you got the receipt?"Christopher Fairford had the bill in his hand. He laid it on the table and looked at Austin."Your father has received this," he said."Well," said Austin, looking at the bill, "isn't it receipted? Yes it is, what is wrong with it?""Did you pay it yourself?" said the Rector."You did not, I suppose, Austin?" said his father—while Christopher struck in:"The fact is, as I understand, Jackson repudiates the signature, and states that he has never received the money. How was it paid?"Austin had fixed his eyes on his father, and his colour ebbed away. Then he sat down and laying his hand on the bill, looked towards Christopher."Will you explain yourselves?" he said, "or will you leave my father and me to settle it together?""It is for you to explain, Austin," said Christopher, "to explain to your father just how you paid this bill"Austin's eyes flashed across the table at his two uncles. Whole years of dumb resentment spoke in their gaze."It's a d—d lie!" he said in a voice, choked with passion.He hardly knew that the thought in their hearts had not passed their lips, and in that sudden unguarded outburst the command of the scene passed from his hands."It must be apparent to you if you will control yourself, Austin," said Christopher, with dignity, "that when Jackson has made such a statement it is necessary to inquire into its truth. Your father was requesting me to do so, when you came in""I—I get confused sometimes, Austin," said his father, "but I understand you to say that part of Pascoe's rent was to go to the paying of Jackson's bill""Exactly so," said Austin, turning towards him. "On Tuesday, if you recollect, Pascoe paid us eighty pounds. We agreed to pay fifty into the bank""Yes," interposed the Colonel, "and it is all right. That has been paid in quite correctly""Has it?" said Austin. "With the other thirty we decided to pay this account. I meant to do it in Bishopsford, but other matters took up my attention, and I left it too late to find the bank open. I had already decided to go to London on the next day, and not to Bracebridge, and I desired Jack Purcell to pay the money into the bank, and also to pay Jackson's bill, and to tell him to send the receipt to my father direct. That is all there is to say""I called at the bank to see if the money had been paid in there, as soon as Jackson spoke to me," said the Colonel, with recovered outward composure, "and finding that young Purcell had been the person to do so, I went to him. He said, in answer to my guarded inquiries, that you had left the fifty in his hands to be paid into the bank, but no other sum. There was none in the safe, which I examined""Well," said Austin, "it's his word against mine then. Their relative value is for you to consider""Come," said the Rector, "this is going too far. It may be that Jackson is deceived by some one in his employ. Pray let us all abstain from words we can never recall; Austin is shocked, naturally, but he will own that it is necessary to inquire into such a matter""Certainly," said Austin, "you may be sure that I will inquire into it. But it seems to me that the inquiry is narrowed. I left that money in Jack Purcell's charge, with orders to use it in the way I have said""It was not the way to do business," said Christopher."Not at all—not at all," said the Colonel, as if glad to find something that he could say. "Not at all. It was culpably careless to entrust so large a sum to a young fellow, not really responsible—very culpably careless indeed""Yes," said Austin, after a moment, "I admit that it was rather irregular. But I've known Jack Purcell always. It never occurred to me to think him capable of dishonesty""Well—it's impossible to answer for people," said the Rector, and then stopped short. "It is difficult to know what to say. There are Jackson's clerks," he repeated, as if seeking a refuge""Jackson was here with his partner," said the Colonel. "They assure me they have made close inquiry""Macnamara is aware of the—the difficulty—you didn't mention that," said the Rector, while Austin felt as if moment by moment his new-born strength was ebbing."Now, look here," said the lawyer, with decision, "there is no use in dallying with so serious a matter, which may at any time be taken out of our hands. Austin must keep his temper, and admit that close questioning is in any case necessary—and would be—if I myself had been in charge of the money.""Yes," said Austin, "but I don't see what questions there are to ask""Well," said Christopher, with reluctance, " as to your movements, remember I may have at any time to face questions from the other parties concerned. Why did you go to London when every one thought you were at Bracebridge?""Because I did not wish to meet the lady whom I had asked to marry me, when I intended to withdraw my proposal," said Austin drily."And that change of intention, what brought it about? That question I have a right to ask you after your interview with me on Thursday morning"Austin began to find it difficult to speak. He was not only angry, he was, alas, frightened also. The old sick fear surged back upon him, and he hardly knew that it came from the memory of the past. He shut his eyes, and Daffodil's face came before them, recalling the courage which had ebbed away."It was partly," he said, "because when I saw—that name, I felt that I had no longer a right to say that the past was over""Well, so I understood," said Christopher, "it is a quite conceivable view. But now, can you authorise me to say that your affairs being perfectly straight, you have no debts or difficulties so that there could be no conceivable reason—conceivable I mean by Jackson or others—why you should be in want of money?"Austin hesitated, and the Colonel with a movement of doubt arrested attention."No," said the young man, after a moment, "you can't say that. I have debts—a few. They are my my own affair, I have asked no one to pay them""You made no mention of them in speaking of your prospects as regarded marriage," said Christopher with a sterner manner."No," said Austin, "that would have been equivalent to asking my father to pay them. They are not crushing""But that bill for your bicycle, Austin, which you have recently paid to Jackson," said the Colonel, eagerly, "your allowance would enable you to settle that?""No," said Austin, "I did not pay it out of my allowance." He looked round as if to see the effect of his words. "I borrowed it from Kit," he said. "That statement you can verify""I have watched your conduct," said Dr. Fairford, "most earnestly—and your careful attention to your religious duties—""Oh," said Austin, with a short, evil laugh, "don't you see I knew you were watching me? What would you have said if I had failed to attend to them? But what matters all this? I know I'm in an evil case. Father, do you believe I have robbed you?""God knows—" began the poor Colonel—and then his voice broke, and he could say no more."Then," said Austin, looking round the table,"you can all do exactly as you please—I have no more to say." He flung out of the room, and his three judges remained behind. He had been violent, unjust, insolent; but the fact remained, they doubted him."I think, Nicholas," said the Rector gently, "that you had better not appear in this matter. Christopher and I will see Macnamara, and examine young Pur-cell. Don't consider the matter closed"The Colonel was standing up now, and had recovered command of voice and manner."I do not wish to deceive myself," he said, slowly, "I am well aware that trust once shaken can never be restored. Moreover, we must admit that there has been a want of openness. I need hardly say no one else must in any way be sacrificed. Well, I will leave you""What do you think?" said the Rector, after a dismayed pause as the two uncles found themselves alone."I can scarcely tell. The concealment of the debts is bad, and the change of mind—and the going away, and there's the old story. But I don't wish to give an opinion. First, I must see Jackson. Nicholas is not business-like, and we must have the most absolute certainty of the forgery. We must be very cautious. Any direct charge against young Purcell might bring Austin's name forward. And Macnamara is almost sure to bring out the old story. Leave it to me for the present""I can ask Kit casually if he knows anything of his cousin's affairs. I shouldn't think of telling him of the suspicion, it would distress him greatly, and, poor lad, he has his own troubles""Ah!" said Christopher, sympathetically, and for a minute or two they forgot about Austin, and talked about Kit.Then Augustine went out and Christopher followed him, having carefully secured the receipted bill in his pocket-book. As he crossed the hall he met Hilda, and recalled her face when he had last spoken to her. He beckoned her into the deep recess of the window."Hilda, my dear," he said, "you're one of this household and yet you're in part an outsider. What's your opinion of poor Austin r Do you think he has been satisfactory since that one unhappy lapse?""I—I thought so," stammered Hilda. "Isn't he?""That was not what I meant to imply," said the uncle. "Of course you must have watched him?""I—I don't think it's anything, cousin Chris.," said Hilda, after a minute, "but once, when we were at Winborough, I saw Austin at an hotel, smoking with Dr. Worthington. It wasn't anything, but afterwards he said he'd been buying a tennis-bat""But, my dear girl," said Christopher, "if you saw him, he couldn't have been doing much harm""Oh no," she answered, "no—I only saw him as I looked over from the coffee tavern, but nobody knew of it. Since you asked me, I thought it was truer to tell""It is of no consequence," said Christopher; but he stored the little fact up in his mind, while Hilda hoped she had done right.The Rector went to see Kit, when he got home, and after a few remarks, artfully leading round through Austin's absence from Bracebridge, to the fact of his return, inquired as "casually" as he knew how:"And so you think well of your cousin? You think he's turned out a good sort of fellow?""Tosty was always a good sort," said Kit."Not extravagant or careless, I hope, for—well, times are not what they were for landed property""Why, does Uncle Nicholas keep him very close?" said Kit. "He seems a quiet chap enough. I like old Tosty"Kit was distinctly surprised at the inquiry, but he kept his counsel well enough to make the Rector doubt whether Austin had borrowed the twenty pounds of him. But he did not like to ask the question for fear Kit should say, "How do you come to know anything about it?"CHAPTER XXIX.MOTHER AND SON.ON that same evening Mrs. Purcell sat reading a serial story by the light of a pink candle, set in a candlestick of green pottery, in a corner of her husband's bedroom. The story was in a penny illustrated paper. A photograph of a delicate, peculiar woman's face, by Burne-Jones, in a smart frame of mauve plush, hung on the wall, a volume of Tennyson, borrowed from Miss Worthington, was on the table, also "The Mill on the Floss," in a cheap edition.Neither the illustrations, nor the letterpress of the serial which Mrs. Purcell was reading, was on a level with Burne-Jones or George Eliot; but she read it intently, for the troubles and the passions of the hero and heroine served as well as better told ones to evoke the sympathy which enables people of her sort to live shadowy lives alongside with their own. Her imagination was still uncritical, and was strong enough to include varieties. It was so strong that she never thought of herself at all while she was reading, but only of the anguish of the heroine who was about to see her lover imprisoned because she would not tell a falsehood to screen him.When the number was finished, Mrs. Purcell dropped it on her lap and mused over it. Miss Daffodil, she thought, would act like that. Could she? And would she? Mrs. Purcell thought that bearing false witness against her neighbour was a very wicked thing, but respect for accurate truth, when a mis-statement injures no one, is almost the virtue of a class, and when she doubted its need, she was only remarkable in knowing that she would not naturally have stuck to it.Mrs. Purcell, as she compared her standard with that of her heroine, recalled sundry white lies, and some connected with her son's first instalment at the Hole, which could hardly be so called. No harm had come of those. Even Purcell, faithful to his employers as a dog, had his little reserves in matters of buying and selling, though he was a religious man, much more religious than she was; for somehow she had never succeeded in connecting her aspirations with the decorous church-going expected of her in Ford-Regis. Yet she was not without a sort of spiritual life, and strained after every ideal which she recognised.The striking clock warned her to go down and get her son's supper. She thought that it was a great happiness to her to have Jack at home; but in truth it was a careful comfort, for he was often moody and discontented, and she lived in a state of constant worry about him. She knew, too, that he was a poor farm manager, for though Mrs. Purcell would have liked to have been an actress or a lady in good society, she was too clever a woman not to know her own trade, and she saw that Jack did not know his. This irritated her, and in private she scolded him and tried to manage him, while to everyone else she praised his skill and diligence.He came in as she was arranging the cheese and cold bacon, while the maid washed up after the lodgers' dinner, and, shutting the door, came close up to her as she stood by the wide chimney.The old farm kitchen, with its low, heavy beams, solid oak furniture, and quaintly-shaped corner cupboards, never looked so well as when the firelight glowed on the pewter flagons and quaint old china ware skilfully disposed about it. It was a typical farmhouse kitchen; but the woman, with her fashionable hair and dress, and the youth, slim and well turned out, seemed to suggest another background.Mrs. Purcell laid the table nicely, with the question of truthfulness floating about in her mind the while."Do you like some pickles, my dear," she said, "with the cold bacon?""Mother," said Jack, standing by the table, with his back to her, "Mr. Austin told you that he left exactly fifty pounds here to be paid into the bank, and you saw him put it in the safe; and you know I took it—the fifty pounds—and paid it in the next morning""I know you went to the bank," said Mrs. Purcell, "but I never saw Mr. Austin till—""Yes, mother, I tell you, you did There's thirty pounds missing; that's what old Macnamara came about, and if you hadn't seen it all, and heard what Mr. Austin said, there'd be only my word against his. He'll say he gave me eighty pounds—thirty to pay Jackson's bill, and fifty for the bank. I tell you he only gave me fifty—and you heard him say so""But, Jack, then, where's the thief?""That's his look-out. Look here, I've found out a thing or two. This ain't the first time Mr. Austin's been in trouble. If he hadn't been the Squire's son he'd have been in prison five years ago, and deserved it, too. He'll have to settle that up for himself. That ain't our business."I don't understand you, Jack," said Mrs. Purcell, looking into her son's pale frowning face. "What has happened? Did Mr. Austin give you eighty pounds?""No, no, I tell you. I—I swear he didn't""Well, then, why don't you say so, if you're asked? That's enough""Because no one will take my word against his, and because they'll rake up and row—and there'll be the devil to pay. But if you'll back me up, and say I told you—and I do tell you—only fifty pounds—say I told you at first, say you heard Mr. Austin say so—it's only the truth—and there'll be no row at all""But if there's thirty pounds missing, it'll be put in the hands of the police""No—it won't, I tell you. It won't, because of keeping it all quiet about Mr. Austin. The Colonel will pay the money, and no one will be a penny the worse. If you don't, mother, I shall be had up for—for what I tell you I haven't done"Mrs. Purcell looked at him. His face was quivering with anxiety, and he gripped her arm till she gasped with the pain. There was an awful doubt at the bottom of her mind, but she dared not probe it."Jack, I don't believe it would do. There'd be a hole somewhere. They'd find me out""Not a bit, you've only got to back up what I say. They'll not be too particular. They won't dare to make a fuss, nor Mr. Austin either""It's wrong, I know it's wrong," said Mrs. Purcell. "I know it's false and unfaithful""It's not so much more than you've said before to keep all straight. Come, mother, you won't round on me now. Think—think of poor father if he got to know of it. You wouldn't have me got into trouble for what I—I vow I haven't done"The mother's aspirations were stronger than her principles, and both were confused by her feelings."You'll pull us all through," urged Jack. "If there's once a row, it'll get Mr. Austin into worse trouble. If all's quiet, why they can keep it quiet, and that's what they wish—you've not got to say a word against Mr. Austin, remember, only that he didn't give me the money. That is, that he only gave me fifty pounds""But it'd be perjury in a court of justice, Jack""But we're not in a court of justice, and won't be —it's nothing but half a word. For your only son's sake, mother darling. You couldn't get me into trouble just because you're afraid of saying a word.""Oh, Jack," said Mrs. Purcell, clinging to him and sobbing, stirred and carried away by the excitement of the scene. "I—I couldn't get you into trouble""That's my own darling mother, and I swear you sha'n't repent it. I'll be a good fellow henceforward, and keep my nose tight to the grindstone, so I will"He kissed her passionately, and she felt his tears on her cheek."Jack!" she cried, "there's your father knocking with his stick"She flew upstairs in answer to the summons, while Jack, shaking and pale still, sat down by the table, and poured himself out a glass of beer.A sort of dramatic instinct had carried him through this hard contest and taught him what to say; but he was still in mortal fear of the result, uncertain of the prudence of the possibility of any step.Jack Purcell had never been a good boy.In childhood and at school there had been many deceptions, and some few small dishonesties in his career. He was selfish and pleasure-loving, and the kind of dissipation that lies in wait for youths of the commercial and lower professional class had early tainted him. He was less coarse than many but he was more idle. Betting and gambling in a small way, had led to the trouble with his employers which had lost him his place, when Austin also had come home in unacknowledged disgrace.Mrs. Purcell, at much expense of literal truth, had kept this fact dark, and, since, there had been other things better not mentioned. The way of transgressors is never easy, and Jack's life had had an anxious underside, exposed to many terrors, but his conscience was accommodating, and left to itself let him alone.Things were bad and complicated now, but he trusted to pull through them, and if Mr. Austin suffered, he deserved to do so.His mother had never lied for him without inward shrinking and suffering far deeper than her son could feel. She was always haunted by conflicting ideals, and she sinned, in a sense, against the light, that is to say against one light; but, poor woman, in other souls besides hers there are magic lanterns, fairy lights, even many stars, which confuse the beams of the pole-star which is meant for a guide. And then she, too, was a coward, for herself and still more for her son.She saw that Jack meant her to believe that Mr. Austin had appropriated the money. His statements had been vague, and if he had been accurate in every detail, her mind would not have grasped the bearing of each. If she could have thought of anyone but Jack, she would have been grieved and shocked at the idea that Austin had secretly disgraced himself. She got much happiness out of admiration and hero-worship, and the virtue of the Fairfords formed part of her mental world. The noble gentlemen, the good squires, were delightful figures to her, and to pick holes in them was painful and not gratifying.She passed a sleepless night, miserable with doubts which she dared not encounter—and Jack had many fears of how far she would support him, when early the next morning Mr. Christopher Fairford's substantial and dignified figure was seen approaching the Hole.The night before he had had his interview with Jackson and Macnamara, recalling only too painfully the old complication. By the time that interview was over, the lawyer entertained but little doubt of Austin's guilt. It seemed so probable that the same kind of small temptation should once more prove too strong for him. Christopher Fairford had, of course, seen a good deal of the seamy side of life, and he felt, as most men do, that doubtful people are always open to doubt. He recalled unfavourably Austin's determination to conceal his past from his future wife, though he had himself endorsed it, while his sudden change of purpose told strongly against him.It was a miserable business. He did not see how the young man could be received among them again; but some degree of secrecy might be obtained.Macnamara, as was natural, was harder to deal with than before; but, as he said, it was not his business this time, and old Jackson was on the side of mercy. It was therefore with a mind strongly biassed, that Mr. Fairford came to see what could be made out of Jack Purcell.Mrs. Purcell saw her son meet him, and show him into the little office, and sat trembling in the kitchen waiting for the call which she knew would come."Mother!" And then, as she could not answer for a moment: "Mother, Mr. Christopher wants to ask you a question"Then Mrs. Purcell came in and managed to bow, and say,"Good morning to you, sir""There is a mistake," said Mr. Christopher at once, "about some money. Mr. Austin left a sum, I think, in your son's charge last Monday""Last Monday, sir? Yes—he did""You were present at the time?""I was here, sir; yes""You remember the sum in question?""There was fifty pounds, sir, to be paid into the bank. My son went to pay it in the next morning""But the rest of the money—to pay a bill?" said Christopher."What money, sir? there was fifty pounds""Only fifty pounds?""That I know of, sir. My son paid it in. Mr. Austin put it in the safe""You heard him give your son the order?""Yes—I hope, Mr. Christopher, there's nothing amiss with Purcell being laid up. What did Mr. Austin give you, Jack?""Fifty pounds, mother. I have said so to Mr. Christopher. You know, I took it to the bank""Yes, I know you did. I know he took it to the bank, sir, the very next morning""The Colonel was here," said Jack, "examining the safe yesterday. I was afraid something was amiss. It's a very awkward thing, as I'm only here in my father's place; but Mr. Austin knows what he gave me"If Christopher had not been hampered by the dread of betraying Austin, and letting the conduct of the matter slip out of his own hands, he might have pressed the matter further home. But he was resolved to give his nephew another chance of a private confession.So merely saying that he accepted their statements and was obliged to them for answering his questions, he took leave."That'll be all, you'll see," said Jack. "It's all over, mother, we shan't hear any more of it, and it wasn't so much to do"Mrs. Purcell felt that it had not been much to do really, only two yeses that might have been noes, and she did know of nothing beyond the fifty pounds. She began to get the dinner, and to turn her mind with relief to Miss Worthington's pudding.As Christopher went out he met the doctor starting on a round.Gerald Worthington's popularity was springing up apace. A doctor had been so much wanted, and he was so clever, so kind and so attentive. He never minded being called up at night, and did not even swear when he found that he was only wanted for an old woman's rheumatism. "He was a poor man's doctor," the people said, and nothing could well have brought him into more favour with people like the Fairfords.So Christopher passed the time of day with cordiality, hoped they might soon see more of him, and, casually and indifferently remarked that Dr. Worthington was already a friend of his nephew Austin's.Gerald, responding with politeness, said yes, Austin had been kind in claiming an old acquaintance. But he managed to avoid giving an impression of close intimacy."What's up, I wonder," he thought. "I'm not going to be appealed to as a witness for Tosty's misdeeds. Poor old chappie, is he going to be called over the coals by his relations?"Christopher Fairford walked sadly away, and as he thought over the situation, he remembered that his chief responsibility was for his late ward, Daffodil Villiers. A wilful, imprudent girl, who might pledge herself to any mad step or irretrievable obligation. Her mother must have a word of warning. Without stating any facts, she could be told that the engagement must not go on. The young lady, he believed, was always engaged in the morning, and if he went up to Pretty Peep now he should find Mrs. Villiers alone. It would be better to forestall any action on the part of Austin, and at once get Diaphenia out of the business. Girls could always be managed by their mothers, and Mrs. Villiers had better send her away from home.CHAPTER XXX."MY OWN BROTHER."WHEN endurance fails, and overstrained nerves break down, it is often not so much before the prospect of an intolerable future, as before the inevitable misery of the next half-hour. Close on the breaking up of that miserable conclave came the dressing gong, clanging on Austin's stupefied ears, as he stood by the open garden door, drinking in the sharp air of the autumn evening, for his head had reeled and his steps faltered; he had not known how awful had been the shock. He leant against the door-way, and drew long breaths, looking out, in a dull passive way, at the mist rising into the lucid frosty sky—hearing a bat whirr past him, and the bleat of distant sheep. He saw and he heard, as people do in such moments; and now clang went the gong. Dressing? Dinner? It was impossible to go down to dinner and talk commonplaces, and sit opposite to Nancy, who knew nothing. The horror of such an ordeal blotted everything else out of his mind; he was not quite himself, poor fellow, for the moment, and stupidly wondered if he could plead a headache, an occurrence so unusual that he did not think that he could."Austin!" screamed Nancy, crossing the hall, "Austin! Then you have come back? Where have you been? Why didn't you go to Bracebridge? Where are your things?"Austin turned slowly round into the just lighted hall. There she stood, his fresh happy sister, with her rosy untried face, cheerful positive voice, her uncompromising judgments. His sister, who did not know."My things are at the station," he said."Didn't you have them sent up? How stupid you are, Austin. Well, do be quick, papa hates not being in time, you know. Shut the door; it's cold"Austin turned his face back to the darkness and put his hand on the door. Better shut himself outside. His father thought him capable of this thing. In that solitary moment, when anger and courage sunk low together, Austin knew how much he loved his father. The verdict crushed him. Truly he had no courage left—he did not care what became of him. But Daffodil did. What would she think, when they told her? "Ah," thought Austin, "I should not trust myself." Still he might see her face again, and he turned round and went up to his room. He was used to concealment, and he supposed it would still be expected of him.Colonel Fairford sat at the bottom of that dinner-table as if he had been at a court-martial. He thought very highly of outward self-control, and it had always been part of his profession to practise it. It had nearly failed him that afternoon, and he knew that it was but a surface matter. He loved his son—yes, indeed—but almost deeper than his love was the dread that the love would bias his judgment. There were points in the matter that filled him with apprehension.Austin was often so silent, that his want of words to-day passed without much notice. Nancy talked, and Miss Agatha, anxious to show that she cherished no selfish grievance, answered her. Hilda grew slowly frightened. Surely something more than Mr. Macnamara's arrival was amiss.It was over at last, and the ladies went away. Austin rose, but his father signed him to stop."These debts, Austin, he said, "how long have they existed?""Some for a long time," said Austin. "They have been and are my own business""I think," said the Colonel, "that under the circumstances I have a right to ask how they were incurred""Well, cards and billiards, a bet now and then at Winborough races, the sort of thing that would displease you," said Austin, coolly—"but they are not large enough to be of much matter. I don't care who knows the particulars now, it can make no difference""It makes this difference," said the Colonel, sternly, "that when you asked me to consent to your engagement to Miss Villiers, without informing her of your past history, it was taken for granted between us, that your present record was perfectly clear. These debts, incurred secretly, would have altered the question""So I supposed that you would think," said Austin. "They did not alter it. But I have no answer to what you say""Then," said the Colonel, rigidly, "how can you wonder at my fears—my inevitable thoughts now?""I don't wonder," said Austin."I can scarcely hope," said the father, "that another solution will appear. For the sake of all who love you, we shall again endeavour to silence scandal. But what may be my duty afterwards I cannot say. But one thing I require, that you withdraw your proposals to Daffodil. Your marriage is an impossibility""I think so," replied Austin."Have you—have you nothing to say?" said the father, after a pause. Emotion—the sense of a solemn occasion, made him formal, as it makes most people incoherent. And because Austin was his son, he could not waver in his conviction that deceit forfeited trust for ever. But if his son would confess——"I have nothing to say," said Austin.He got up and went away. He thought that he hated his father. He almost felt as if he should knock him down."Austin, Austin!" called Nancy again, out of the drawing-room, as he crossed the hall, "Austin, come here; what do you think, I've got papa to ask Dr. Worthington to dinner to-morrow. Don't you think it's quite right? A false charge should be put aside. It's not as if he had really been bad, then of course one would never trust him again. But as it is, people like us, quite sure of their own position, ought to come forward"The whirl and confusion had cleared off from Austin's soul. Love and fear had given place, and something strong and evil possessed him.He came down the long room and stood in front of Nancy."Perhaps," he said, "to-morrow he won't come""Why—is he engaged?""No, but to-morrow perhaps, he'll know about me. I'm going to tell you, Nancy""Oh, Austin, hush!" cried Hilda, springing up, "have you gone mad? Oh, hush, hush!""No," said Austin. "I'm going to tell her. I'm going to see what she thinks. You can confirm it afterwards. Nancy, five years ago, I committed a crime. I embezzled—is that the proper word—Hilda's money, and I forged—yes, forged a signature. They brought me home here instead of sending me to prison—like a lunatic, you know—under supervision among his friends. I had to pretend a good deal, but I satisfied everyone. But now—another thing of the kind has happened, and I am accused of it. My father thinks I'm guilty. So will you. Don't boast of your family, we belong, you see, to the criminal classes"As Austin spoke, urged by he knew not what, he was conscious all the time that he had never seen Nancy's rosy cheeks white before.He, the gentle Austin, had done a cruel and a brutal thing. He knew it as he walked away down the long room, heedless that Hilda started up and called him, while Nancy gasped out, "What is it?"Somehow they told her, in comprehensible words, what they knew as to the past, softening it as well as they could, but showing in every look and word what the burden and shame had been."Then that was why he came home," said Nancy."Yes," said her aunt, "there was nothing else to be done. But something must have happened now""I don't believe it," said Hilda; "indeed I don't""One can never be sure," said Agatha, mournfully."Never!" said Nancy, "never! Aunt Agatha, how could papa, how could you all live? Such an awful, awful disgrace! What right have we to know people, and to let him know people? We ought to go away and disguise ourselves. Change our name, oh—I can never go into the village again—never see the cousins——""The cousins don't know, only the uncles," said Hilda, as Nancy went on, walking about and sobbing."Oh, to think that my own brother, that papa's son—that a Fairford of Ford, should do it! Oh, it would be better if he had died—far, far better! Oh, to think of that black bar across everything"Agatha, even while she shrank under the young violent outbreak, recognised the very thoughts of her own heart, but Hilda said:"No—Nancy, no—I thought so, but—but it's not quite that. Things are very hard for people. Austin has tried""Hilda! Oh, Hilda, I never felt before you weren't our sister. But now—that it should have happened to you—I should like to kneel down and ask your pardon""Nancy, Nancy, don't, you know we mustn't let any one guess""We ought to confess it. We've no right to our reputation. What should we think if any one in the village had deceived us? Suppose Mrs. Purcell pretended Jack was good when he wasn't. We have been acting a lie"She broke off suddenly, as she saw her father in the room."Austin has told her," said Agatha. "But—but what is the new trouble?"Then the Colonel told, with reserve and careful absence of comment or conclusion; but their hearts failed within them, even while no one endorsed Nancy's passionate declaration."Of course he has done it. He has lived a lie, and—and so we all have"They did not heed her much, as she sobbed out all the anguish of her sudden downfall from the pinnacle of confident idealising youth—an anguish in which loyalty and love, and pride and arrogance combined, but in which all these meant the certainty that her own was beyond reproach.Agatha went over and kissed her brother, and murmured that there was help, and even yet there might be repentance; but she did not say that she thought Austin might be innocent.The Colonel, with the sad dignity that covered much inward quailing, said that the matter was in Christopher's hands, and they must await his report to-morrow. Nancy went sobbing out of the room, and the Colonel sank into his chair, and was silent."Nancy is—very hard," said Hilda, aside to Agatha."Ah, my dear," said the old lady, "when youth first sees the face of evil, the purity of the angelic judgment must be hard. We get lax"Family prayers! It seemed to Hilda only yesterday that they had all gathered in the hall with the weight upon them of that first concealment. She could recall Austin like a caged animal, sitting opposite to her. He did not appear now, but the rest went through the ordeal, even Nancy appearing at the last minute and sitting in a corner.It seemed to Hilda that since that earlier time such a veil had lifted from her spirit, that it was almost as if a new faculty had been granted to her. She felt the feelings of the others, Nancy's passionate, horrified youth, the Colonel's sick despair, and hopeless distrust. And Austin, once he had been a shocking perplexity to her, but now in a strange new way, she seemed to feel and understand. To put the heart into public prayer, when emotion must be kept at bay, is for some impossible; but Hilda prayed for him as she went upstairs, and as if in answer, he suddenly came out of his room and faced her."Austin!" she said, with a quick impulse, "I want to tell you—I've not been kind always, I didn't know, and I was afraid. But I'd believe what you say, I know—I understand—you couldn't help doing things you couldn't speak of. I know—I understand—how that is"Austin looked down at her in blank surprise, he hardly took in what she was saying."You're very kind, Hilda," he said mechanically and gently as he usually spoke."No, no," she said; "but—but I know now how hard things may be"She turned away and fled into her room, trembling with the effort. She heard Austin go back into his room and shut his door. She never knew, nor perhaps did he, from what the sudden check of her kind words had saved him.CHAPTER XXXI."SHAKE HANDS."PROFOUNDLY as Austin had suffered from the effects of his early lapse, he had never fully realised what he had brought on himself, till he found that his father was ready to believe him guilty of a crime which seemed just as impossible to him now, as if he had never committed that first mad action. It surprised him to find that the gulf between now and then was not so wide as he had believed it to be, that five years was a much shorter period to his father and his uncles than to himself, that he was still the boy whose destinies lay in their hands.Daffodil's courageous trust had so far acted on him, that it had roused him to resentful fury, instead of leaving him crushed and stupefied; but he was accustomed to be passive, and no course of action was clear to him any more than to his relations. Of one thing only was he sure, that let Daffodil feel and say what she would, he must keep himself and his disgrace apart from her. She might be willing to suffer with him, but he must save her from her own noble and heavenly folly. Of that much he did not need his uncle Christoper to convince him. He was ready one moment to risk anything to establish his innocence, and then was checked by recollecting that by probing the truth to the bottom, and finding out exactly what had occurred, it would not be innocence that he would make public, in all probability, previous guilt would come to light.And the public honour of the Fairfords was just as precious to Austin as to Nancy, who wept all night for the loss of it, and came down to breakfast unable to speak to or look at him.She thought him sullen and hardened when he came down late, made a general good morning, and helped himself to cold ham; but in truth his demeanour was only his father's outward self-control, worn with less grace, besides that the experience was for him not new.There was a pencilled note for him from Kit. "Dear Tosty—I'm down on my luck—come and see me—Yours. C. F."Well, here was an occupation which could involve no consequences. Austin had great belief in his own power of silence. Kit would be full of his own affairs, he would go. It was, of course, impossible for him to engage in his ordinary business, though various affairs awaited him. Was he expected to stay at home?He got up, after five endless minutes, laid the note before his father, and said, with some dignity:"I think I had better go. Am I wanted this morning?""No—no—be back to luncheon," said the Colonel nervously, as he had said from habit, hundreds of times when Austin was going out.He went without another word. It was something to be in the fresh air and alone, and he lingered till it was not too early to go to the Rectory, and found himself approaching that cheerful, noisy household just about the time when his uncle Christopher was questioning Mrs. Purcell.He found Kit in the old school-room alone, having successfully hunted away his affectionate family. He looked miserable, and quite ill enough to provoke the anxiety which fretted and irritated him."Ha, Tosty," he said, "it's a blessing to see some one who isn't in a taking. Come and tell me I've made a blessed fool of myself, and don't pity me. I'm not fit for a decent person to speak to""Is this your breakfast?" said Austin, indicating a neglected tray. "Get on the sofa there, and drink this coffee, I'm not likely to pity you"Kit obeyed, and Austin waited on him without any comment, confining his sympathy to handing him first the coffee, and then his pipe."What a good old sort you are, Tosty," said Kit, after a few minutes. "You see, I made so sure—and—and thought of them all welcoming her, and so on. But words, I suppose, don't mean the same to girls, and she's so young, and I daresay I don't seem the same sort of fellow as I was when she knew me out there, and I got the polo prize, and—she was there to see""Perhaps not," said Austin.Kit smoked on in silence, and then said, "Well—they say she didn't know I was in earnest. She looked as if she was. I suppose they don't know much about it—girls—don't realise when a man means it"Austin said nothing. He was not sure that after all he did not pity Kit, who looked round at him with wistful eyes, though he frowned deeply."I've made a mistake," he said, briefly, after another pause. "There's no more to be said about it. Of course not; what is there to say?""Well, there's never much to say," said Austin, lightly touching his shoulder. "Don't fret yourself ill, that's all""There's where it is," said Kit. "If I was well, I'd just go off and pull myself together again. And I hope I shouldn't call out. I know it's sure to be all for the best, if one could feel it so. Anyway it's got to be put up with""That's so," said Austin."But—I can't stand being fussed over whenever I'm neuralgic and cross and good for nothing. I'm not used to it anyhow, and I should make the dear old folks miserable. I must get round, I suppose, for their sakes if I can, and they won't let me go off alone. So, Tosty, I'll get Worthington to say where—to satisfy them it's all right, and won't you come away with me and put up with me, till I can pick up bit r I know you will!"Austin started and held his breath, while Kit went on, dropping his guard more entirely."I am rather bad, you know, and this business seems to have taken the life out of me. I'm dead beat—and I don't want them to know it""Does your father know you mean to ask me?" said Austin."No, but he'll jump at it. I should be paymaster, of course, that's understood. What's the difficulty? I thought you'd be sure to agree""There's a difficulty," said Austin, rising and walking away to the window, "I don't see how you can help hearing about it, but I'll tell you. My father has lost a sum of money—thirty pounds—meant to pay a bill of Jackson's. In fact, a forged receipt was sent to him""Really, what a nasty affair. And who do you suppose can have done it? You've got to look into it? Well, we couldn't go for a few days, I suppose?""The money went through my hands," said Austin."Well, I conclude Uncle Nicholas doesn't imagine that you have made away with it," said Kit, with a laugh."No—God knows I did not!" suddenly broke from Austin. "God knows I did not!""What's the matter? What do you mean?" said Kit."He does think so""But——Have you—or he—or I, gone clean demented?""No, because I have done the same thing before. I was sent away in disgrace from Lawson's because—I forged a signature and used a cheque. My uncles know it. They brought me home and forgave me. But they don't trust me. Who could? I was forbidden to tell you then or now. I should think you must have thought some things queer. I'd better tell you."Then, in short accurate sentences, Austin told the whole story, sparing nothing, till conviction was carried to his cousin's confounded senses. His voice was quite steady, his manner cold and indifferent."I had to keep up appearances," he concluded; "but of course it is plain that I, unfit for the army, can't be a proper friend for you. I daresay you'll like to keep things quiet, as the others have done. But—I expect nothing. And—my word goes for nothing, as you see"There was awful silence. Kit felt as if the ground had opened at his feet.Austin felt—nothing.At last Kit spoke hoarsely:"This thing now—you haven't done that? On your honour""On my honour? On your honour and my father's, no""Then, on my honour, and before God, I'll believe you," said Kit.Then Austin broke down. He dropped into a chair and buried his face in his hands, shaken with sobs, as this most crucial moment passed by him. No woman's faith in him, not even Daffodil's, could have brought such acquittal as Kit's, his noble kinsman, his old friend. Whatever Kit said or did now, the barrier between himself and the rest of the world was lowered—Kit believed him.It was a terrible moment for Kit himself, as he realised what this confession—apart from the villany of which he had insight enough to acquit his cousin—must mean. He knew plenty of people with blanks or blots in their record, and he did not like them; it was his view that lost sheep were very difficult to find, and likely to stray again in the same direction. And he had always been accustomed to feel certain of the uprightness of everyone belonging to him. If Austin had done this deed on the other side of his examination for the army, lifelong ruin would have been the result.Then suddenly he seemed to know that Austin had felt this too—had felt it keenly ever since their meeting, and though outwardly kind and attentive, had held himself as much as possible apart. Poor Tosty, he had always been so penitent for his misdeeds at school, so willing to confess and take the consequences of them.Kit spoke at last."Don't, Tosty—don't—tell me more about it. Can old Jackson have made a mistake?""I suppose not," said Austin, controlling himself. "He never got the money, and the receipt came to the Colonel""Some of his clerks?""He says not""Then it must be Jack Purcell""Yes," said Austin, "I suppose it must""What sort of a chap is he?""I believe he is all square, but I don't know. They'll get it all hushed up, I suppose, and pay the money. If there's a row the old story about me will come out. If I stood alone, I'd risk it. But there are no witnesses. It would be a case of counter-swearing. No one else was there when I told him to pay the bill, nor when I locked the money up in the safe. And you see he paid the fifty into the bank all right. But now—I shall defend myself if I can. Nothing, at least only one thing, has been so hard to me as being with you on false pretences. You will have to hear what my uncles say. I'll go now, I'm doing you harm""Come here," said Kit.Austin came. His agitation had all subsided, and he looked down at Kit with a sad and gentle face."Shake hands," said Kit. "We'll go away, as I said, when we've got to the bottom of this business, and let it blow over"Austin put his hand into the one Kit offered with hanging head. It was at once the bitterest and most hopeful moment he had known."Come back by-and-by," said Kit, and Austin, with a murmured assent, left him.As he went out he met the Rector, and spoke at once."Uncle Augustine, I have told Kit the whole truth about myself. It is for him to tell you what line he wishes to take. But I mean to defend myself. I did not sign Jackson's receipt, nor use my father's money, and I shall not submit to the suspicion of having done so""I trust you may be able to prove your words, Austin," said the Rector; but the young man passed on, without more words.Kit's belief gave him courage to see that he must bear to be doubted; his handclasp enabled him to face the humiliation of slow and careful endeavour to prove the word, which was in itself no proof, to admit that doubts, until proof came, were just.It was that very justice that told against him. Let him once convince that, and he could count on it with absolute certainty. He resolved to go and face the matter out, first with Jack Purcell, and then with Matthew Macnamara himself. It was no longer his place to be passive. His spirit, swayed by conflicting influences, swung for the time towards the side of courage.CHAPTER XXXII.A BURNING QUESTION."So you see, Mrs. Villiers, that the whole situation is changed. Such an engagement for Daffodil must never be allowed. We must at once put a stop to it""Let me understand exactly," said Mrs. Villiers, in her clear, quick tones. "You say that you have found out that Austin is in debt—has been for some time, and concealed the fact from his father and from you, when he asked consent to his engagement. Is that all?""It is enough, I think, to destroy our confidence in him. He must have known that the fact made all the difference""I have always thought that there was a mystery about Austin. I conclude from what you say that his past does not bear looking into""As to that," said Christopher Fairford, "you will not expect me to say anything. Unless the engagement is persisted in there is no need for further particulars. But I hardly think he will come forward again""I am very glad to hear it," said Mrs. Villiers, abruptly. "I never liked it, and I'll do my best to put a stop to it. I suppose something has come to light, and if Daffodil will not give way to us, I shall expect to be told what it is"Mr. Fairford would have preferred a little more sense of astonishment at the possibility of anything being amiss with the heir of the Fairfords; but he had done his work and was anxious to see the Colonel as soon as possible, so he gave the required assurance, and went away just in time to miss Daffodil's return.She had had plenty of time to recognise that it was a cold and sorrowful fact that she had half known, and which Austin had now fully confessed to her—an unromantic, miserable matter, which had destroyed all the natural happiness of Austin's youth. If she thought less than Kit had done of the social side of the matter, she saw more keenly its effects on all the poor fellow's family relations, and of the effect on himself she had always been conscious.The solution of a mystery is always flat, and Daffodil knew that in her heart there had always lurked the hope of some kind of mistake, or, at least, of some sort of story that would have been less tame and commonplace.Commonplace burdens are hard to bear, and unromantic sins have very uncomfortable consequences. There was something of the inevitable reaction after unusual effort on Daffodil's spirits, as she came in and found her mother prepared to do battle on the spot."Oh, Daff, my dear," she said, "a dreadful thing! Cousin Christopher has been here, and he says that he altogether withdraws his approval of Austin's proposals to you. He has found out that he is in debt, and concealed it from us, when he made his offer, and besides I am perfectly sure that there is something very bad in the background, which we do not know""There is something," said Daffodil. "Austin has told me all about it himself"Mrs. Villiers paused in extreme surprise."How?" she said."Yes," answered Daffodil, "and besides, I have always known something about it""You knew, and you did not tell me, Daffodil!""Why, no, mother, you have always taught me to keep secrets, and I knew something about Austin quite by accident""Daffodil, it would break my heart if you married a man without a fair record behind him; and a man in debt, too!""As to marrying," said Daffodil, "I don't know how that may be. Austin has told me how things have changed with him of late. But I can't tell him I don't love him, mother, because you know I do""If there is no engagement, it is quite impossible that you should be mixed up in his secrets. What would everyone say? And, besides, you would be sure to burn your fingers""But I want you to be able to say that you know what I am doing, and that you trust me," said Daffodil. "I will promise you faithfully that I will never see Austin or even write to him without your knowledge. There is no question just now of being married. I am sure he will never ask me again, unless you do know everything. But I can't promise to give up letting him know that I don't despise him, and helping him if my thoughts will help him, because he did ask me when things were less complicated with him. It's not a common case""Daffodil, I don't believe in uncommon cases. I hate odd and abnormal things. If a girl has to refuse a man, she must let him alone afterwards. There can't be any other relation between them. Any other is a delusion. I don't blame you in the very least, and I daresay poor Austin has excuses, but I'm very sorry you are mixed up with him. You ought to go away and find fresh interests, then he'd pass out of your mind""And what would he do?""I can't help that; that's not my affair, or yours either""Mother," said Daffodil, "I'm quite sure that God means me to do what I can for Austin now. I can't do it unless I pray hard, and——""Oh, but Daff," said Mrs. Villiers, impatiently, "girls make great mistakes about religious feelings. I never knew you talk in that way before""But what harm do you think could happen to me?" said Daffodil, after a minute."What harm? People will talk""Not if you know all I do, which will be very little""And you will make yourself more unhappy than you guess. Every time you try, as you call it, to help Austin, your feeling will grow, and the parting will be harder. And you will take some foolish step in the end. It's human nature""Yes, that's all true," said Daffodil, with the slow tears filling her eyes. "But what would be the good of me if I went away to be comfortable by myself?"The discussion went round and round, and Mrs. Villiers said many true, unanswerable, and universally recognised things. Daffodil's spring of action she did not recognise at all, but the peculiar salt of reasonableness that was in her nature showed her that this full-grown, independent creature could not be suddenly treated as a child. If she would burn her fingers, she must.At last Daffodil said:"Mother, you wouldn't mind what happened to yourself if you could help me in trouble?""Why, of course not, my darling; what mother would?""Well, then," said the girl, crying at last, "it's much more like that than anything else""Oh, nonsense, my dear," said Mrs. Villiers; but they kissed and clung to each other, and parted without a quarrel. Mrs. Villiers was beaten, but it suddenly struck her that there was another line to take. She could appeal to Austin.In the afternoon, Daffodil told her mother that she was going down to the Hole."If Austin is there I will tell you," she said; and with that her mother was forced to be content.Poor Daffodil, she felt that after all the deepest of her thoughts had not found utterance. She walked slowly through the thinning woods under a grey sky. She did not mean to tell Miss Worthington of her perplexity—indeed, she could not—but none the less she came for the chance of a helpful word. But as she came up to the door of the Hole, another troubled soul claimed her help with one of those half-true confidences which blind and perplex those who try to think the thoughts of others and to feel their feelings.Mrs. Purcell came out upon her."Miss Daffodil," she said, in a hasty whisper, "come in, come in, for I must talk to someone, and I know you're safe. A dreadful thing has happened""Why, what's the matter?" Daffodil said."It's this way," whispered Mrs. Purcell, pulling her into her little parlour, and speaking under her breath. "There's some money lost of the Colonel's—thirty pounds—and unluckily my poor Jack is the only person they can fix on. Mr. Austin gave him fifty to pay into the bank, only fifty for certain, and he paid it in all right. But there's thirty missing that should have paid Jackson's bill, and some one's stolen it and sent a false receipt. And, oh, Miss Daffodil, it's nearly as dreadful as if my Jack had taken it. I daren't hardly say it, but it's Mr. Austin himself!""How dare you say it? What do you mean?" cried Daffodil, also in a whisper."I couldn't have believed it, Miss, but there's Macnamara, my cousin, says it's not the first time. Mr. Christopher has been inquiring, and, Miss Daffodil, I know the gentleman will be let get off, and they'll fix on my Jack, though they know, and the Colonel knows, who's guilty""Why don't you ask Mr. Austin himself?" said Daffodil; and she could not have told why she said it."Ask Mr. Austin!" ejaculated Mrs. Purcell."Yes, and see what he'll say"Daffodil could not say anything else. So this was what Christopher meant; this was the change of circumstances; and how awfully it fitted in!"He did not tell me," she thought, and her brain reeled. She could ask no questions, she could give no sympathy. "Ask Mr. Austin," she repeated; and again she did not know why she said it. Evidence? Where was truth if evidence was needed?She turned away and knocked at Miss Worthington's door."For the world's sake, don't tell her," whispered Mrs. Purcell, and Daffodil said "No"There was a quick "Come in," and a hearty greeting, and Miss Worthington gave her coffee, and talked gaily, evidently ignorant of any special complications. Presently Amy became aware that something was amiss.The tall girl leant back in her chair, silent, with her face motionless, and her quick tongue almost still."Miss Worthington," she said at length, "can you help people without knowing what they want help in?""Why, my dear," said Amy, briskly, "I don't think it makes so much difference as one would suppose. For definite advice is nearly an impossible thing, unless one is really in the fuss, and knows both sides. One can only help people by helping their courage and their good desires""It's a question of running risks," said Daffodil, "partly""Risks to help another?""Well, yes""What is risked—what can be given—the proportion of things is the question very often," said Miss Worthington."Who can tell?" said Daffodil."No one as a rule—but you would climb a dangerous road to keep a friend from falling over a precipice, not to hand him a cup of tea""A cup of cold water?" said Daffodil."Ah! said her friend. "Are you afraid?" she added."Yes. I am doubtful. Is faith worth anything if it has ever had a doubt—in a person, I mean——""You have brains," said Amy. "If things are doubtful, you will know they are so. Whatever you do, don't pretend the doubt isn't there""I want to do something that mother doesn't like," said Daffodil."I suppose you see your mother's reasons?" said Miss Worthington."Oh yes, I do; as she thinks, she is right. Mother is very clear-sighted""My dear," said Amy, "I should think most likely, I don't say certainly, but I should think most likely you would find out that your mother was right in the end""She is right, so far as she goes," said Daffodil, "but I have done a great many things in my life, though I am not twenty-three, that mother didn't know of, and which she wouldn't have seen the necessity for. But they had to be done""But this time," suggested Miss Worthington, "you are yourself concerned, and so your mother's eyes are clearer than yours""That's the risk," said Daffodil."You know," said Amy, after a reflective pause, "in nine cases out of ten more mischief comes from good intentions and uncommon feelings than from any sort of ordinary motives""But not in the tenth""No, not in the tenth""I think it's the tenth," said Daffodil. "Why don't you tell me to obey my mother?""Because you know that already, as you say, as far as it goes. What else but that could I -tell you? My dear, you can't be told"Daffodil lay back in the big chair, silent. She saw that her puzzle was recognised."Does one ever know whether one is heroic or silly?" she said."Silly people don't," said Miss Worthington.Another silence, and Daffodil seemed to hear within the echo of her own words to Mrs. Purcell, "Ask Austin"Yes! That much she owed him. That simple justice she must do. Her mother herself would say so.But the real question was not only, "Is this new charge true?"—but, "Are you made of good enough stuff—to know what the faith I offer you means, apart from selfish passion? If my soul understands, is yours there to be understood?"That is the question that confronts all true lovers; and on its answer depended the right thing for Daffodil.She stood up, tall and pale, her yellow hair bright in the firelight."You have told me," she said, and went away.CHAPTER XXXIII.AT BAY.WITH what courage he might have gathered from Kit's courageous trust in him, Austin went his way to see Matthew Macnamara. It might have been better to see what he could do with Jack first, but he felt as if he dared not put off the more terrible interview. Even as he went to face it, there was a kind of relief in action. Anything was better than trusting passively to other people's leniency, or than submitting to other people's behests.He went boldly up Bishopsford High Street, and into the coachbuilder's premises. There, chatting affably to a departing customer, was the well-remembered portly figure of Matthew Macnamara, who looked at Austin for a moment without recognition. The gay rattling youth, who had ordered the cart and pony, with boyish importance in such a commission, had developed into the kind of person before whom Macnamara would naturally have bowed down."I am Austin Fairford," said the young man. "I have come to speak about the receipt bearing Mr. Jackson's name which has been sent to my father, Colonel Fairford. I suppose the action is rather your partner's concern than yours, but I understand that you have shown some interest in the matter""Yes, sir—h'm—owing to previous acquaintance""Exactly so. Therefore, I should like to hear what you both have to say about it"Macnamara showed Austin through the shop into a little office or parlour behind it, and in a moment Jackson joined them, bowing and looking miserable."Pray sit down," said Austin, taking a seat, and as they complied, Macnamara felt that the gentleman's manner was difficult to resist. He felt, however, that it gave Austin an unreal and unfair advantage."Mr. Fairford," said Macnamara, "I don't want to name no names, nor to imply no insinuations. I'm not hard to deal with""No," interposed Austin. "But we want to get at the facts. I left the thirty pounds to pay your bill with young John Purcell last Tuesday—two ten-pound notes and ten pounds in gold. I told him to ask you to send the receipt direct to Colonel Fairford, who received it duly. I am told that you, Mr. Jackson, consider that it is a forgery?""Yes, sir—I am driven to that conclusion. I did not receive that money, nor write that receipt""Then who did, do you suppose? "said Austin."Young Purcell, Mr. Fairford," said Macnamara, "has been here this morning. He states, and says his mother is prepared to state, and has stated to Mr. Christopher Fairford, that no money beyond that paid into the bank was left in his charge by you.""Mrs. Purcell was not present," said Austin. "There are no witnesses. He and I were alone""Indeed, sir, that is not his statement. He says Mrs. Purcell was present when the money was put into the safe""And you both accept that statement?""Well, sir," said Jackson, "we don't see our way out of it very well—but I know Colonel Fairford won't allow me to be the loser""Colonel Fairford will not pay the money twice over with my consent," said Austin. "The banknotes can be traced, and they will be""I shouldn't have thought you would wish, sir——""Stop! Mr. Macnamara. I am not going to leave it to you to say that you prefer Jack Purcell's word to mine. No doubt you do. I don't blame you for it. But you're under a mistake. I don't know that it matters much, because it is I who must move in the matter. I am the injured person—as I left the money in young Purcell's charge.""Do you mean to say, sir, that you will prosecute John Purcell for theft?" said Jackson."I shall give him every opportunity of confessing," said Austin, "but I don't pledge myself to mercy. Especially as he has lied about his mother. Good morning, I thought it well that you should know the line I mean to take."It was not at all the line which the kindly Austin would have taken, if the one thing which he had dreaded had not been his own dread of the past.He calculated that if he went at once to the Hole he should find them all assembled at dinner, and wishing to find Jack alone he went into the little Conservative Club in Bishopsford, the pet child of his father and uncles, to pass the time of waiting. It was meant for all classes, and every paper and periodical was carefully selected with a view to edification. Mr. Jackson was on its committee, and Dr. Worthington had recently become a subscriber, as a sure bid for popularity, as he had openly told Austin.As Austin went into the reading-room, and exchanged greetings with its two or three occupants, he wondered, sitting behind the Standard, how much longer they would give him friendly greetings, and if he should mind being cut if he lost his character.He was going to take away Jack Purcell's. But Jack deserved it.In the course of justice would he himself see—a fair reputation? But his heart was hardened by what he had heard about Jack's mother.In due time he went towards the Hole and found Jack, with some needless fuss and swagger, super-intending the completion of a wood pile in the open space behind the Hole."Make a good sized stack while you're about it, Hatton, and cover it well in with brushwood.""Don't you think, Jack, that Hatton has built up enough wood piles to know that much already?"Jack turned round with a start. There stood Mr. Austin behind him, with his hands in his pockets, and a peculiar smile on his face."I—I—I make a point of looking into things myself, sir," said Jack, his self-assertion suddenly vanishing, and his colour changing."Quite so. Very proper. But leave this business to Hatton now, and step this way with me. I want you a moment."Jack was conscious that Hatton grinned as he touched his cap to Austin, and said,"We'll about manage it, sir."He followed however—till they came a little further along the clearing, out of sight of the wood pile. When Austin stopped and faced him, fixing his eyes full upon him, Jack faced him also, his own roving glances looking through Austin's hair, at his chin, anywhere but straight into that black gaze, which confronted him without a waver.There was a pause, and either of the two young men could have heard the rabbits scuttering away among the dead ferns and brambles.Then Austin, still smiling, made a little movement as if he were going to turn up his sleeves."Will you fight?" he said."I—I don't understand what you mean, sir," said Jack perplexed."Oh yes, you do," said Austin. "I mean fight. Where's the thirty pounds I left with you last Tuesday? You'd better own up at once, because I know perfectly well that you took it."Then Jack took a line, which however useless in the long run, is often the first that occurs to un-educated people, and is always very difficult to deal with, he began to lie steadily and fluently.No, he had not taken thirty pounds, and he didn't know what Mr. Austin meant."The thirty pounds which I left with you to pay Jackson's bill. There were two ten pound notes and ten pounds in gold.""Never had thirty pounds from you, Mr. Austin, never. There was fifty to pay into the bank.""Which you paid. Come now, Jack, what's the good of facing it out? What's the good of lying to me? You're in a scrape, I suppose, and yielded to temptation; I'll not be hard on you.""No, I'm not in a scrape," said Jack insolently. "You can take away my character, sir, if you choose. Of course a gentleman's word is generally taken before a poor fellow's like me. In most cases people would think it safer."Austin had had many experiences; but insult from an inferior was a new one. His temper began to stir within him."I always knew," he said, "that you were down on your luck—and not on the square, and I was sorry for you—but I never thought you'd lie.""You needn't turn the tables on me, Mr. Austin," said Jack, rising to the part with the same odd kind of inspiration that had carried him through the scene with his mother. "I know well enough why you came home to live, and why Mr. Christopher's been down here inquiring so cautious. And I've seen you many a time in Winborough when you didn't see me. I've told Mr. Christopher you left no thirty pounds with me, and my mother, she's prepared to make the same statement. She saw you give me the fifty, and heard you say that was all.""You young blackguard! You have induced your mother to forswear herself for your sake. You mean hound!""It's a deal meaner to trade upon your position when you've lost your character," said Jack. "What a man's done once he may do again. I'll hold my tongue if I'm treated properly—but if you blacken my character, I'll blacken yours, and Miss Daffodil——"The sentence was choked in his throat, as without another word Austin suddenly hit out, and knocked him down.He fell before the sudden onslaught of Austin's vigorous fist, and lay still at his feet."Come now, get up," said Austin, "I can't have hurt you. Get up, and tell me the truth, and I'll see what can be done for you. How can you be such a fool as to brave it out with me?"There was no movement and no answer. Austin bent over him and pulled him by the shoulder, then saw that blood was flowing from the back of his head. He looked and saw that a piece of rusty scythe, thrown away probably after the weeds had been cut in the autumn, had been hidden in the long grass. Jack's head had fallen on it. Austin turned cold and sick. He knelt down, fumbling with the young man's collar. He must call Hatton, but for a moment he could not shout. Then some one came up with a sudden rush, and Daffodil, breathless, was by his side with the long scarf that had been round her neck in her hands."Go—call——" she gasped, "quick—the doctor." She began to twist the scarf round the wound. "Go—go—" she said, "no, don't lift him."Austin stood up and his voice came back, with a great outcry of horror, as he rushed down the clearing. Hatton and the man with him came running, and he signed behind him and fled on towards the Hole. Worthington was coming out, and some few yards from the gate met him. Austin seized him by the shoulder and pointed backwards."Good Lord, Fairford, what's happened?"But Austin was running back by the way he had come, and the doctor followed almost as quickly."Ha, ugly-looking business," he said briefly. Then after a minute, "He's alive, we must lift him carefully. You men get a gate or door—Miss Villiers, get my sister—Fairford, can you prepare Mrs. Purcell? No—make Amy tell her."Daffodil shot ahead of Austin and reached the farm. She paused for one moment, and grasped, as it were with both hands, her reeling senses. It was not only Jack Purcell whose fate was in the balance. Then she went in."Miss Worthington," she cried, "there has been a dreadful accident—Jack Purcell's head has been cut with a scythe. They're bringing him in, and his mother——"Amy was bending over a drawer, hunting for papers. She never forgot Daffodil's face as it met her as she started up. The voice was controlled and steady, but the eyes——"Oh, my dear child—yes—stop here. I'll tell Mrs. Purcell."Daffodil's powers failed her, she crouched down into a great chair as Amy ran out of the room, and listened. She heard Mrs. Purcell's gasping cry, and Miss Worthington's firm reasoning tones. "Very likely nothing of much consequence, but we'll just get his bed ready."Jack slept on the ground floor, and Daffodil heard the slow trampings, the hushed voices, then Dr. Worthington's in a tone that would be obeyed:"You're no use, Fairford, I won't have you here; go in there and wait."Then Austin came in at the open door, and stood staring before him, with clenched hands and set lips, seeing nothing.Daffodil got up and crept across the room; she was so faint that.the felt as if all her fear was the fear of falling. But she got near him, and put her hand on his sleeve."He is not killed," she whispered, "not killed, Austin.""I should think he'd die," said Austin, "but I didn't murder him. He lied to me and I knocked him down and the scythe was there. Look here, Daffodil, I'm going to tell you. Nobody believes me, of course, but I'm going to tell you. That fellow did steal the thirty pounds and forge the receipt. I left it in his charge. It won't alter it if he dies; but you'll think so. That's my luck, and his death'll be at my door, when I didn't murder him.""Oh, God help us!" cried Daffodil, shaking, and clinging to his irresponsive hand."No, He won't," said Austin. "He's made a fool of me if He's there to have a hand in it.""Austin, oh, Austin!"At the sharp anguish of her cry, Austin came back to his senses with a sudden start."Daffodil—Daffodil!" he said, in another and more human tone."I believe—I believe, oh, I believe you," she sobbed.He put his arms round her and they clung together, holding each other as if for mutual support. At last Austin whispered:"It's an awful wound, Daffodil.""But he was quite alive.""But he'll die——""Never mind—never mind—I know—I know!" She hid her face on his breast and he held her close and tight."For my sake—for my sake——""Yes—yes, for your sake."And with that passionate inarticulate pledge the heart of a man came back to Austin Fairford. He would not curse God and die. He would hold on and be silent.He bent down his head and kissed Daffodil on the lips. Then, lifting her, for she was trembling and falling, he put her into the great chair and knelt by her side, with his arms round her and his hand holding hers. Their little stock of strength had shifted and rested now with him.When a door opened and steps approached he stood up and faced the news that was coming.Dr. Worthington came in, and spoke at once:"The wound is deep, and in an ugly place," he said, "but he is alive and the bleeding has stopped. We must get a trained nurse. My sister knows where to wire for one at once. Miss Villiers? I forgot—Here, Amy!"Miss Worthington came hastily in, and as Daffodil rose instantly to her feet, said:"Come with me—my dear, come and help me," and drew her out of the room."Now then," said Austin, "is he dying?""No," said Worthington, "not so bad as that at present. I can't say anything more yet. He's got two black eyes, you know, also. No, you'd better not say anything—I now nothing of the cause of the accident.""That's obvious. I knocked him down," said Austin. "Now I'm going home to tell my father I did so. Thank you, no," as Worthington poured out some whisky and offered it to him. "I don't want it. Keep the poor old man upstairs from being frightened. I'll go now. I'll come back for more news."He eyed Worthington for a moment, then turned abruptly away, while the Doctor called after him: "Better news by-and-by, I hope," and hurried back to his business."I'm not going to be dragged into this scrape. Discretion's the thing," he said to himself. "I shall know nothing."CHAPTER XXXIV.FIGHT.AUSTIN had perhaps better have taken the whisky, for he had eaten nothing that day, and as he went out into the fresh air, and turned his steps homeward, his head reeled, and the exhaustion of the three hard scenes through which he had passed since the morning began to make itself felt. He sat down on a felled tree, and rested his face on his hands. His heart failed within him. He knew not where he was. Self-respect showed him no line but defiant pride, and love, the love that warmed and melted him, the pity that was innate within him, seemed to paralyse his powers of action and left him cowardly and weak. Not to be a chattel and a slave, to act for himself, to endure the burden bound upon him by his own fault, to play a man's part now and to stand up for himself, was his only hope of salvation. And yet, every holier impulse, every responsive thrill to Daffodil's splendid love, every fellow feeling for his fellow sinner seemed to fling him in the dust, and keep him lying there, unable to rise. And now a blind instinct brought him, still half staggering, to his feet. If the consequences of his own actions were to fall on himself, and not on the beloved ones whose hearts he was breaking, he must hold himself upright—he who was young and strong, whose sufferings would not kill him. What did it matter whether he were wrong or right, a sinner or a penitent, so long as he could put his shoulders against the falling frame-work of his life, and keep it from crushing down on the heads of others. He must save his own character at all costs. "An accident—an unlucky accident," he repeated, and set his teeth, as he steadied himself to walk homewards.He came in at the back, and met the old butler."There's been an accident," he said. "I'm all right, but I must change my coat before I tell the Colonel. Put me something to eat and drink, quick, in the study first, and say nothing.""Very well, sir; Mr. Christopher is with the Colonel.""Ah! All right, do as I say."Austin ran upstairs. Without a pause or a glance he put off the clothes, damp with the traces of the conflict and its terrible results, dressed himself and went back to the study, where he forced himself to swallow something.His orders had been exactly carried out. Austin was loved in the household. Whatever the old servants might know or guess, there was a kindliness, a humanity, behind his silent gravity, which was felt, even if not understood.Austin ate and drank, and then took his way to the library where his father and his uncle Christopher were sitting together by the fire. They looked up at him with startled, melancholy faces. Things seemed to them already as bad as they could be, and now Austin had to make them—how much worse."I suppose, father," he said, "that my uncle is telling you of his interview this morning with Jack Purcell and his mother. I wish that he had come first to me. But something has happened since which makes discussion very difficult. I went, after seeing Kit, to see Jackson, and I found from him and his partner that Jack had induced his mother to back up his falsehood. That of course destroyed every motive I could have for sparing him, and I went to interview him myself. He was insolent—I suppose from fear—and lied flatly. I lost my temper, and knocked him down. He fell on a bit of old rusty scythe on the grass, and I much fear he is seriously injured. Worthington was there at once. It is," concluded Austin, who began to find speech difficult, "a great additional misfortune."He answered the rapid, appalled, impatient questions which the two men poured out upon him, keeping his voice cool while he held the mantelpiece with his hand, till every detail had been told fully. Then he said:"I am going back, of course, at once, to see how things are going. The only thing that perhaps needs a few immediate words is the line we mean to take about the missing money. I cannot take out a summons against jack Purcell for appropriating the money I left in his charge while he is in this condition, but I think something ought to be done towards tracing the notes. Perhaps Pascoe——"His father interrupted him with an imperative gesture, and his uncle spoke."It is hardly becoming, Austin, to discuss that after what you have just told us.""Excuse me, Uncle Christopher; things must be said while we have some sense to say them. We will pass over the comparative value of my statements and Purcell's. The tracing of the notes is the only chance I have of clearing my character. I am not going to give it up for lost. I beg my father to consider himself no doubt in Jackson's debt, but not to pay that money over again at present. Of course, I know that there is a chance of my past offence coming to light. But I should prefer that infinitely to being suspected of having committed a second. I insist on my right to prove to my father that I have not robbed him.""Austin," said Colonel Fairford, "you take an inadmissible tone, and you show a strange want of feeling for what you tell us your own violence has done.""I don't choose to give way to feeling," said Austin."Nor I," said his father. "You force it from me. I cannot take your word. You have made it valueless. You asked my consent to your marriage, and concealed the fact that you were in debt. It appears that your life has not been, as it appeared, fair and open. By your own showing you have deceived us. I shall take what measures I choose to save us from open disgrace, but you have abused the mercy formerly shown you, and there can be no further reinstatement. Other arrangements must be made. And if this young man should succumb——""No. I don't think I could be liable for manslaughter," said Austin."Stop—stop," said Christopher. "That tone won't do—Austin, you behaved unpardonably to me when you demanded my consent to your marriage. You knew well that I should not have given it to a man secretly in debt, as you confess, for betting and gambling. It will be better now to find out the amount of the present trouble.""It will," said Austin. "And I assure you gambling is much too strong an expression. Don't commit yourself to it."Anger does give strength. It enabled Colonel Fairford to let Austin go without another word. He was too self-controlled a man for violent language, and what seemed to him Austin's flippant insolence did not incline him to storm at him. But though he showed no feeling himself, Austin's apparent lack of it seemed to him worse than the guilt of which the young man was suspected.In the meantime, at the Hole, Miss Worthington's first business had been to send Daffodil away."You—even you!" said the girl passionately. "Even you won't let me help.""My dear, you can't help," said Amy. "All the Fairfords will be here presently in a fuss. You will only complicate matters if you stay here. I'll keep my eyes and my ears, yes, and my mind open, and I'll do all I can, but you must not stay.""Even you!" said Daffodil, as she rose up and put on her hat, recognising" that even such a woman as Amy was bent on keeping her apart from her unhappy lover.She was, however, strong enough to submit when needful."I'll go," she said, "but if you knew everything you would understand that it doesn't much matter. I suppose you will know pretty soon. Then I don't think you will wonder at me.""Oh, my dear, I don't wonder," said Amy, kissing her. "But be as conventional as you can, my darling."They laughed through the dreadful tension, and Daffodil went. Then Amy cried a little over the perversity of fate. "How I should hate that youth if I was her mother," she thought. "And yet God help me not to try to keep her small!"There was little time for musing. A neighbour had come to help to look after old Purcell, and Amy had to try to steady Mrs. Purcell's nerves, and then to listen to her brother's brief counsels."Keep clear of it, Amy. It's a deuce of a business. Remember I know nothing about it, nor of Austin Fairford's proceedings.""Did they quarrel?""I tell you I don't know. There's something behind, of course. And look here, if it comes out that I've played the most harmless game of billiards or rubber of whist with Tosty, it's up with my chances. I shall have led him astray, I shall bear the brunt. Remember I know nothing of his habits nor of his difficulties."Amy stood back against the doorway of the room; he had caught her as she came to fetch something that was wanted. It was too dark for Gerald to see her face."He was less prudent," she said, and turned away."Nonsense," Gerald called after her. "Of course he won't know that I'm on my guard."But when Austin came back, he felt with unerring instinct that the doctor was not on his side. He recognised the fact, without any sense of resentment, before, close on his heels came his father and uncle, in the latter's dog-cart, and soon the little sitting-room seemed full of tall, anxious, cautious men, with few words and dismayed faces.Dr. Worthington's chief desire was to get rid of them all. He said that there would be no change in the patient's state at present, no questions could possibly be asked him, and no information extracted from him. All noise and excitement must be avoided for a long time even after he came to himself."Then in that case," said the Colonel, "it will be better to leave the house quiet."His words were suddenly checked, for the door clicked and there stood Mrs. Purcell like a little white ghost. She rushed up to him, laying a hot hand on his arm, and sobbing, whispering, began a passionate appeal."Gently," interposed Worthington, "gently, Mrs. Purcell, your voice will be heard——""It must be heard," she whispered frantically. "My boy—my boy told me, Mr. Austin had wronged him. Now, he's tried to murder him to hide his guilt—and if there's justice above——""You shall have it," said the doctor with cool confidence—"you shall certainly have it, if you hold your tongue now.""I know by my mother's heart that Jack's innocent!" cried the poor woman, in tones all the wilder because they dared not rise above her breath.In her turn she was interrupted. The little maid of all work came whispering to the door."Please, sir, master says, will Mr. Austin be pleased to step up."It was the way she thought proper to represent old Purcell's mutter of Austin's name."I will come," said Austin, who had stood fronting Mrs. Purcell with an unmoved face.But when he went up into the big raftered room, glowing with firelight from the large old-fashioned grate, and gave his hand to the thin knotted fingers that felt for it, he could scarcely steady his voice. To meet a wistful loving look from the father when the mother had denounced him so fiercely!Purcell had become able to understand and look interested, when he was told little details about the woods and the farm, but he had evidently something more to say now. It came out at last, and though it was a faint and indistinct mutter, the words sounded to Austin like a shout."Master Tosty, you take care of my keys.""Why?" said Austin, quietly, "Do you think I shan't?""Don't you give of 'em up," said Purcell—and then, with a second effort, in a louder tone, " to no one.""I won't," said Austin. "Some time you'll tell me why."He knew that it was useless to ask questions. The thing must wait.His father and uncle were driving off as he came downstairs, and the doctor had ensconced himself in his patient's room, into which Mrs. Purcell had also fled after her outburst. Amy came out of the sitting-room."I'm afraid there's not much use in waiting for any change, Mr. Fairford. What will you do?" she said.Austin came into the room at her gesture of invitation and stood by the fire."Miss Worthington," he said, with something of the formality of the Fairfords, "Miss Villiers, I know, is your friend.""Yes," she said, "and I'll be her friend in every way that's possible." Then she looked at him, and said steadily, "So, of course, will you remember her friendship, and be patient.""I shall fight," repeated Austin."That's partly what I meant. I don't know the facts, or your history, or much about you. I can give her no advice. But I hope you will fight hard enough—and deep down enough. That's all."Her manner was abrupt, and her face perplexed. She was following an instinct for which she could not account. Austin understood her better than she expected."No," he said, "I've got to keep on the top till the fight's over.""Then I'm afraid you'll lose it."No, I won't," he said. "But I'm obliged for your kindness. I'll come down for a report early to-morrow."He went off hastily, and Amy wondered why she had spoken and what she had really meant."I think he hasn't got hold of the whole of himself to redeem himself with," she thought, "and therefore he can't find a stronger Redeemer, who dwells in the depths. Why couldn't I say something like that?—One never can."But her eyes and her hand-clasp helped to weigh the balance on the side of sanity and patience. Austin went away, over the frosty moonlit fields to Pascoe's farm, to take steps for tracing the lost bank notes.CHAPTER XXXV.OUT OF THE DEEP.AUSTIN found that his uncle had been just before him at Pascoe's farm, had got the address of the brother-in-law from whom the notes came, and had left—what?—An impression? A vague perplexity, which Austin felt or fancied in the farmer's face and manner.He went home determined to face the terrible evening through. He seemed to have no sensations left but the instinct of resistance. He saw, heard nothing as he hurried along, till coming into Ford by way of the stable, he met the Rectory gardener with a note. Kit was ill, agitation at all that had suddenly come to his knowledge, had brought on a sharp attack of the fever that always lay in wait for him, and his excitement took the form of extreme distress and anxiety on his cousin's account. Would Austin come and set his mind at rest r Austin sent in the note to his father, told the gardener to say that he was coming at once, and without seeing any one, after the hastiest preparation, set off for the Rectory.Then, as he walked, he knew that the night was cold and clear and sweet, and his soul grew a little quieter under the influence of the crystal sky. On such a night, Daffodil with moonlit hair had walked beside him through the very lane along which he was hurrying now. She walked beside him still, through light and darkness, and the vision of her gave him strength.It was strange at the Rectory to be met by anxious faces, and the half grateful, half reproachful looks of his uncle and aunt, and then to stand by Kit's bedside and smile at him and speak gentle commonplaces.Kit, though conscious, was by no means himself. He talked fast and eagerly, and insisted on telling Austin all that was being said about him, declaring that he ought to see about it and set matters to rights and stop people's tongues. Then, scolding him for being such a duffer as to knock Purcell down in the wrong place. "Just Tosty, all over." Then getting confused as to the rights of what Austin had really told him. Had he accused himself of paying his debts with his father's money? What had he said?It was all very painful, but Austin never flinched. He seemed scarcely to say anything. But he laughed a little gently, and put his hand on Kit's head, and somehow hushed him down, till the poor fellow sighed out more softly:"I—I suppose it's all right, but I knew you'd get into a row if I wasn't at your heels.""Yes, so I did, you can pitch into me to-morrow. Now you'll drink this and go to sleep."The opiate which Kit had before angrily refused, on the plea that he would understand the rights of the matter first, was actually swallowed, and Austin looked up to see Lady Barbara watching him with tear-filled eyes. She was prepared to think the worst of him; but in spite of herself she was impressed by him."I think Kit will sleep now," he said."Come down and have some supper," said Lady Barbara, though an hour before she had declared that she would never receive him into her family again."Thank you, I had much rather, if I may, stay here. They won't expect me at home. Will you let me take care of Kit?"It was so settled, finally, and Austin sat in a big chair by the fire, while Kit slept, and the old nurse came in softly and brought him food and wine, and made up the fire with noiseless hands.He tried to think, to form some plan of campaign, but Jack Purcell's face came between him and all planning. He could not feel that anything but his life or death mattered very much. Yet he must not admit himself to be guilty. He must not cower and grovel before his own hard conscience and give up the game. His nerves were soothed by the quiet, and the silent night seemed a blessed interval before the worse news that the morning might bring.And so, in a sort of pause, with occasional visits from the nurse, and intervals of attendance on Kit, the still hours passed till the winter dawn broke in silver grey over the fair woods and fields that were his own inheritance, his life-long home. Kit was fully conscious some hour or so later, when Austin came into the room and stood over him."Where have you been?" he said in his natural tones. "At least, what's the news from the Hole? Any better?""Just the same," answered Austin, "you are better though, that's well.""Oh yes, good of you to come and stop with me. Mother has been telling me how they sent for you. Now I'm going to have it all out with you.""Presently," said Austin.Kit however was now quite equal to getting his own way. He would neither stay in bed nor be silent, and before very long had got himself into the armchair with Austin opposite to him, "getting," as he said, "to the bottom of things." It was no part of his plan to dwell on his own disappointment. There was something else in hand, and he crushed his trouble back, and got out the facts from Austin by short searching questions. He behaved exactly as if there had been a row in the school dormitory, and he wanted to find out how much Austin had been to blame for it. Austin liked it. It was more endurable than the sense of being judged in silence."Well," said Kit, after some time, "it was all over and they forgave you, and nobody knew about it. What was the matter then?""I made my life up to please them," said Austin. "Why do you suppose I went to church and so on? To keep all smooth with them. It was expected of me. It is of prisoners. They're obliged to attend chapel—for their good.""Nonsense! Hang your fine-spun notions! It was your place to go to church, and attend to all your duties like a gentleman and a Christian. Why didn't you let your feelings alone? They weren't worth much, you knew the straight thing to do and you did it. You'd have been a much bigger fool if you hadn't.""I'd have been less of a cur if I'd enlisted or emigrated.""No such thing. I know what that comes to. A soft-hearted sensitive old idiot like you would have gone to the bad like a shot. Now these debts of yours, I don't believe they amount to much.""They wouldn't for some people. Two or three hundred or so would clear me. You see, a strict life, penitence, and all the rest of it was expected of me. My allowance was calculated just to do for my wants, and if I was dull at home, I was expected to remember that I should have been duller in goal. But having been a sinner didn't make me a saint, and then came chances of a game of billiards or a hand at cards or a fling of some sort—no great harm as things go. But every chance of it was bought by schemes and lies. I had to account for every minute. When I'd been playing billiards at Winborough I said I'd been playing cricket at Bracebridge. That leaves a worse taste in the mouth than smoke or drink either. Besides, I had to pay for it with what money I had; so other bills ran on. Don't suppose I've a craze for gambling; but I should have gone mad if I hadn't had an outlet. The dulness was deadly.""Well?" said Kit rather drily, and in a tone of non-committal."Well then, when I wanted to be married I knew I could clear myself by degrees. Why should I tell about these absurd debts? They were my own look out. It was time I looked after myself.""Did Uncle Chris ask you if you were in debt?" asked Kit."No, but he said that they knew all about me, and implied that I had kept perfectly straight. Now they think that of course I stole my father's money, because I owe a bill at the King's Head, and didn't mention it. Under that charge I won't sit down. But, no doubt it's an open question whether to be cleared of this, or to keep the old affair quiet, is most important. Which do you say?""I hate alternatives," said Kit, frowning, "there's generally a way out.""Find it," said Austin.Kit's half petulant, half kindly manner had grown serious. He ceased to fence. Austin sat watching him, with half a smile upon his dark face."If you can imagine yourself on the horns of such a dilemma," he continued, "what would you do?""I should pray about it," said Kit, briefly: "when I am in trouble I do.""Oh no," said Austin, "I've got to keep my head clear till I've pulled through it."Then seeing in Kit's eyes how the words sounded, he started up and burst out—"I'm not sneering, God forbid! But I've got to act, to hold on. I can't go down in the place of darkness and face my own soul now. What does that matter? I've got to pull through—if I'm disgraced—disgraced publicly, don't you see, Kit?—there's my father, my father to think of—and Nancy. There must not be a scandal. They must not think it signifies about Jack. That was an accident—an accident, I've just got to keep cool and fight it out."Well," said Kit, "I never knew a man fight worse for saying his prayers, and settling his conscience before he went into action, and I don't see how you are to see the right thing to do if you're afraid to look yourself in the face."Austin walked over to the window, and stood there silent. Presently he turned round and said, very gently,"We must not talk any more. I'm going to leave you now, and come back by-and-by. Yes, to-day I really will come back. Now don't trouble about me, nothing can happen just now, lie back and rest."Kit was obliged to obey, and Austin left him, taking care to tell the old nurse that he had done so. Then he went away through the Rectory garden, across the lane and along the churchyard into the empty church, and up the stairs into the tower-room. Then he drew the bolt across the door, and sat down there with himself.The room was cold, clean, and empty, the Rector never used it now. The shrill, weak caw of the jackdaws sounded in the eaves, the tick of the church clock was loud and close. That sound, only heard once before and then unheeded, brought the whole scene like a picture before Austin's mind. He shuddered and covered his eyes, and looked himself in the face and saw himself as a coward.A sort of workable courage, not wholly an ineffective or ungallant thing, had come from keeping himself, as he said "on the top," and so refusing to realise the evils which he could not cure, and perhaps for such as Kit, with a calm soul and a clear record, such a point of view was enough. He could say his prayers and go smiling into action.But Austin's life-boat was foundering in wilder and more stormy seas. The deep waters were going over him and the floods were drowning him, and there was no use in pretending to ride on the crest of the wave.No use in pretending to himself or others that his character and his good name were not threatened with ruin, no use in forgetting that he had once deserved such a threat, no use in thinking that the course of his love could run smooth in the ordinary paths of cheerful success. No use in hiding from himself that the accident that had put Jack Purcell's life in his hands was an awful and tragical thing. No use either in any prayers which did not search those depths of the soul, where he, alas! found nothing but solitude and silence.He might command his nerves, but he could not summon all the forces of his manhood till he had risked body and soul in that awful reckoning of the forces arrayed against it.He thought, till there was nothing worse to think; he felt, till no feeling could take him by surprise; he feared till he got to the bottom of fear, and there was nothing more to be afraid of. He prayed, for such struggles of the soul are prayers, though he seemed to cry into the darkness, and heard no voice nor any to answer.But when the tears, the shudderings of that hour of long pent-up anguish had passed, and he stood up on his feet, he was afraid no more, the "Dweller on the Threshold" had fled.CHAPTER XXXVI."LEAVE FORD?"AUSTIN unbarred the door and came down the narrow stairs in the thickness of the tower wall. Footsteps sounded below, and unwilling to encounter the old Saturday church cleaner, who would certainly have asked him after the health of each member of his family, and have finally complimented him on his growth, as she had done ever since he was two years old, he paused in the shelter of the door.The church, ordinarily a dark one, was filled with misty, tinted sunlight, which fell on a solitary figure walking slowly up the aisle. Austin saw his father's bare grey head, silvered and brightened in the misty light, and started as if he had seen a vision, as if his thoughts had taken outward shape.The Colonel walked slowly on up into the darkness of the chancel, and knelt down on the altar steps. Austin stood far away with bent head. The strange interview which he was seeking, which was to be in part a confession of blameworthiness, such as he never before felt needful, and in part an assertion of uprightness, such as he had never before dared to make, must wait. He sat down softly on a bench inside the door, and then, as he watched his kneeling father, knelt down himself. Nothing else was possible to him.After some little time the Colonel rose and came down the church with a slow and faltering step. He was pale, and put his hand, as if for aid, on the ends of the benches as he passed. He dropped some papers out of his hand, and Austin, purposely making his movements audible, came forward and picked them up.The Colonel looked at him with an altogether unexpected expression of face. It was as if he had not been thinking about him at all."Father," said Austin, "I was coming to find you. Will you let me walk home with you?"The Colonel laid his hand on the strong young arm, either for support or detention."Wait," he said. "Austin, I have something to tell you. It is not unfitting to speak of mistakes and incompetence here.""Father—then sit down, I am ready to hear anything that you may be willing to say to me."The Colonel, however, remained standing, with his hand on the poppy head of the last of the row of benches in the aisle."Austin," he said, "whatever your own conduct may have been, it is right that you should know what has happened. You have not, perhaps, read the papers to-day with much interest—but almost all I have was invested in shares—in——Bank," here the Colonel mentioned a name too well known among the authors of the world's great misfortunes. "It has failed, and I hardly know the extent of the consequences. This spring the old securities were called in and a change was necessary: the interest offered was good—you can see."Austin looked with a sort of external comprehension at the figures which his father thrust into his hand."I gave Hilda the same advice," said the Colonel after a pause. "About two-thirds of her money fell in for re-investment at the same time.""Did Uncle Chris. advise it?""No," said the Colonel. "His advice I knew would have been to take lower interest. But I was unwilling to let my brothers—both as you know, from their professions and your aunts' fortunes, much richer men than myself—I was unwilling to let them know how much the additional income was needed with us."The poor Colonel spoke in a quiet controlled voice, but the hand on the poppy head shook. The feelings of a man accustomed to feel responsible to his heirs as to his forefathers, and who regarded hereditary property as a sacred trust, curiously confused and blurred, almost reversed for a moment his relations to his doubted and discredited son. He had deeply injured Austin, be Austin what he might.There was no hesitation in Austin's bearing, strung up as were all his faculties to the highest pitch. What he felt, what he said next, was perhaps the keenest character test that could have been devised. He spoke at once."Then it is my place to help you to do the best possible for us all. Father, there is much in which I am, indeed, unworthy to be called your son, I will answer now any questions you can ask, and give you any explanations in my power. But I declare solemnly to you, that I gave Jack Purcell that thirty pounds to pay Jackson's bill. I have not robbed you. I am entirely incapable of doing so. I am absolutely to be trusted as an honest man. I am not afraid to say so, here in God's house. And I ask you to forgive me for all the other ways in which I have done amiss."The Colonel looked at him with wistful intensity."I have myself put it out of my power to wring the truth out of the Purcells for the present. But I ask you to accept my assurance until I can prove it. Of course," he added, with the faintest flicker of a smile, "I know you must continue to have many misgivings. Give me the benefit of the doubt.""I think that is only reasonable," said the Colonel.The words were stiff—dull—under the mark alto-gether, but in his heart he gave way. There might, there would be, "doubts, hesitation, and pain," but from that hour he took his son's part, and oh, how different, spite of all else, was now the future!What better outcome could Austin have hoped from what had seemed so lonely a struggle than the new force which had enabled him to work such a conviction?"Then, father," he said, "if you will stay here, or walk along the lane, while I run in and tell Kit that I am going back with you, I will follow you in a minute, and you will let me help you to face this trouble."The Colonel sat down on the neighbouring bench, and Austin rushed in upon Kit with hurried words, but with an utterly changed countenance."All right," said Kit, watching him, "I shall do now. And look here, those limited, very limited liabilities of yours—I think we can get them settled up, and perhaps I can put them in a more frivolous point of view before Uncle Nicholas."Austin's eyes glowed, and he squeezed Kit's hand; he did not accept the offer, but he would always be glad that Kit had made it before he knew how acceptable it would very likely be.He rejoined his father, and they walked on together, both for the moment so much less miserable, that they could speak quietly of what Austin began to see was a most terrible misfortune.The Colonel, sick at heart, had gone into the library, his morning letters and papers unopened for some hours. When he took heart to look at them, this news came to light. He had come out, he hardly knew why, or whither."I am afraid, Austin, I am afraid," he said, "that I had not the resolution to face Hilda. I begged her to consult Christopher also, but, poor dear child, she expressed her entire contentment with my advice. But it is due to her to tell her at once."Then Austin said that he thought first they had better make their own minds quite clear as to what had happened, and get facts and figures distinctly on paper, so as not to frighten Hilda more than could be helped. It was possible, too, that things were not quite so bad as they seemed, and his Uncle Christopher must be told and asked to give his help."Yes," said the Colonel, "we must consult him of course.""You'll come in, father, first, and sit down, and get a little rested," said Austin; and so, closely consulting, they came up the garden together, and Nancy's astonished eyes fell on them as she sat, idle and miserable, in the window of the breakfast-room, where the three ladies had been holding a long and fruitless talk.When Nancy that morning had looked round the well-worn room—a room neither luxurious nor artistic, hardly even tasteful in its arrangements, and yet with the harmony of long, well-ordered living—it seemed to her that the old books on the shelves, and the old brown chintz covers on the chairs, cried out against anything so unaccustomed and so disturbing as Austin's conduct.Agatha sat down and began to add up the clothing club accounts. She was old enough to know that the day's work must be done."My dear," she said, "did Polly Jones pay in threepence or fourpence last week?""How can I think about it!" said Nancy, passionately. "I could understand if Austin died, or we were ruined suddenly, I could understand bearing that well. But in this there's neither sense nor hope. If I was not miserable I should despise myself.""My dear, nothing can happen without being a call to patience," said Agatha. "It is a severe trial, but perhaps some day we shall know why it was sent. It will be in the end for our good.""I never cared about being rich and smart," said Nancy, "but I did like to think that every one belonging to me was good. I can never be proud of being a Fairford again.""You talk," said Hilda, "as if it was proved that Austin was guilty.""It seems he did it once," said Nancy. "That's enough for me. Besides, all along he has been deceitful.""There is such a thing as charity," said Hilda."I don't understand charity," said Nancy, "if it means pretending that you trust people when you don't.""It is better not to talk, Nancy," said Agatha. "It is, of course, very hard to keep the real strong hatred of the sin, and feel mercy to the sinner. We mustn't lose sight of the first. Of course, He—the One who had a right to pardon, could see if there was repentance. We cannot, and I must confess, I hear things said about charity which seem hardly safe.""Or true," said Nancy, bitterly."Suppose you were a sinner yourself," said Hilda."But I couldn't be, in that sense," said the girl; "and I should despise myself if I lowered my principles for any one's sake."Her throat ached and her eyes stung, but no other line of thought seemed possible."There is the dreadful thought of his having been with us at the holiest of services," said Agatha, in the low, reverent tone with which she had before spoken, "when all the while he was not open.""Which of us is?" said Hilda. "How could he stay away? Have you never been there with bad thoughts? He is a man, so he could do bad things. We can't.""I have followed the rule of the Catechism," said Agatha, before Nancy said, astonished:"I shouldn't think of coming with bad thoughts; you can always get rid of them if you like."As she spoke, her eyes fell on her father and brother coming up the path, the Colonel's hand on Austin's arm, and both evidently deep in consultation.They came into the house as the luncheon gong sounded, and turned into the dining-room. Austin helped his father with some solicitude, pouring out wine for him, and then began himself to eat cold beef and drink beer with energy. He had had scarcely any breakfast, and was young and healthy enough to be hungry in spite of stress of feeling. For the moment he was more conscious of the weight on his father's mind than on his own, and began to give information about Kit, to which only Hilda replied by small frightened questions. Agatha and Nancy were both silent, and he very shortly became so.Presently the Colonel rose."It is my wish," he said, "that our family intercourse should be carried on as usual. For what is past I long ago pardoned my son; and though our thoughts may be beyond our control, as to the present by the law of our country every one is regarded as innocent until he is proved guilty. Austin, when you have finished, will you come to me in the library?"He left the room, and Agatha at once said:"Do you return to the Rectory to night, Austin?""I think I must go and see if Kit wants me, but I don't think he will," said Austin.Hilda speedily fled, and in a minute Agatha followed her, and the brother and sister were left alone.The relations between them were still so youthful and simple that Nancy was ready to break out into childish reproaches.Her knowledge of the past was a terrible thing for Austin to face. He looked at her."Nancy," he began, but she broke in upon him."Don't speak to me! I can never trust you. You have spoiled my whole life, and I shall never—never—be happy any more. I should like to go away and never see Ford again.""I wonder," said Austin, slowly, "whether you really would."But she rushed away without giving him an answer.CHAPTER XXXVII.WHAT WILL IT COST?As Mrs. Purcell stirred about on that same morning over her necessary household duties, her clever brains, recovering from the shock and terror of the night before, began to consider the situation. Her emotions subsided, and as she was one of those who, however much they feel, cannot help also thinking, the facts began to adjust themselves in her mind. The trained nurse took a hopeful view of Jack's chances, only insisting on absolute quiet for him, and the result of the quarrel left her time to think of its cause. When people's feelings carry their judgment with them, life is simpler, but though all the passion of the mother's nature rallied round her son, she knew in that secret conviction which, as has been well said, is "the conscience of the mind," that Jack had lied and that Austin had not. She tried to think that the boy had only induced her to lie as an extra safeguard, but in her heart she knew otherwise.She had done Austin Fairford great wrong. The inveterate inborn belief that somehow the gentleman would escape consequences and leave her boy to bear the blame, rose up to justify her action, besides the instincts that urged her to defend her son, with every weapon in her power as a lioness would light for her cub with teeth and claws. But she knew all about the instincts of the cub.However shocking and startling her cousin Macnamara's revelations of Austin's past might be they scarcely confused her certainty. She was far more sure of Austin's innocence than the poor Colonel, than any of the bystanders. Mrs. Purcell's faculties were untrained, but they were very keen; nor could she help arranging events in her mind, and, as she made the pies for the Sunday dinner, and kept her ears open for any sounds from the two sick rooms, her imagination pictured the scenes through which she might be likely to pass, and the alternatives of betraying her son and continuing to forswear herself were quite clear before her. She was brought at once face to face with a foreseen crisis, when there was a tap at the outer door of the kitchen and Miss Villiers herself stood before her.It never occurred to Daffodil that patience and submission meant inaction. If anything could be done for Austin she must do it. She trusted him, she ranged herself on his side; but is any human trust, that is not mere animal fidelity, free from the possibility of fear? She believed in him, she meant to stand by him; but after all, she did not thoroughly know him.She had sat through the evening before correcting Latin exercises, and setting lessons for her scholars. To give in did not occur to her. Her mother talked to her, by no means harshly, but holding a brief against Austin with clear, cool, good sense."You know, Daff," she said, "if you were not in love with him you would see it as I do.""No, mother," said Daffodil, "you see it too simply.""Be it as it may, my dear, he cannot possibly marry you, and he ought to know it. But for this affair I should have told him so.""Well, mother, he does know it. There can be no question of marriage just now.""Well, then,what can there be question of? Look here, Daffodil, you'll throw yourself into this miserable business, and centre all your thoughts and your happiness in it, and when it's over, where will you be? You may think now that you are ready to give up your whole life to him, but you'll have lots of lives—you're at the very beginning of things, you'll come to the end of this feeling. Now, my dear, you're too clever not to know that feelings don't last for ever.""Well, mother," said Daffodil again, "when I do come to the end of the feeling, I must settle what to do about it. While I have it, I shall be true to it, and that's all you can say about anything. It's all I've got to go by just now. There is that between Austin and me which, as long as it does last, even if you think it won't last long, gives us a right to each other's help and confidence. I can't desert him any more than if I'd married him. I did promise to marry him.""Daffodil, that's very romantic, helpful friendship and all that sort of thing, but it's not real. You'll get carried away by your fine feeling, and then, oh, my dear, you'll be miserable and silly, and a thousand things, which you don't know anything about. Your happiness and your health and your good sense, Daff, may all come to shipwreck—over such a hopeless, miserable business as a love affair that can't come to an ordinary conclusion. Fine impulses, Daffadowndilly, are too much for people sometimes. People's characters can't stand them.""Mother, you are worse than Mephistopheles," cried Daffodil, starting up; "that's just how he would put it.""It's true," said Mrs. Villiers, steadily. "You will come to an end of your present feelings, and if you give way to them, you'll break down under the worry of it.""No, mother," said Daffodil, "I don't think I shall. Of course I know that I should be very sorry for any other girl in my place, and, like Mephistopheles, you say quite true things, and it's quite right that I should be made to think about them. As I said before, I won't do one thing that you don't know of. The only thing I want to do now, is to go and talk to Mrs. Purcell, and see if I can find out if she tells the truth.""But that mixes you up with the business. I want you out of it.""So does Austin," said Daffodil, "but I shouldn't be a Christian if I did keep out of it.""Oh, my dear," said Mrs. Villiers, with some irritation, "it's quite superfluous to talk about Christianity in connection with love affairs. The motive's strong enough without it.""Well," said Daffodil, drily, "it's as well to have it in the background."There was no use in arguing the matter out. The promptings of the soul have to be resisted or followed for good or evil at the soul's own risk, and Daffodil, following hers, found herself in the Hole kitchen just as the pies were put in the oven.She had come there with a definite purpose, and a daring one. Had she power enough over Mrs. Purcell to make her tell the truth? She had much power. The intense admiration felt by Mrs. Purcell for the kind and brilliant girl who spoke to her as equal mind to mind, and helped her to pleasures of which no one else knew that she stood in need, was quite genuine, and a thrill ran through her as Daffodil stood looking at her with eyes which recalled the Ladye in her bower.All the natural inquiries as to Jack's condition were made and answered, and then Daffodil said deliberately:"The accident is a terrible trouble to Mr. Austin.""Oh, Miss Daffodil—I don't think—I can't think in my right mind that Mr. Austin meant to kill my poor Jack. Oh, it is a true grief to me to think ill of Mr. Austin!""I wish," said Daffodil, sitting down in Purcell's big chair by the fire, "that you would tell me just what you think happened.""I—I don't know—whether I ought to say anything.""Yes, to me you ought. Because if none of this had happened I should now have been engaged to be married to Mr. Austin.""Oh, yes, Miss Daffodil, to your Knight in the bower. I felt sure—I knew it must be true," cried Mrs. Purcell, carried away for the moment, and looking quite illuminated."Yes, so I've a right to ask about him. How do you know that he did not give Jack that thirty pounds?""Oh, I know my boy would tell the truth.""But do you know?""Yes," cried Mrs. Purcell, desperately, "didn't I see him give him only the fifty? I know—I know Jack didn't have it. I know it, I know it.""I don't believe you. That's not true," said Daffodil. "I know you're not speaking the truth. Mrs. Purcell, for my sake, for everybody's sake—for Jack's sake even, tell me the whole truth now."She caught Mrs. Purcell's hands in her own, and their eyes met in an awful contest. "My lover." "My son." The two great human passions struggled hard, while every force of influence and resistance in the souls of the two women met and fought with each other."Speak, speak!" cried the girl."No—no!" gasped the mother.Then another force shot like an arrow through the passionate weight of Daffodil's entreaty."Speak the truth," she said, "for the love of God, speak the truth and don't lie! Yes, speak the truth before God, whichever it condemns."Then the poorer soul and the weaker spirit cowered before the stronger. Mrs. Purcell wrenched her hands free, and, sinking into a chair, hid her face in them and sobbed."Oh, my boy—oh, my boy—oh, what is to become of us all!"It was a virtual confession, and Daffodil threw her arms round her and kissed her, sobbing too."Austin will not hurt him," she began, when another voice said:"Mrs. Purcell."Daffodil turned her head and saw the nurse standing in the door."Mrs. Purcell, your son is calling you. He seems disturbed in his mind."Mrs. Purcell sprang up and flew out of the room, and Daffodil, baffled in the moment of victory, sank into her place, conscious of the struggle she had gone through.Mrs. Purcell flew upstairs, and stood by Jack's bed."What is it, my darling?" she said; and Jack muttered, "Mother, mother, don't forget—you know.""Did he hear us talking?" said Mrs. Purcell, quickly."I heard nothing," said the nurse. "I don't think he could.""Mother," muttered Jack."No, no, I don't forget," said Mrs. Purcell. "No, no, I know—I know."Mrs. Purcell ran downstairs, and stood for a moment in Daffodil's presence."It's a providence," she said, "a providence. My boy knew that I was nearly going to—to doubt him. I never, never, will. I'll be true to him for ever and ever!"She was gone again in a moment, and Daffodil looked after her, startled. What, after all, had she gained? The absolute certainty for herself that Jack and his mother had agreed together to tell a lie, and the knowledge that she had nearly made Mrs. Purcell speak the truth, that she had put a tremendous force upon her, which somehow had reached farther than she had guessed. She perceived that nothing more could be done now, but there was something else which she guessed would be wise.She could, as has been seen, keep a secret. She could also give confidence. Except the actual fact in Austin's past, she would give herself the safeguard of Miss Worthington's knowledge of all her own part in the matter.It was comfortable to sit on the hearth-rug in Amy's sitting-room and tell all she could."You know," she concluded, "it's not only Austin. You know, I'm really something to Mrs. Purcell. You told me once she'd be a handful for me. I know she's telling lies for Jack's sake, and I must try and stop her. Wouldn't you?""Well, Daffodil, I doubt if you will stop her. You'll be able to work on her conscience, no doubt. One can do most things, short of getting people to act. But still in your place I should try, knowing, however, that she may turn round on you, and say false things of you from the prick of her conscience.""Yes," said Daffodil, "I daresay she may—sometimes. She's not a very good woman, but there are fine bits in her. I wonder if there are any in Jack. But what I mean is, one has got to do one's duty by a little friendship, just as much as by a great love.""Yes, that's sound," said Amy. "But you, like Austin, must just wait till Jack's better. What happened to-day may be a mere chance, but no sort of excitement must be risked now.""I feel," said Daffodil, pulling the sticks about in the wood fire, "I feel almost as if I could make Jack tell the truth.""Perhaps you could," said Miss Worthington. "I've no doubt that you could make his mother do so. But if you only put the force of your influence on her, it won't do much good, she'll swing back like a pendulum. You'll have to try in quieter times to get her to see it for herself. That will be for you to do even if, as is very likely, the truth is found out otherwise. But now, my dear, I quite recognise that you can't, as you say, keep out of it in feeling and intent. But your mother is very much in the right. Austin Fairford is your lover, and it would not be right of him as things are now to claim your promise. You don't want to add to the gossip which must fly about. You had really better not come here much at present. I'll keep you in touch with what goes on, and, if Austin wants you, he can find you easily."Daffodil reddened and was silent. Then she looked up."I know," she said, "I've got to be very careful not to make a fool of myself. Well, I'll stay away if I don't feel quite certain that I ought to come."She rose up, smiling. "This afternoon," she said, "I've got to go and see a girl I know in Bishopsford whose lover drinks. She's a clerk in the post office, and he 'travels in oleographs.' She told me, somehow. Her people don't know about it—the drinking I mean—she wants to give him up and not say why—I want her to tell them. 'So runs the world away!' Oh, and do you know, I've almost got Mrs. Hatton to take the pledge."She went off with a kiss and a resolute smile."Twenty-three!" thought Amy. "When I was her age my fellow-creatures were lay-figures to me. The world gets on. What an amount it will have held for that girl before she's fifty! But if that slippery young Purcell has telepathic powers in his state of brain excitement, it complicates the situation. The world's running very fast just now, and I don't see where it's going to—we're whirling through space.''CHAPTER XXXVIII."FATHER, I AM SORRY."IF the record of Austin Fairford's past did not suddenly leap to light on that eventful Saturday, something mysterious showed vaguely in the shadows, and Ford Regis and Bishopsford began to ask what was the matter. Knocking a man down may have answered as a method of silencing slander in simpler and more heroic times; but when Austin applied it to his dispute with Jack Purcell, he set everyone in the neighbourhood asking why he had so forgotten himself. Reasons why crept out of obscure corners. Debts were spoken of. The fact of the forged receipt, betrayed perhaps by some of Jackson's people, came under discussion. Austin's homecoming and home-staying began to demand explanation, and as he and his father drove in to Christopher Fairford's office early in the afternoon, curious glances followed them, and some thought, as the solicitor uncle did himself, that the young man had been brought to make a full confession of his sins, and to take legal advice on their consequences. Gerald Worthington, as he picked up little bits and pieced together little indications from wild words of Mrs. Purcell's, cautious inquiries of the uncle's, half confidences at the Macnamaras—Mrs. Macnamara obligingly caught bronchitis during her house moving, and had to send for the doctor—soon arrived at a tolerable notion of the state of the case. He had always suspected a mystery, and now it pleased him to find the clue to it. He put the facts together, and his conclusions from them resembled Miss Agatha's to a degree which would have greatly surprised her.When saint and worldling were in accord, what chance had the sinner between them? Gerald Worthington couldn't afford to stand up for Tosty, especially as it was not likely that he was unjustly suspected. He got a firmer foothold every day on the ladder of success, but he was still forced to cling on with his teeth.Pursuing these thoughts, he was returning from a round, really quite a long little round, of professional visits—and oh, poor fellow, what satisfaction they gave him! He was returning through the meadows belonging to Ford, when he met Nancy, on her way back from the sewing class to which her aunt had sternly sent her, on the ground that personal trouble should never interfere with daily duties. Nancy, full of young self-conscious passion, had felt abashed before the eyes of the little girls, as she fixed their hems and gathers, and now at sight of Worthington she turned scarlet and greeted him with awkward stiffness."My sister and I are to have the pleasure of dining with you next week, as I understand," said Gerald, easily, after a word or two."Yes, I hope so.""I trust," said Gerald, cautiously, "that your brother will not make himself uneasy as to the result of Purcell's accident. I have little doubt that he will do well."He spoke from the instinct of taking advantage of any chance of making play; but Nancy turned round on him with fierce, miserable eyes."Oh, Dr. Worthington, I am ashamed to look you in the face, you, who were falsely accused and bore it so bravely—and we began by holding aloof—and—and now——""Indeed, Miss Fairford," said Worthington, "I can hardly express my sense of the kindness and fairness with which I have been treated. Every chance has been given me to live down an unlucky mistake. I am grateful. In the little I have seen of your brother he has been most courteous and kind to me."Between Nancy's passionate truthfulness and the loyalty that prevented her from actually betraying her brother, she hardly knew what to say."False charges are only an honour," she said, and somehow Worthington got her out of her difficulty and managed to get round to a case of illness in the village, walking by her side, and fairly making her forget Austin altogether.When he parted from her at the turn to the Hole, she was by many degrees less miserable, and a new idea had shown him an unexpected face. He was not quite prepared to welcome it, but he packed it away for future consideration.Nancy had never had so intimate a conversation with any man out of her own family before. In fact she had no girl-friends even, out of the Fairford circle, and her notion of intercourse was merely agreeable companionship. She went home wondering if Dr. Worthington could influence Austin for good—and got in just as the father and son came back from Bishopsford.They came into the drawing-room together where Nancy had joined the other ladies, and something as they came in recalled to Hilda that other homecoming when all but the young sister had suffered silent agonies of shame, and Austin, speechless, sullen, had looked like a wild beast in a cage. She even seemed to remember the voice in which the Colonel had then remarked that it had been a fine day.Austin was silent now. He looked very unhappy; somehow Hilda felt that another blow was coming.The Colonel began to speak:"I have to tell you," he said, "of a severe misfortune. Austin considers that it is better that you should know it at once. I have already told him.""Is Jack Purcell—dead?" cried Nancy."No," said the Colonel, rather sharply. "Nor likely to die, as I am told; but I have already told Austin——""I think," said Miss Agatha, as the Colonel chose his words slowly, "that Austin might spare you the pain of telling us the result of your inquiries."Austin smiled."I will," he said, "if my father will let me. He has had some money losses. The——Bank has failed. He was quite justified in taking shares in it, and also, as I think, deeply as we must regret it, in advising Hilda to do so. But the loss is a very heavy one, and we cannot see just yet what it will involve. Let me show them Uncle Christopher's statement, father. This is how it is."Hilda looked and listened. She heard the explanation, " Shares" "—" failure "—" calls "—"such a number of thousands, "and then—"we fear it will cost Hilda quite two-thirds of her income."She felt as if in a dream. A fact so unfamiliar to the life-long habits of her thoughts as a change in her steady fixed income could not at once be grasped, and surely this was not Austin speaking with quiet authority, and taking the lead among them."I deeply regret," said the Colonel, "I cannot express to Hilda how deeply I regret having acted on my own judgment on her behalf, but she knows—she sees—if it had been my own daughter——""Oh, uncle, yes—indeed I'm glad you did," cried Hilda, with quick, unreasonable, generous impulse."It's only money," broke out Nancy. "Papa, we don't mind about that:"Then Agatha left her chair, and crossing over to her brother, solemnly kissed him. "Nicholas," she said, "in a trouble such as this we can all help each other. You won't find any of us repine at retrenchments; no doubt they will be very good for us. We know well that there are worse things than money losses to bear.""You all show generosity," said the Colonel, "and I thank you—but the effects of money losses are very far-reaching, and if we have to leave Ford, I trust we shall be enabled——"The three women started——"Leave Ford!" With a sudden flash, the meaning" of the trouble thrilled through Nancy's young untried soul. "Leave Ford!—leave life!" She hid her face in her hands. "Leave Ford! Leave the old narrow round, the old dull routine!" Something that was not misery sprung up within Hilda's heart. The impossible change had come."Leave Ford!" Leave the home she had never left in all her seventy years? Agatha's delicate old face turned pale and cold. She held up her head, then bowed it, as she said resolutely, "His will be done.""You have all," said Colonel Fairford, "taken this misfortune in a truly noble spirit, especially my son, whose prospects in life I have injured so irreparably."There was no answer, only the sound of hasty footsteps moving away from where Austin, since Agatha's first speech, had been standing in the darkness behind his father's chair.Nobody spoke again; perhaps nobody could. It was the instinct of them all to hide emotion, and after a minute they each went separately away. The Colonel slowly went back to his library. A tall figure started up in the dim firelight, and a hand caught his."Father—indeed—I am sorry——"His voice failed, the father drew his son close, and the long long years since childish sins had been repented and forgiven, passed out of sight. They were still father and son."If your dear mother had lived, my boy," said the Colonel, presently, "she would have known better how to understand your trials.""Father, you said then you were glad she was dead.""I was wrong, Austin, wrong. I have not taken her place."They were sitting now side by side, and Austin spoke at intervals."It was so very bad, not being fit for the army; everything seemed forfeited.""It has been long over now, my boy.""And seeing you—ashamed.""Perhaps, Austin, I forgot that vii were ashamed too.""It drove me mad, and any fool's trick helped me to forget you. And then—when you asked where I had been——""Your mother would have understood.""I am so afraid—so dreadfully afraid," said Austin after a long pause, "that poor Jack won't recover.""Ah, Austin, that's in the hands of a Father who loves you more than I do.""I don't think He can," said Austin."Ah, my boy, I have failed to teach you, but, my son, I take your word—I take your word—and whatever comes we will go through it together."Austin sat up and looked round. Life would begin anew. But he put his hands over his eyes, as if bewildered."I think," he said, "that I am very tired. I believe I must rest. Only I promised to see Kit again.""I will write Kit a note and explain to him that you cannot come. Rest by all means; you have gone through too much."Austin went upstairs, dizzy and stupid with the exhaustion of such a week of high pressure.The Colonel, the new trouble half forgotten in the softening of the old one, moved briskly to write his note. He faced the dinner at which the three women were all strung up to be brave by every principle and instinct within them. They said very little to each other, but each during the evening, as she sat over book or work in their accustomed fashion, thought of the unaccustomed chances of the future. Austin did not appear again, and the Colonel sent down to the Hole for the last account of Jack, and finding it at least no worse, went, as he had scarcely ever done before, to his son's room, thinking to relieve his anxiety so that he might sleep, but when, as no answer came to his gentle knock, he went in, he found the poor young fellow so dead asleep, that even the unwonted footstep failed to disturb him. All the hard look of effort was gone, and the face, though pale, soft and boyish as it used to be in days almost forgotten.The Colonel put Dr. "Worthington's note on a table by the bed and went away softly, a happy man.CHAPTER XXXIX."YOUR FRIEND."DAFFODIL had to get through her Sunday as best she might. She went to church, and augured, she know not what, from Austin's absence, augured something that was not all grievous, when the Colonel stepped a little out of his way, and said " Good morning, my dear Diaphenia," with marked kindness.There was a great concourse of Fairfords. Young Nicholas, newly ordained, was preaching his first sermon in his father's church, and all the "Christophers" had come over to hear him. George, just passed into the army, had been ordered to Burmah; it was his last Sunday with his family. The losses at Ford, the charges against Austin were not the only events of the time. The custom was to go into the Rectory after service and exchange greetings, and news. Mrs. Villiers had never allowed this practice to be invariably expected of herself or her daughter. It would have been "nicer," most of the cousins thought, if she had. To-day, however, was a special occasion. After Nicholas's correct young sermon had been listened to by his mother and sisters with a breathless interest, which eloquence and experience would hardly have excited, they joined the others, and went into the big, cheerful drawing-room. Austin was sitting with Kit, who was downstairs, and pronounced himself as well as usual.The two young heroes of the day came up to Daffodil, as her mother said afterwards, "to lay their respective rats at her feet." Kit went up and shook hands with the Colonel, in rather a marked manner."Well, Nick, did you bring the house down?" he said, turning to his brother."My dear Kit," said Mrs. Christopher Fairford, "I don't consider that a well-chosen expression.""I beg your pardon, Aunt Chris. It was entirely metaphorical, and meant to express my disappointment at not being able to go and sit under him.""I didn't know the great event was to come off to-day," said Austin, joining the young men as they stood by Daffodil's side."It has been settled for some time," said Nick.Did she fancy that the stiff answer was intentional, and that there was a purpose in George's sudden moving aside? She looked round. The Colonel had beckoned the Rector away with him. Nancy, usually at this time full of Sunday-school gossip, was dead silent, with her veil over her eyes. The other girls went into the conservatory, the elder ladies spoke together. She looked at Kit, who flushed and frowned, as he sat down again in his place, then at Austin, who looked quite impassive."I want to talk to you," he said quietly. "When can it be done?""Come to Pretty Peep this afternoon," she said, "that will be best."He nodded, and looked round the room, which was quickly emptying. Kit got up again and came over to him, for the purpose apparently of telling Daffodil that it was a fine day."I'm going on," said Austin, "the rest will follow. Keep out of mischief, Kit." He went, and Mary called Daffodil aside."Oh, Daff," she said, "do you know about Austin? Isn't it dreadful? Nick says we ought to have been told long ago; that it's not been fair, and George says, that when a man is in the army it's hard on him to have to associate with anyone who couldn't—you know——""Kit doesn't appear to think so.""He would if it wasn't Austin.""But it is Austin.""I don't know," said Mary. "I'm very sorry. But they say every one is talking about Jackson's receipt, and George picked up the old story in Bishopsford. And now he thinks Uncle Nicholas has lost some money. Perhaps it went to pay Austin's debts; and then there's Jack Purcell. I don't know what we shall do. Of course nobody can trust him—one's own cousin! I am so sorry. Poor Nancy, how miserable she looks!""Do you think I look miserable?" said Daffodil."You? No, why should you?""Because I promised the other day to marry Austin. I should be very miserable if I thought so ill of him."The ringing of the dinner-bell and the movement of the others cut off Mary's amazed reply. Daffodil held her head up and smiled proudly. She would at least stand to her colours."One must consider the effect of example," said Nick."A man must think of his own position," said George, who had been wont to coax Austin to give him rabbit shooting.Daffodil did not hear these remarks but she guessed them, and Mrs. Villiers, taken into confidence and condoled with on her girl's infatuation, heard everything, and more than everything, even to Lady Barbara's certainty "from Agatha's marked silence" that she distrusted the motives of Austin's most apparently amiable actions. For Agatha was silent. She contributed no word outside the walls of Ford to the family discussion.Austin came in the afternoon to Pretty Peep, and Daffodil met him and took him into the quaint little dining-room, a tiny place with turquoise blue paper, white paint, and yellow twill covering. "Nothing there worth twopence," as Mrs. Villiers said, but the outcome of Daffodil's taste and of their joint handiwork.As they stood alone together in the fire-warmed, sunlit room, the lost future showed to Austin its sweet, impossible face. He had awoke that morning to a new peace, but also to new pain. For the heart of flesh is not callous like the heart of stone, and his old view that defiant pride gives strength was true as far as it went. As the real Austin Fairford, simple, affectionate, loyal to tradition, stirred under the weight that had forced him into one narrow groove, all natural loves woke up to natural pangs."I want you to understand everything," he said. "We have lost a great deal of money, Ford may have to be let—perhaps sold—I must work, if I can get work. But you saw to-day, everything is now known. Even if I get clear of this present matter, as if I can I will—even if Jack recovers—the old story can be—and will be—told against me. My father—my father has forgiven me, believes me, and Kit—you saw Kit—and you—""I know you," interposed Daffodil."Yes," he said more firmly, "I think you do. I have told you all the truth, and I am not going to give up myself. I'm not the mean hound I seem. I'm going to fight for my character as far as I can save it, and for my soul—which I've nearly lost—but not quite. Don't be ashamed of me—you shall not need. But, this is good-bye. I must let you go. There's no chance, no choice. There can be no question now—""Of our being married," said Daffodil. "I know, but I do know you, and I love you—I've told you so. And it won't make me in the least unhappy to keep on being your friend—I am that.""No," said Austin, suddenly and roughly, "I'm your lover, and nothing else is possible. I'll never drag you down to my level—I'm not such a fiend. But I shall love you till I'm in my grave.""Well," said Daffodil, in a clear, strained voice, "I shall love you beyond that, a long way."Austin flung himself into a chair and covered his face."Oh," he groaned, "how awfully, how awfully I'm punished!""Why are you afraid of hurting me?" said Daffodil. "Won't it comfort you a little to know how I love you? I can quite bear that our love should have no earthly close. If we'd happened to have been married first, I must have stuck to you. And when I told you I loved you, that for me was just the same, and will be always.""No, no, if I let you keep on any tie between us, if I let you call yourself anything to me, I could not look you in the face. What are you talking of? How could we meet and write as friends? When we are life, and love, and joy to each other, what's the use of pretending? No, no, I shall think of you, dream of you, worship you. When I'm cut to the quick with shame, I shall remember that you trust me; when the world's all black, there'll still be you in it. I shall say to myself, she loved me, and I'll not fall below her thoughts of me. She loved me—even me. But nothing more, nothing else.""Well," said Daffodil, "as far as I'm concerned, that'll do. What more do you think I want?"He laughed a little."We both mean the same thing," she said."No, we don't," said Austin. "That's my side. You might keep apart and free.""Might I?" she said, and looked into his face. And then he knew that she could not; and he knew what love the love is that is divine. For the source of love is the same, though the stream flows through earthen vessels, through other souls to ours, through us to other souls.Austin did not even say that he understood her. He gave in without protest, and they talked—as friends—talked fearlessly through all the frightening facts that divided them. Then he said—"Now, before I go, take me to your mother;" and Daffodil, wondering, took him into the drawing-room, where Mrs. Villiers sat, fretting over the interview, wondering what was passing, longing to interrupt them. He spoke at once."I have told Daffodil everything that has happened since the day I came to you and told you that I loved her. You will not expect me to deny that now, nor to suppose she gave me her promise lightly. I don't think it can injure her, if by chance it has become known that I have the honour of loving her. But be assured that I hold her by no promise. I shall claim nothing from her.""I shall be plain spoken," said Mrs. Villiers. "I don't think you ought to have asked her to marry you without telling me all your story. As it is, any engagement would be preposterous. I hope she will get over her feelings and forget you, and you ought to do nothing to make that harder for her.""I hope I never shall," said Austin. "I don't admit that I ought to have told you a long past fact; but I know well now that I never could have kept its results from her. I can't help it that she has been my salvation."He was gone, with no further farewell, and Daffodil, her heart still on fire, said resolutely:"Now, mother, you will see if I am miserable.""No, my dear, very likely I shall not, but you will be," said Mrs. Villiers."Then I will be," said Daffodil, for the time of tears had not come; she was still at white heat.But he, standing in the darkness outside her gate, even while he loved and rejoiced and took courage, longed for the kiss he had renounced, for the farewell he had not taken, for the sweet, sweet human hope that he had forfeited.It would have been much easier to give Daffodil up altogether.CHAPTER XL.AT BRACEBRIDGE.AFTER, this week of thickly-packed experiences there ensued a period when the tide of events was slack; the bank notes were not traced, and Jack Purcell grew little better or worse.Christmas was imminent, a fact which greatly increased the practical awkwardness of the difficult situation. The Christmas dinner at Ford was an institution only less sacred among the Fairfords than the religious services of the day. It dated from before the Colonel's earliest recollections, and included the Pretty Peep cousins as a matter of course. No member of the family could remember an English Christmas spent in any other manner. They were all proud of the unbroken custom. Many and serious as were the questions at stake, this matter was the first to be anxiously discussed among the clan.Mrs. Villiers, as was her wont, took the bull promptly by the horns, and declared her intention of taking herself and Daffodil to spend Christmas with some old friends at Midwell, a plan which Daffodil had no desire to dispute. It was the first fruits of being "friends," and there was no use in thinking of what that Christmas dinner might have been if she and Austin had continued to be lovers. Lady Barbara and Mrs. Chris. Fairford consulted whether they could make Kit's health the excuse for breaking the old habit. If Kit could not go? But Kit had long ago settled, before the trouble began, that he would spend two or three nights at Ford sooner than be absent from this family festival, fondly remembered as it had been through all his years of absence.Then, would the Colonel want them? Yes; the Colonel said that he hoped that "at least once more," he might receive them all at his table. But then it was so awkward about Austin. To this difficulty the two uncles made reply, that, with regard to Austin's original lapse, they had long ago pledged themselves to put it behind them. They regretted that it had come to the knowledge of their sons and daughters, but no outward notice could possibly be taken of it. As for the present charge, it was unproved, and whatever line they might have taken if Nicholas's affairs had been prosperous, it would ill-become them to make so marked a change in the face of the public, when his severe losses must soon be known to every one. It would not be right by the family, and the Fairfords always did what they knew to be right. Moreover, they, none of them, had the least sympathy with the kind of feeling which avoids ceremonial occasions of emotion, would make funerals brief and shirk formal partings. To do so would have seemed to them like shirking the lessons of life. Austin, however, knew perfectly that, as Worthington had been wont to say, they were "behaving well" to him."They tolerate me out of self-respect," he said once to Kit."Don't split hairs," returned Kit angrily.Kit's championship made much difference to the young people's attitude. If he had led the opposition, it would have had more to say. Not that Kit always understood his party, if so Austin might be called, or approved of his actions."Not go to church because you're expected to go there?" he said. "I call that morbid rubbish. You're bound to follow the rules of the service and do what you know to be right. What does it matter what any one thinks of you?""There's too much to be gained by it," said Austin."Rot," said Kit, briefly.But he told his brother that no one could expect Austin to come to church when he would be supposed to go there with a lie on his lips. He was nothing if not thorough.And one perplexing feature of this perplexing time was that it was on this doubted and discredited Austin that all business matters at Ford hinged.He was the heir, and it was the way of the family to tie property as tightly to the succession as the law allowed; not a field could be sold, not a step taken without his consent. Not only was he the only person capable of really looking the situation in the face and of judging what changes were inevitable, but his father clung to him in a curious way. His nerves felt the shock of the blow that had befallen him, and he distrusted his own judgment. He would do nothing without Austin, and hardly liked to have him out of his sight, partly perhaps from the old lingering desire, at once so bitter and so pathetic, to know what he was doing, and partly from something so new and so sweet that Austin dared not name it to himself. It could not be that his father took comfort in him. And yet it often seemed as if he did. Therefore it came about that when Christopher Fairford was not using his sharp intellect in endeavouring vainly to trace the lost bank-notes, and to discover in any direction a clue to the mystery of Austin's conduct, he was engaged in going over the affairs of the estate with Austin himself, and in discovering that the young man's view was generally shrewd and always unselfish."Going out, Austin?" said the Colonel, one morning a few days before Christmas; "the meet's at Bracebridge.""Yes, father, I think I will," said Austin, after a moment.He did not mean to shirk society, though he knew very well that a "little mystic hint" of the past, and something more than a hint of the present, had crept out and showed its face there. Besides he loved hunting; he was as good a horseman as any man in the county. It was the one pleasure that had never been grudged to him, and he had space now, among all his other troubles, for a regret at the thought that he would soon be unable to indulge in it. He did not like to think how nearly it might be the last time that he should ride the old hunter, with which he had silently held his own against men of many mounts and much talk of them; and present pleasure had a hardish fight with sad forebodings, as he rode off on a pleasant morning, with a fresh soft wind in his face. Nancy would not go. The propriety of hunting for ladies had long ago been conceded to the traditions which Lady Barbara had brought with her from her own family, and Nancy dearly loved a gallop; but now it would be difficult to say whether Austin's refusal to go to church or desire to go out hunting jarred most on her idea of what would have been becoming in him. But the Colonel came out and patted Raglan, so called after his old Crimean general, and murmured a wish that this one could be kept on; he was an old favourite.Austin soon reached Bracebridge. Things had by no means come to such a pass that any one would show him that he was not welcome; and he exchanged a few greetings as he rode up to the door, while those who had whispered about him, noted that he was a fine, stately young fellow, good-looking as were all the Fairfords. He went into the dining-room where the hunt breakfast was spread, and made his way up to the young ladies of the house. He had a fancy to see how Minna Lyall looked when Kit's name was mentioned, and in common courtesy some one must ask how Captain Fairford was.Minna was there in the very smartest and neatest get up possible. Her hat and habit made her look more enchantingly soft and girlish than ever. Behold, it was she herself who, with lifted eyes and a pretty smile, asked for Captain Fairford."Much better, thanks; he is coming to us for Christmas," said Austin, with extreme cheerfulness. The little minx should not suppose that Kit was pining for her.Minetta did blush as she answered:"I'm so glad. He was so disappointed when you did not come to the dance.""Does she mean to keep up an interest in Kit, or to excite an interest in me?" thought Austin. He laughed and said a little scornfully, "I'm sorry to hear it.""Are you as fond of riding as he used to be?" said Minna, graciously; then as some one drew near, she added, "Here's Mr. Lawson; my brother's reading with him for his army exam."It was not often that Austin's self-possession left him, but as he looked up and met his old tutor's well-remembered face he quailed and his eyes fell. He was again the disgraced and terrified boy who had received tremblingly a deserved dismissal."Ah, Fairford," said Mr. Lawson, cheerfully, "glad to see you. Mr. Milman's going to give me a mount. Beautiful country down here. It's quite new to me."Austin gave his hand, and made brief answer."What?" Mr. Lawson had said, in answer to a cautious question from the relatives of his present pupil, young Lyall. "Young Fairford? Oh yes, some little boyish indiscretion. His friends changed their plans for him. Nice, good-tempered lad, as I remember. Hope he's doing well."Mr. Lawson was no ideal guide of youth. Perhaps if his household had been conducted more with a view to ensuring the good conduct of his pupils, and less with the object of gaining their good word, the story of Austin Fairford need never have been written. But by that little piece of professional chivalry he rescued a reputation. How much harm a careless confidence might have done!He asked after Kit, who had also passed through his hands, and Austin answered steadily, and looked his old tutor in the face."Fine countenance," thought the man of experience. "He hasn't gone to the bad after all."Austin turned away, and Nelly Milman came up to him."I say," she said, with the freedom of their lifelong acquaintance, "is Captain Fairford really all right? Because we're ashamed of Minetta. I don't know whether she's a little idiot or a little humbug. To put him off with talking about 'friends.' Friends, indeed, as if that was what he wanted!""I consider he's well quit of the affair," said Austin, savagely."I dare say he is. Uncle Lyall wants to find a place here for the winter and spring. He likes the hunting. Somewhere with good stables.""Not easy to find," said Austin, escaping. "Friends. As if that was what he wanted!" "Words have many meanings. He knew well enough that when Daffodil had promised to be his friend she meant something more strenuous, not more easy than a smooth running love. But he, it was too high for him. He saw but he could not reach, and how dared a man who had cause to quail before any fellow-creature call such as Daffodil even his friend? Even? That word was out of place. Was his soul strong and living enough to take what her soul gave, when their hands dared hardly clasp, their lips might not meet? Could he find strength and comfort in his friend? Or must friendship mean for him the commonplace relation which had mocked poor Kit's hunger for an answering love?Austin had at least eyes to see. He was a living soul. Sin he might, and suffer he would, fall under the dominion of the flesh too probably, if not in any other great descent, yet by the small and constant crumblings of the poor consolations of common life. But upon him was the awful responsibility of those who cannot be "less than archangel ruined." He was on the same side of the great dividing line as the pure in heart to whom the Blessed Vision is promised. Simplest words say it best. He knew what love meant. It was a curious outcome of a day's hunting; but when it was all over and he was riding home through the bare, many-coloured woods in the last light of a "daffodil sky" the thought came.He paused for a moment, and taking his hat off, sat bareheaded under the cloudless sky. "Until I know my God," he thought, "I shall never know my friend. And if I know her——"He could not yet finish the sentence.CHAPTER XLI.CHIPPING THE SHELL.CHRISTMAS also made a corner in the arrangements of Miss Worthington and her brother. Gerald's powers were perhaps sharpened and strung up by his great need; but the tact and skill with which he caught at every chance of gaining a firm foothold on the professional ladder amazed his sister, who was of more downright stuff.The need of a first-class medical man in the neighbourhood was great, luck during the autumn had brought various difficult cases in Worthington's way, and as he was undoubtedly skilful, he gained kudos and credit. He neglected nothing and he despised nothing, and by Christmas it was evident that a sufficient living and the smiles of society were open to him in the Bishopsford neighbourhood.The old Bishopsford doctor, respectable but inefficient, wanted to retire and live with a married son. He was willing to enter into arrangements for the disposal of his practice, and his respectable red brick house, brass plate and brass knocker, in Bishopsford High Street, would also be acquired by his successor. These negotiations had been beginning when Jack Purcell had been struck down, and going on while Worthington had skilfully disengaged himself from that association with Austin Fairford which he thought might be regarded as unprofessional. Jack continued in a precarious state, Austin's presence excited him, and it was better that he should come very little to the Hole. Therefore he saw little of the doctor, who now had few idle hours to dispose of.For Gerald, having acquired the knowledge of Austin's first transgression and coupled it with his violence towards Jack, had, as has been already said, little doubt of his present guilt."It's always the way with such poor devils," he said, "once under the line, they're sure to dip again. Besides, if old Tosty took his pleasure sadly, on the quiet in my company, probably there were other occasions which he didn't choose to let me into the secret of.""I don't agree with you at all, Gerald," said Amy, sturdily. "I don't believe Austin Fairford is a bad fellow, and he took you up bravely and generously. He made a great difference to you at first. It's mean to turn your back on him.""Turn my back on him! You don't suppose I am going to cut him, when my name's up in the High Street. No such thing. I know better. But I can't be supposed to know anything about his past doings. Things are ticklish yet. When some old lady says to me that she fears young Mr. Fairford has indulged in dissipated habits, am I to say, 'Not at all, I'm in his secrets, and a game of billiards, or of nap, at the Winborough Club, is the whole of it'? Some one is sure to say, 'Oh, the doctor plays cards, does he? Mr. Andrews never did.' No, no. But I'll manage old Tosty. I'll not hurt his feelings, and certainly I don't want him to lose his reputation. No, no, far from it. But now, Amy, look here, that High Street house is yours, remember, yours always or at intervals. If I marry—twenty wives—you've the first claim on me.""Thank you," said Amy, "but I shouldn't like to preside over a Mormon establishment. I don't think I'll come to the High Street, Gerald, except for visits. A flat in Pimlico would suit me better. I was thinking of that last year. I shall see these people through their troubles, and then make other plans. I know Mokanna will one day meet with the reward of his deeds at the hands of some incorruptible keeper if I stay here through the spring, and bribery and corruption are expensive. But, Gerald, twenty wives would be superfluous, though I should be glad to think that some day you would have one good one.""I shall," said Gerald, "it's part of the plan. I've no hankering after the old affair. She behaved abominably. Something altogether different is what I should look for—fresh and good and honest. You're very sharp, can't you guess?""One of the Fairfords—Mary—Blanche. Not Nancy?" as he shook his head."Why not?" he answered. "Too good for a country doctor? But you know we are the Worthingtons of Weston—three times removed. I've reason to think she has a little money—not too much. Besides, I believe I know how to make the running. So don't think I'm going to round on Tosty; oh no, I shall help to pull him through—I'll show them the way out of the tangle!""Well," said Amy, "you may take my view for what it's worth. I'll have to think about Nancy in so new a light. But I don't believe Austin Fairford is guilty. I believe Jack Purcell stole the money and that his mother knows it. If you want to get kudos, you'd better work on those lines, and do a good turn to a man who stood by you into the bargain."Gerald paused as he was going out of the room. "Well," he said, "your opinion counts for something. But I don't know—it looks fishy. And, Amy, don't be down on me, just think of the black pit behind me. When I get tight hold of the ladder, I'll put out a hand behind me. But, by—not while it's slippery."He went off hastily, and Amy forgave the oath for the sake of the voice which followed it.Soon after this conversation everybody became aware that the Colonel had had losses, and, directly she could do so without breach of family confidence, Hilda came to talk over her share in the matter."You know," she said, with a new vividness both in voice and look, "it is most probable that we shall leave Ford. I, too, have lost a good deal of my money, but Agatha's is safe, and there is some that belongs to Nancy. If Ford is let there would be quite enough to live just as comfortably as we do now, in a smaller house, with no claim on the Colonel. Why should we be miserabler Nancy says there is no more happiness anywhere. Agatha, I know, would like to live in a house that belongs to them in Bishopsford. But I would rather be in a new place.""Well, yes," said Amy, "I daresay it might be wiser. But what does the Colonel say?""Nothing. Except that as the misfortune is his fault he wishes others, me in particular, to settle what they like best. Austin doesn't want to sell Ford. I should have thought he must have hated every stone of it. But somehow he doesn't.""And what would you like to do?""Oh," said Hilda, twisting her hands about, "I know it's very wicked and selfish, but I should like to go to a big new place, where things went on—lectures perhaps—and where there were new people, and one could go to different churches sometimes. Or to go abroad for a bit. But Agatha would hate that."She stopped a minute and then went on, with an odd, half-fierce despair, so altogether out of proportion to the trifling demands she was making, that Amy could have laughed, if she had not known how much cause there was to cry."I am not sorry, you know," she said, "I'm not really sorry a bit. I never thought there would ever be a change in my life. I feel as if I must—I must—take the chance of it. But I shall have to give in—I shan't get my way. The others will feel quite differently.""Then why don't you take the opportunity of breaking off and making other arrangements?""Oh, if I could! I shall still have more than the Villiers have. I could live in a small way. And then perhaps I could write something worth printing, and earn something. I shouldn't mind a small lodging a bit. But how can I—how can I—when dear Uncle Nicolas wants anything I can pay? And they would all think it so wicked.""What they think doesn't matter," said Amy. "But I don't know if you'd find a single life among other single lives particularly delightful.""I've never had anything," said Hilda, passionately. "I will tell the truth, I want to try all sorts of things.""Then why don't you take a holiday—go abroad, or go to the sea, or what you please—and find yourself out?""Then you don't think it selfish?""Well," said Amy, "I do think you are thinking about yourself; you say so. But till you have settled yourself, you won't be much good to any one else."There was a little silence. Hilda sat looking into the fire."Self-sacrifice is best," she said presently."It is," said Amy, "but it's an awful privilege. If one isn't really capable of it, it's better to know it. Else we sacrifice other people. Are you capable of it? I think that's what you have to find out.""It would seem much nicer to stay with them.""Seem!" said Amy."But wouldn't it be right?""Well," said Miss Worthington, relentlessly, "that depends. Do you want to satisfy yourself that you are capable of self-sacrifice—to feel up to your ideal, in fact—or do you only care that your friends shall have as little vexation as possible?"As Amy struck into the heart of that stone on which high-principled and egotistic people so often stumble, Hilda stared at her, unable to see the distinction, and yet with a curious sense of a stab, a flash of light, she knew not which, she said in a tone, half-hurt, half-humble:"If I am selfish I'm sorry; thank you for telling me you think so."She said very little more. She brought but a childish conscience to bear on the responsibilities of middle life; but such as it was, she followed it. She "accepted" a rebuke, and set herself to discover if she deserved it.Amy had only meant a suggestion, and felt baffled as people do when their suggestions have apparently gone wide of the mark; she was often wont to wish that she had said something else when her advice was asked, and still oftener that she had said nothing at all. "Good advice must be very scarce," she thought, "or people wouldn't come to me for it."Daffodil did not exactly ask her for advice when she came to say good-bye; but she looked at her full and straight, with that expectation of an answering gaze, which is so comforting. She wanted to say that she was not miserable, that she knew that the love between her and her lover was in itself such a good thing, that she could bear to let the outside signs of it go.Something she told, something she looked, and at last said:"Mother says I'm giving up the chances of life for it. But it's quite a good enough chance for any one in itself, isn't it?""Well," said Amy, "as chances go. But lives are long things.""Love isn't short," said Daffodil."No. Well, if you come to me when your courage fails you, remember I shan't think the love has failed too, till you tell me so.""That's good," said Daffodil with satisfaction. "Now, I want you to look after Mrs. Purcell. I know she is acting lies, and some time she'll betray herself. And tell me how Jack gets on. That's the chief trouble.""Yes, I will take care you know exactly how it is with him. Will you have a cheerful pleasant Christmas at Midwell?""Oh yes, quite a nice one. Good-bye, I am so awfully glad you understand that I shan't be unhappy."She looked so bright, so strong and so young, her courage was evidently, at least for the time, so genuine, that the older woman could have cried over her."If you are, my dear," she said, "that's part of the chance too."Daffodil threw her arms round her and hugged her, a young, girlish, devouring hug."I'm not afraid," she said, and looked back smiling, while the fire sprang up into a flame and showed her bright hair and erect slim form as she went out into the dusk."She has begun her life in time at any rate," thought Amy. "I snubbed Hilda, she made me impatient. I don't think she can make much of a new beginning. After all, she can do anything she likes as it is, if she can only think so. But Nancy? If she falls in love with Gerald, she will get to know a little of life! I am sure she must be destined to be my sister-in-law, because she has never taken to me in the least. There's a nice sentiment! Mokanna, your mistress ought to be ashamed of herself."Mokanna, as was his wont, resented her attempt to stroke him. He stiffened out his black hair, and spat at her, till he looked more demoniacal than ever. "Mokanna," said his mistress, admiringly, "I could as soon say 'Poor Pussy' to the Nemæan lion as to you!"Talking, however, to Mokanna refreshed Amy's spirits, as a pipe of good tobacco might revive her brother's.CHAPTER XLII."NEWS! NEWS!"CHRISTMAS DAY came, and the Christmas dinner was spread at Ford. All the plate and china and damask, the good old personal belongings were laid out in state. Some of them were extremely ugly, others were accidentally just right, according to the most fashionable standard of taste, but from the blue and cream Wedgwood dessert plates with their broad gold edges, which had come into the family with the Colonel's mother, and which the newest artist would have liked to secure, to the silver centre-piece, representing a soldier on an elephant under a palm-tree, which had been presented to the Colonel on his marriage by his neighbours and tenantry, and which the same artist would certainly have liked to have melted down, all looked in place. The Fairfords would not have liked to see one familiar object absent on Christmas Day.There they all were, young and old, walking out in cousinly pairs, as they had done ever since they had worn jackets and short frocks, the procession ending with a Rectory boy and a Bishopsford girl, whose tailcoat and long skirt had first appeared on this occasion.It is very sad when life's changes break in on these familiar ceremonies, and very awkward when any want of cordiality comes to mar them.The faithful observance of solemn seasons does bring appropriate feeling. The elder ones, the more disciplined ones, did not feel that Christmas joy was lacking altogether, at least they recognised that it was there, for others.To Agatha it seemed that the central crisis of life had come in the call to leave her birthplace; but she sat steadily at the head of the long table, with a face that was only set into rather stiffer lines than usual, while Nancy looked fierce with self-repression. Kit, who had declared himself "wonderfully fit, and as well as possible," kept things going in his own neighbourhood, though the boy in the tailcoat whispered to his companion "that he thought there was a touch of the funeral in these old functions," and she, putting her hand to see that her hair was safe in its newly-twisted knot, and not, as of old, loose on her shoulders, replied that of course Christmas was jollier for children. One had dined at Ford so often.Perhaps the Colonel had known sadder Christmas dinners than this one when he did not fear to meet the eyes of his son.Austin had been out of doors, coming in only just in time to dress. All day he had been gentle and silent, looking carefully after Kit, and less unhappy for his presence. He talked now as much as was needful, but the old dark look was on his face and he scarcely touched his dinner. Lady Barbara thought that his downcast air was in good taste. Every one watched him a little, but there was an odd inconsistency and sense of unreality in their feelings towards him.He noticed no one, not even his father. Would the dinner never end? The turkey and roast beef gave place to blue flames and mince-pies, and then to oranges and crackers, before a move came."What's the matter, Tosty?" said Kit at the first opportunity.A moment's silence, then Austin said,"Jack's worse—fever—Worthington's frightened.""Eh, what? When did you hear it?""I went over to ask before dinner. Of course I kept it quiet. But I must go back there when this is over."Kit laid his hand on his shoulder. There was nothing he could say."Nothing else matters," said Austin, as
"Good Christian men rejoiceWith heart and soul and voice"
came dancing and pealing from hearty young voices outside the house, for it was an old custom of Ford-Regis to go round with carols on the evening of Christmas Day in order that all the family might hear them after dinner at the Hall. They heard the hall door thrown open, and all the young cousins within joining in the joyful chorus."Ah, the jolly old carols once more!" said Kit, while Austin shivered."Go, get off now," said Kit. "I'll manage the carols."Austin had meant to endure to the evening's end, but his purpose gave way. The suspense was beyond bearing. It was easy enough to put on a rough coat and to slip out among the singers, and to hurry away over the paddock, while the merry carol pursued him.
"Noel, Noel, Noel, Noel,Born is the king of Israel."
And "Noel, Noel!" came echoing up from some stray party of carollers, till all the air seemed mocking him with good tidings. A young moon was sinking in the west; it was a blowy, soft, uncharacteristic Christmas, but every familiar shape of tree and thicket seemed full of the sentiment of the time. All day he had been feeling regrets for his changed fortunes. Perhaps his tarnished credit, his relinquished love, even the thought of those Christmas bills, which but for Kit would have worn so terrible an aspect, ought to have shut out from him sorrow for the "losses" for which no blame attached to him. But it was not so. He who had been miserable at Ford, who had felt it to be a prison, now had his brain full of projects for tiding over the bad times and keeping the old inheritance safe. It would be sold, if at all, at a great loss, it must be let for a time, and then he, when he had seen the outcome of this present trouble, might surely get some land agency elsewhere, and then—the more Austin glimpsed at the truth of that transcendent union in which Daffodil believed, the more hope he found in his heart for its earthly image. It was most well that so it should be, most wholesome that he should think how clever his love was, how indifferent to conventional show, how easy it would be for her to make a small household happy. But all this was blotted out now by one great dread. Nothing mattered but Jack's life and death. Even Daffodil's love—ah, but in that first awful moment, when the blow had fallen, had she not loved him, and gone down into the depths by his side. Oh, how splendid she was—how he longed to kiss her feet!He came to the Hole, to hear again from Miss Worthington how the slight betterment in Jack's condition had suddenly changed for the worse that morning, how fever and violent delirium had set in, and how her brother entertained the gravest fears as to the result.Austin stood silent and impassive."May I stay here?" he said."If it is easier for you," she said kindly, "but I don't think there will be an immediate crisis. Sit down here, however, soon I daresay Gerald will come to you."Austin sat down, as she left him, and leant his head on his hands. He could not think, and all secondary sorrows shrivelled up before this great anguish. It hardly seemed to matter then where the blame of the lost money rested, and, let Jack have been ever so guilty, who was he to judge the shifts of a man in a sudden strait? If ever, by God's mercy, he and his fellow sinner spoke face to face again there would be no more scorn, no more contempt in the appeal which he would make to him. Let Jack live, and, come what might, he would never feel himself hardly used again. Austin had known the dumb submission of fear—the false fortitude of resentful pride, he began to know something of the patience of humility, and he felt, he knew that Daffodil would know it with him. He knew with a lovely and awful certainty that she was with him in this fiery furnace—that what he felt she would feel—and that nothing could part her soul from his. No, not though he never saw her face again. He would not bear the sense of blood-guiltiness alone. And then he knew also, by the magnificent image and through the strong current of her love, he knew the divine source from which it came. Sayings which had been only sayings, became living voices, and, in words that may be used on a thousand levels, profaned, mistaken, but which, nevertheless, tell an eternal truth, Austin Fairford's soul was saved.He did not know how long it was before Miss Worthington, perhaps with a view to occupy his mind, called him to come and see old Purcell, who had revived much of late.Austin found the old man propped up in bed. His speech had returned, but he was still helpless. He asked Austin sundry questions, evidently thinking the young master might have forgotten parts of his duty, and Austin, his heart not in his mouth, but in his ears, satisfied him as to Cowslip's calf, and the young trees in the near copse, and the hay up at Wood End, which ought to be worth something.Then Purcell said that "Mr. Augustine" had been to visit him, and the lady, meaning Miss Worthington, had read him a chapter. And then he asked Austin if he remembered about the Prodigal Son."Them's beautiful words, Mr. Tosty," he said."Yes," said Austin, startled, and listening for sounds downstairs."I've been thinking, sir, do you think that poor old father, as was so glad to see his son come back, ever may-be stretched a point formerly to keep him at home? Do you think now he had, sir?""How do you mean?" said Austin."Why he might have known points in his conduct, before he went off to the far country—have kept things dark, you know, sir, as perhaps he'd better have mentioned. And when after all it hadn't done the young fellow any good, he'd have blamed himself, may-be, and wondered if he could have managed of him better. So when he come back repentant, he didn't feel as he could cast it up to him as he'd gone wrong."Austin's wandering attention came back with a start. He felt as if a clue to the mystery were floating about within reach of his fingers, which were too clumsy to grasp the slender thread."You mean things the young man had done before he went into the far country?" he said cautiously."Ay, sir, might have disposed of things and not accounted of them, for his debts may be. That 'ud a weighed on his father's mind.""He was, indeed, a long-suffering father," said Austin, "and ready to forgive.""You see, sir, he were his father. But I've been near my end, Master Tosty, and I doubt I shall never be my own man again, and there's a matter which took place many a year ago, as I feel the Colonel ought to ha' known at the time."The old man's words came very slowly, and not over distinctly. Austin's heart almost stood still, as he felt that his fingers might catch this wavering clue—might hear something that would make it more probable that Jack rather than himself had been in these last days the foresworn thief. But how permit the father to betray the son—the son who was dying, and dying by the act of the man who would profit by the betrayal? Feelings too passionate and too brief for words surged up within him. He caught the old man's hand and falling down on his knees beside him faltered out the Lord's Prayer—"forgive us—forgive us."His voice died away and he hid his face; but Purcell, who had seen nothing strange in the act, went on and finished in his rough broken tones—"Amen," he said, fervently, then "Master Tosty, 'twas more than five years agone—as there was trouble——""I ask your pardon, Mr. Austin, but 'tis time Purcell was asleep."The words, sharp, quick, and full of suppressed anger, broke in on Purcell's blundering, hesitating tones. Austin started up as Mrs. Purcell came in with a rush and stood beside him. The chance—such as it was—was gone."You'd best go home, sir," she said, "for my boy is quieter, and there's nothing more to be done."Austin obeyed. He was too much overwhelmed himself to notice that the old man looked frightened. As he came stumbling down the steep old stairs, Worthington met him, and with kindly insistence dragged him into the sitting-room."Come, come now," he said. "This sort of thing won't do. We shall have you knocking up next. I don't know how this bad turn has come on, but you needn't take it too much to heart. I'll stand by you, and I'll ensure that you come out all right."Austin stared at him for a minute; he really did not understand him."What?" he said stupidly."Yes, not your fault at all—I'll answer for it, the blow was
of no consequence—fault of the young fellow himself for letting
dangerous implements lie about in the grass. I'll keep it all straight
at the inquest. Couldn't be brought in manslaughter in any case, and I'll take care it doesn't come into question.""Then he'll die," said Austin, holding by the mantelshelf."Looks like it just now," said Gerald. "I don't see much chance for him. The pulse——""I don't in the least agree with you, Gerald," said Amy, interrupting her brother's medical details, without mercy or compunction. "He's that sort of odd, nervous young fellow, that he may take a turn at any time. But Mr. Fairford's not going to break down. There are far too many people depending on his keeping up. He'll bear it—he'll bear it if Jack does die, and hold on. And go home now, Austin, else they'll none of them go to sleep all night at Ford. You know, you know he won't die, if it's anyway right for him—for him, you know, to live." She grasped both Austin's hands in a strong hearty grasp, and looked at him with strong shining eyes."It doesn't matter at all about yourself, does it?" she said. "And he won't die if it isn't the best thing forhim. He won't die, on your account, to punish you."The colour came back to Austin's lips, and he pressed hard, and shook her clasping hands, as he went off without a syllable."Good Lord, Amy!" exclaimed Gerald. "How can you have the face to say such a thing as that to the poor fellow?""Because it's true," said Amy, looking pale and wiping her eyes. "And Gerald, you're a—you're a fool—You were talking on the wrong plane altogether. He wasn't thinking about inquests then. How could he with the man's life on his soul?""Well," said Gerald, subdued but unconvinced. "I did, and so will he. I can tell you it's a tolerably absorbing thing to think of—when it's going to sit on yourself."Kit's homely consolations came somewhat nearer the mark than Gerald's when Austin had hurried home once more through the Christmas night, and caught again the carols as he went—"Give ye heed to what we say,News! News!Jesus Christ is born to-day!"It was early yet in the night, and the carols had not nearly finished their regular round."You see, Tosty, it ain't your fault," said Kit, after he had given the no news that was bad news to his father, waiting up for it, and had come to tell Kit before he slept. "It ain't your fault at all, don't you give way to thinking so. You wouldn't have blamed yourself for knocking him down, and the confounded bit of old iron was no one's fault. It's awful bad luck, but it's as luck you've got to take it. Luck ain't chance, you know, Tosty—at least, I don't think so.""Nor I," said Austin, so quietly that no one could have known how much it had cost him to win that faith."And if it were," said Kit, "we should still have to take it. So there's no more to say. But, look here there's a red-hot knitting needle running into my left temple. I shan't sleep till the small hours. Sit here and tell me about your young woman. She's game, isn't she, right through?"And so, helped by one good word and another from one and another good soul, Austin pulled through the longest night he had ever known, though he would not talk much about Daffodil, but led Kit's thoughts back to quiet, cheerful, and even funny old times, till the pain was soothed and he fell asleep.Then Austin went into his own room and flung the window wide and looked out into the night, and felt himself able to endure even the worst agony.Father, lover, friend, even chance acquaintance, what else but divine was the help they gave him? After all, he was not nearly so wretched, so misjudged, or so forsaken as he deserved to be.The last hoarse, sleepy, tired carol came faintly to his ears as the boys dragged across the paddock, on their way home at last, sleepy and rough, yet like a voice from heaven through the mist of earth."Now ye need not fear the grave,Peace, peace,Christ was born to save."CHAPTER XLIII.THE WOOD PILE.MRS. PURCELL, after that strange interview, which had left Daffodil with such a sense of baffled effort, had undergone tortures of conscience and remorse. The temporary mitigation of the alarm about Jack had left her mind open to other thoughts, and her vivid imagination worked incessantly. Nervous and highly strung and pleasure loving as she was, even maternal affection and wifely duty could not keep her from getting deadly sick of the weary routine of living, of vividly wishing for the ordinary peace and comfort of life, and for the little varieties which the season would naturally have brought to her. Moreover, her love for Daffodil was a real love, the influence the young lady had over her was real though not irresistible: she felt real pangs at the thought of the ruin that had fallen on the love story that had been to her a delightful romance. She was also far more aware than many better women might have been of the grievous pity of loss of character to a young man like Austin. She would have liked to set him up on a pedestal so as to enjoy the pleasure of admiring him. And she would have liked—oh, how much she would have liked!—to be able to admire her own conduct instead of feeling ashamed and frightened whenever she thought of it. She felt more degraded by the lies she had told than a more truthful woman with a narrower outlook might have done, for the Ideal was awake within her, and she knew that the more she loved Jack, the less she ought to have lied for him. She knew it and yet she had done it.And then, she had been in the habit of keeping her religious duties in a box in her mind quite apart from all the movements of her spirit—partly because these had come to her through other channels, and partly because she did not like the Rector and "her ladyship," and Miss Fairford, who never expected her to have an idea beyond butter and chickens, and who belonged to that outer life which was so dull. And as, like at least nine hundred people out of every thousand, the personal element entered into all her ideas—the great idea represented by these people was dull and uninfluential to her. Still, sorrow searches deep, and she knew well enough that if her son died she would have helped him to die with a lie on his lips, and a wrong on his soul. She did not bring herself to the point of action, but she hardly thought of anything else and all the kind words spoken to her by kind people, seemed futile and beside the mark. Where was that thirty pounds? Where were those two bank-notes? They must be somewhere. She hunted secretly through all Jack's belongings, and though she discovered much that might lead her to suppose that he had wanted thirty pounds, she found no clue to what he had done with them. She found a good deal, poor thing, that filled her soul with trouble. She heard something from Macnamara, of the search for the numbers of the missing notes, and she knew that though there was delay through their having passed through many and ignorant hands, eventually they would probably be traced. Then if the notes were stopped—discovery would be probable. Moreover, Austin had been constantly busy about the estate, taking stock of everything on it, investigating its condition more thoroughly than ever, while the Colonel himself had fetched away every account book, register, or bill that had been originally in old Pur-cell's charge. What did it all mean r She racked her brains to discover, and she racked her soul in the vain effort to justify her deceit. In her brief intervals of sleep she dreamed of Daffodil, golden-haired and piercing-eyed, like an angel of justice, dragging the secrets of her heart to light. She worked harder than ever—read chapters and prayers to Purcell—but nothing dulled the growing pangs of her conscience.They stung her till she even risked trying to rouse Jack's.She knew with a terror that was far worse than her grief that the sudden change for the worse on Christmas Day came after she had seen him in the early morning, conscious and comfortable, and with a gentle and responsive look in his eyes, as she wished him a happy Christmas. Then she had whispered something about making amends for wrongs, confessing past sins—and no one being hard now after his illness, and at Christmas. And Jack had started up half in fury and half in fear—she had been unable to soothe him, and rapidly—almost at once, the fever and delirium had set in, no one but herself knowing what seemed like an explanation of it.Then, as he raved and muttered, she heard words, she heard something—which the nurse professed to pay no attention to, but which told her—her, with her wits on the stretch, told her all that she wanted to know. What a Christmas Day that was! Then, Austin's voice talking to her husband. She stood on the stairs and listened, and she heard that Austin did not ask the crucial question.The night wore on, and there was no relaxation in the alarm of the watchers. More than once Mrs. Purcell went to the window and looked out through the damp windy wood. The carollers had abstained from coming to the Hole, but she too caught a chance note as they went on their rounds. "Joy, joy! Peace, peace!" Alas, where were they?Towards morning Jack sank into a drowsy condition, and Mrs. Purcell went into the kitchen and threw open the outer door and looked out into the yard and over the clearing. There was nothing strange in this. Indeed it was time to see to the feeding of the poultry, Hatton was already moving about, and there was little Lucy, recovered long since from her hurt at the school, swinging a can in her hand for the milk which she was allowed to fetch."Mother had a pretty card from Miss Daffodil, ma'am," she said, with a broad smile of greeting, and Mrs. Purcell wondered if Miss Daffodil was too angry with her to send her any such token.She waited till Lucy's back was turned, crossed the farmyard in haste, and went out in the dim winter dawn, into the clearing. The blackbirds were singing, fit to rival the carollers, the air was soft and rather wet, as she scudded swiftly along, shivering after her night of watching, as far as the wood pile, which Jack had been looking after at the time of his misfortune.Without a pause or a doubt, she pushed her way between the wood pile and the hedge bank behind it, and felt low down a little way from the end among the brushwood of which it was built.Presently she pulled out a little rusty tin box. It had been quite hidden, but was easy enough to reach when the hand was put in at the right place. Still standing in the dusk, behind the wood pile, she opened the box. In it were two bank notes, not over clean, and ten gold sovereigns. She counted them as they lay in the box. On the lid of the box was a label wet, but still legible, "Cough lozenges, Mrs. Purcell, The Hole." With a sudden impulse, she scrubbed off the decaying paper with her hand, rubbing it away in little bits. Then she shut up the box again, and pushing it back into its hole, fled as for her life.She ran home and across the yard, and into the kitchen. As she came in at the back she saw that the front door was open. Austin, pale and haggard, was leaning against the doorway, talking to Dr. Worthington, who had come down in his dressing-gown to speak to him."No, my dear fellow, no," the doctor was saying. "Can't tell how it is yet one way or another. It depends a good deal on how his strength holds out.""I want to be told if he comes to himself," said Austin."Oh, I can't say. All the time before the injury seems fixed on his brain, and he talks about that old wood pile for hours. I suppose it was the last strong impression left upon him; seems to have been on his mind all through.""And if he lives," said Austin looking away, "is the brain sure to come right again?""Unprofessional to prophesy," said Worthington. "But I say, my boy, you look dead beat. Come in and let Amy give you a cup of coffee. She's stirrings—yes, you must."Austin yielded to the imperative hand which Worthington laid on his shoulder, and, seeing Mrs. Purcell, held out his hand to her; but she, between the kind of physical horror of him, which had grown up in her as her son's injurer, and her deep sense of guilt towards him, recoiled with a sob, and, overwrought altogether, went off into a fit of violent hysterics, in the midst of which Austin went hastily off, without his coffee.She came round by degrees, and, still shaky and queer, went, half crying, about her work. Presently the post arrived, and with it a letter for her, directed in Daffodil's unmistakable, rapid hand.She stood over the fire and opened it with a fearful heart. There was a pretty card painted with winged angels, such as her heart delighted in, and an ordinary Christmas greeting, and, besides, a slip of paper with a few words on it."DEAR MRS. PURCELL,"We are friends, and I know in my soul that you are hiding the truth about the missing money. Take courage and tell Mr. Austin himself the truth. You love what is good and noble far too much not to be miserable if you keep on hiding it. Besides, you will ruin Jack. He will never come to good with that on his conscience. Of course I care most to clear Mr. Austin, because you know we love each other. But I care also for you. Write to me if you dare do nothing else, but I advise you to tell Mr. Austin. I pray God to help us both."Your friend,"DAFFODIL VILLIERS."The poor woman wept and trembled as she read."Oh, my Miss Daffodil, my Miss Daffodil," she sobbed. "Oh, she's a brave lady, but even she don't know what a mother is. And Mr. Austin has had his revenge—since he's as good as killed him. Can I turn on him when he's dying r Or let him die in his sin?" Perhaps, if she confessed, God would spare him. And oh! how dreadful it was to feel so wicked and to know that the blessed white angels had nothing to do with her. "Oh," she thought to herself, "it's like a star in my heart to think of confessing it."At least she could get the money. She could not make up her mind yet quite as to what she would do with it. If she had been reading it all in a book, or seeing it in a play, she would have known quite well that the heroine ought to tell the truth in spite of consequences. Any heroine would. Even a mother would not be her son's accomplice. And with that vivid word suddenly the knowledge of what she had allowed herself to be to her beloved boy came home to her. And yet betray him when he was dying! Or if he recovered, to see his face when he knew what she had done!"Oh," she thought, "how wicked goodness does seem!"But she took out a dish of scraps to the little white brood of chickens, which were being cherished up in a warm corner of an empty loose-box, and then slipped out again towards the wood pile.When she reached it, and slipping behind it put her hand into the hole where hardly an hour before she had left the tin box, behold the hole was empty, and there was nothing there!CHAPTER XLIV.HOLDING UP THE HEAD.CHISTOPHER FAIRFORD'S offices were, of course, not open on Boxing-day. After a more leisurely breakfast than usual, as he went into his study to read the papers and to consider one or two letters of importance, to his great surprise, his nephew Austin rose up from a chair by the fire as he came in."I beg your pardon, Uncle Christopher," he said, "I told them not to say I was here, as I wanted to see you alone. I have something to show you.""I had a matter on which to speak to you," said Christopher.The many business consultations which he had been obliged to hold with Austin had accustomed them to ordinary terms of intercourse, but there was no cordiality between them, and Christopher looked keenly into the young man's face as he went on to say:"Christmas posts and other matters have caused a delay, but the numbers of the two missing bank-notes are at last in my possession; you are, I trust, glad to hear this.""I don't know that it particularly signifies," said Austin, with a smile, "as I conclude that the bank-notes themselves are in mine. Will you open this little box?"He laid a small oblong tin box, rusty and discoloured, on the table before his uncle.Christopher opened it, took out the two bank-notes, which he laid before him on the table, and counted out the ten sovereigns beside them. He looked at his nephew with a face from which every vestige of expression had vanished in his surprise."Are they the same?" said Austin."They—they certainly are," said his uncle after consulting a letter in his pocket-book. "You can see.""I went this morning," said Austin, "to the Hole. I heard that Jack Purcell in his delirium had constantly talked of the wood pile which was being built at the time when our quarrel took place. You can verify that statement, of course, easily. It came into my mind to go and look at it. I found that the wet grass between the pile and the hedge had been recently disturbed and trodden. You can see; but as I have been there since, the marks would not go for much. I felt about among the wood, and without much difficulty I found that box hidden away in it. As soon as I saw what it contained I brought it here at once to you. That is, I have no doubt, the money with which Jackson's bill ought to have been paid.""The box has had a label once which has been rubbed off," said Christopher."Yes, and that little corner still sticking on has clean edges, as if it had been rubbed off recently. I looked about and found two or three little bits of paper among the grass."He took an envelope from his pocket, and shook out of it two or three tiny scraps of paper on to the dark leather of the table."Extraordinary!" said Christopher. "And you think——"Austin spoke with an effort. "This is what I think," he said: "Jack Purcell must have hidden the money there when he took the rest to pay into the bank.""I thought you said the wood pile was being built when he was—incapacitated.""It was only being finished and roofed in. Jack was very unwilling to come away from it. I think his mother must either have known all along where the money was, or have heard what he said about the wood pile, as I did, and have gone out and rubbed off the label of the box.""Why didn't you take some one with you to look at the wood pile?""Where would have been the use?" said Austin, with a return to his old tone of cool sarcasm. "I might just as well have put the box there to be found as brought it here to you. Especially as there were fresh footmarks before me. The evidence in my favour is quite inconclusive, resting, as before, entirely on myself. But there is the money, which neither I nor anyone else has succeeded in spending."He leant back and looked at his uncle with direct eyes, and a slight smile on his lip."Why did you come first to me?" said Christopher."Because I did not feel that I had any right to delay. I don't think you can really believe that I've invented this story. It would argue a much lower depth of villainy than making use of the money originally. It is right that I should leave no stone unturned to clear myself. But since you know it, it might be possible to keep silence about it until—until——How can I bring it forward till I know whether he'll live or die? There is my father's money. There is no ground now for further action. It is impossible to-day even to make inquiries at the Hole—which," concluded Austin, still looking straight at his uncle, "is unlucky,""I don't understand," said Christopher, "why you take so defiant a tone.""Because," said Austin, starting up, "because it's all I can do to sit down in the same room with a man who can think that I am such a blackguard as to have robbed my father and then patched up this cock and bull story to cast the blame on the man whose death will be at my door. Because I resent the suspicion cast on me from the bottom of my soul, and because I think that face to face with me, only a fool could doubt me."Austin stood quite still and spoke low—it took all the nerve of the cool and experienced lawyer to confront him without flinching."I beg to remind you," said Christopher, "that this is a business interview. Do not conduct yourself in so unbusiness-like a manner. You have not been treated in any way to justify such violent language, especially to me. I shall not be threatened into an expression of opinion, but I welcome most gladly every fact in your favour, and I agree with you that to suppose your story false is incredible. I had another matter on which to speak to you, if you can control yourself enough to listen. You are naturally agitated, no doubt.""I beg your pardon," said Austin, stiffly, but he did not sit down again.His uncle was bewildered, puzzled, but that out-break of angry self-assertion did more to convince him of Austin's innocence than anything had done before. It rang true."I have had," he said, abruptly, changing tone and subject, "a tentative sort of feeler from Colonel Lyall, as to whether Ford could be let for a year. What do you say?""Colonel Lyall?" said Austin."Yes. He wants to be near his relations in a hunting country, and to get a little shooting next autumn. It would give time to your father to look about him.""It would be an immense relief to get breathing time," said Austin, thoughtfully. "But I wish the Lyalls were out of the place.""Oh, come," said Christopher. "I don't consider Kit's prospects hopeless. Young ladies like the privilege of saying no. He'll be going away, too, no doubt; and if he gets well, and joins his regiment, of course he'll come in contact again with Miss Minna. It's a good offer. You had better see what your father thinks of it. And now as to terms?"Austin gave his views as to terms and details to his uncle's satisfaction, and then added:"I think that probably that Bishopsford house would be the best thing for Aunt Agatha and my father. They could keep on with their usual business. It would be better for Nancy if they went to a fresh place. Of course, I shall get away if I can, in any case.""Quite proper," said Christopher, rather awkwardly. "Do you wish me to keep this money?" he added."Well," said Austin, dryly, "you'll know where it is if you do so. Good morning, "Uncle Christopher. If you will see Colonel Lyall quietly, we shall be obliged to you. That will not commit my father to anything."Austin went away without giving his uncle a chance of offering him his hand. His kinsman looked after him for a moment, then locked up the recovered money."He's no fool," he thought. "I've a great mind—a very great mind—to state publicly in the family that I believe his story."Austin, meanwhile, ignorant of the effect he had produced, went home. He made up his mind that it would be better to give his father the comfort of knowing that the money was discovered. The Colonel would take no action while Jack's life hung in the balance. He went into the library and found Miss Agatha there. She and the Colonel were facing with quiet courage the changes that must shortly be made in the household—with courage, but with weary hearts. The Colonel looked up as if Austin's entrance were a welcome diversion. He listened eagerly to his narrative of the discovery of the money, accept-ing his story so fully that he never even told him that he did so. Agatha never spoke, and at last the Colonel, as well as Austin, felt her dead silence. Her brother appealed to her."We can, of course, take no step till matters at the Hole are decided as to this poor youth," he said. "You agree with me?""I don't think it is well that I should say anything," said Agatha, in a low voice. "I don't feel certain enough of the facts of the case."Austin looked straight in her face, as she rose to leave the room."Don't go away, Aunt Agatha," he said, "there is something else I have to speak about, as to which you will find it quite easy to accept the facts from me. If not, you can ask my uncle."He turned to his father, and told him of Colonel Lyall's offer, speaking with careful consideration for all the details of the matter, and fairly forcing his aunt to enter into the discussion. She approved of the idea, and she was obliged to say so; and when she at last went away, he followed her from the room."Aunt Agatha," he said, "your opinion of me is plainly to be seen. You are wrong in your judgment of me. Is it too much to ask that you will not add to my father's many troubles by showing him so plainly that you think I am lying to him?""I cannot say what I do not think, Austin. I wish to be silent, but trust once lost can never be regained. You have not been hitherto, as I understand, truthful.""No," said Austin, "I have not. But I am speaking the truth now to you.""I—I hope you are," said Agatha.There were tears in her eyes, and she spoke with difficulty. "But it seems to me penitence would be a different thing altogether. How can you hold up your head?"Her eyes flashed for once, like Nancy's, the colour came into her cheeks, and she spoke with fervour. "How can you expect me to believe what you say? By your own showing you have lived a course of deception. I have been silent. In your father's house it was my duty to conform to his wishes, but it has cost me much. I never really felt sure that hiding the disgrace was justifiable. It breaks my heart to see Nancy's misery, but I cannot wish it less. It grieves me to think that your father's clear sight can be swayed by partiality. I cannot pretend to give the trust you have forfeited. I don't think you feel what it is to have lost innocence."For the first time in Austin's memory some of the fire that must burn at the back of every ideal, however cold and narrow, broke Agatha's long-practised self-restraint. She had once been a hot-tempered girl, and for years she had bridled her tongue successfully.Austin stood looking at her, and when she paused, laughed."It isn't likely, Aunt Agatha, that you know what the loss of innocence is as well as I do. Your words are truer than you know, but I am a man now, and——"His face changed and softened—and he spoke in a different tone. "I think I do owe you the fullest truth," he said. "I have gone through a great deal. I don't wish to use terms which you might take in a different sense, and which you might think I profaned, but there is a Force stronger than my weakness, and in that I venture to hold up my head."He went before she could speak again, and, astonished, shocked, she sat down in her usual place. She was a good deal overpowered by him, but her settled convictions were so strong, that even now, on the whole, she disbelieved him.CHAPTER XLV.A PIECE OF KIT'S MIND.AUSTIN held up his head outwardly as the slow day wore on. He abstained from haunting the Hole, knowing that any news would be at once brought to him, but his heart sank lower and lower, the sense of helpful forces failed him. He told Kit about the discovery of the money, but could hardly bear comments or congratulations on it—told him of Colonel Lyall's proposal, and tried to get a lesson from his prompt, "Of course, of course, Tosty, don't let anything stand in the way of it." Then in the afternoon he sat with him in the study, and looked over an old volume of "Pictures from Punch," studying Mr. Briggs' domestic difficulties, and reading out jokes now and then as if they amused him.But, all the while, he heard every sound in the house, he heard footsteps in the garden, coming across the paddock. He knew some one was coming, even as he turned another page and looked at another picture. He knew that the door-bell would ring; it did ring. He was sure that it was Worthington who rang it. It was, he heard his voice and step, and yet he still noticed the picture before him—the girls in mushroom hats and full skirts—the long-whiskered youths—yes, the door was opened. Dr. Worthington was shown in—Austin put the book down and stood up.Worthington spoke."Well—it's been a near shave, but I think we shall pull him through."The room darkened suddenly. Austin found himself lying back in Kit's chair, and heard him say:"Dead beat, poor old boy, and no wonder."He looked at Worthington, who was leaning over him."What did you say—say it again?""I said that Jack Purcell was pulling through, temperature gone down again, and quite conscious. Of course it won't do to be too positive—but I think we may make a start now. Keep quiet for a bit——"They made him drink some brandy, and Kit spoke cheeringly, and he sat up and asked questions, and then listened, while the others talked till Kit said:"I think you'll find my uncle and the ladies about somewhere. Will you go and tell them the good news? Tosty had better stop here with me.""Yes—he must be looked after," said Worthington aside. "Can't stand much more strain."He went, and Kit stirred up the fire, and presently said:"Well, now, Tosty, your mind can be at rest. Worthington's too cautious a chap to say as much without being pretty certain. You must take it easy for a bit, you're not made of leather."Austin neither moved nor spoke."Feel queer still?" said Kit."No." Then after a moment: "This won't make any difference to Aunt Agatha?""Aunt Agatha?""Yes. And I don't feel sure of it. I can't believe it. Nothing comes off in this business. Finding the money won't clear me. And I can't hope that Jack will keep better. Can't be sure I haven't been the death of him.""Badly written sort of play, isn't it? Won't come to a climax!""I'll tell you," said Austin, sitting up and speaking confidentially. "Once, at first you know, I saw Aunt Agatha lock up her davenport, and take away the key, when she left me in the room with it. It was one hot morning in the next July—she would do it now. And my father, before he sits down he always looks to see what I'm about. And Nancy won't speak to me."A hot colour had come into his face. Kit saw that he was off his balance for the moment altogether."Look here," he said, "you stay here quietly and see if you can't get a nap. You were awake all night.""I think," said Austin, "that it's generally a mistake to go to sleep when you're much worried. I dream, you see, that I did take it—and about the first time—when father came to Lawson's—and his face.""Well," said Kit, "don't go to sleep then. Sit here quietly, and I'll just go down and tell Worthington that if there's the least relapse he's to let us hear. Then you can be sure it's all right as long as you hear nothing, or he'll let us know, anyhow."Miss Agatha was sitting by the drawing-room fire alone, when Kit came in, and sat down opposite to her."Well, Aunt Agatha, you have heard the good news, I suppose?" he said."That Jack Purcell is in less danger? Yes, I am thankful his poor parents are spared the sorrow.""I'm doubly thankful," said Kit. "Austin wouldn't have stood the suspense much longer. I've just asked Worthington to come up with the last news, and have a look at him, he was so upset just now—nearly fainted.""It's very difficult," said Miss Agatha, "not to judge actions by their consequences—but of course we should not do so.""Well!" exclaimed Kit, "Austin said it would make no difference to you, and apparently it doesn't!""I hope it does not," said Agatha in her soft repressed tones."No difference that poor Tosty hasn't got the misery of a perfectly accidental bad result to an entirely justifiable action?" said Kit hotly."A justifiable action?""Certainly, I should have knocked the fellow down myself. Anybody would, and serve him jolly well right?"Miss Agatha remained perfectly silent, and Kit felt about twelve years old. He dashed on, however, gallantly."I tell you what it is, Aunt Agatha, I'll tell you how it strikes a man of Austin's own standing, coming fresh upon it. I think you may all consider yourselves confoundedly lucky that Austin hasn't either absconded or blown his brains out. To tie up a fellow at nineteen so tight that he can't get half an hour to himself without telling lies about it! And especially a soft, sensitive fellow like Tosty, broken-hearted to begin with! You might just as well cork up the spout of a kettle and sit upon the lid! Good Heavens! If you knew anything about young men's lives, you'd wonder, you'd marvel he hadn't gone absolutely to destruction. Or I tell you what I wonder hasn't happened, which nearly has, that is, that all the stuff hasn't been flattened out of him, that there's any manliness left in him at all. By blessed good luck he fell in love with this girl, who has the sense to stick to him. She's been his salvation. And now you've all taken for granted that he's guilty of a thing—which if you'd the least insight into character, if you knew the world at all, you'd see was impossible to him. I think he's shown an awfully fine sense of honour—quite a morbid sense of honour—about his position and the past. Of course if you think despair is the proper frame of mind for a fellow who has once made a slip, it's all right—but I should say, 'Go and sin no more,' was much more like the Gospel, as I understand it!""I have always felt surprised, my dear Kit, at the line you took about Austin.""I suppose you have," said Kit, leaning back and pulling his moustaches.His aunt was silent for a few minutes, then she spoke:"You don't take into account that a happy home was made miserable by his disgrace. You don't think how that poor child, his sister, has had the evil of the world first brought home to her through him. How can he dare to complain? If he had a spark of right feeling, of real repentance, he would not expect happiness or trust. And the same thing happens again—with money in his power—and it comes out that he has wilfully deceived us, gone after foolish pleasures, and, according to his own showing, there has been a pretence at church-going and all the best things. What can one think? I do not see where right principle comes in in his conduct, and I can put no trust in mere amiable feeling.""Are you at all fond of him, Aunt Agatha?""I was, but I could never get over the dreadful shock of that time, the disappointment of all our hopes. I have always felt his presence a sad reminder of it.""In fact," said Kit, "you didn't dare to leave him alone with your money without locking it up. So he has just told me.""I don't resent your taking me to task, Kit," said Miss Agatha, "and if I could see how I have been wrong, I hope I should own it—I would try. But I cannot command trust where it has been forfeited, nor forget Austin's past.""Then, God help the poor boy!" said Kit, getting up and leaving her, "for it doesn't seem as if any one else would."In the meantime Nancy, restless with fret and trouble, had been for a long walk, and, coming back across the paddock, met Dr. Worthington as he came away from the Hall.He stopped and told her that Jack Purcell was better. "Your brother will be thankful," he said."I suppose so," said Nancy.Worthington attracted her in the sort of way that impelled her to talk to him. She felt less miserable in his presence, and he, wishing to please her, said something kindly about Austin's suspense, and how it had told on him. "Now you must cheer him up," he said. "He worried himself a good deal. Now his mind will be easy."Nancy did not answer at once. She flushed at Austin's name, and her young plump face grew rigid."It's not the worst trouble," she said, after a moment."Oh!" said Worthington, rather conventionally, "no doubt everything else will be explained.""It can't!" The impulse that made her open her heart to him made her continue. "If it was set right about this—about the money—he—he has said things that are not true. He doesn't deny it. One ought not to mind about what was an accident so much as that. But to know that any one belonging to one has told lies! Then one can't trust people.""I thought women would always stand by any one they cared for whatever he did.""Oh yes," said Nancy, "of course, give up anything to help them, if they repented. But not defend their wickedness. Your sister was much happier."Her crude idealism was altogether alien to Gerald's nature, and for the moment destroyed her attraction for him. It stung him, too.Was everything white or black on her plane of sight?"A white lie is inconceivable to you?" he said."No lies are white," said Nancy. "But I ought to own I almost told one once. I told Aunt Agatha I was late because my hair came down. It had come down, but that wasn't the reason. Of course I told her afterwards, but I've always remembered that I wasn't truthful that once. But Austin——"Gerald stared at her. She looked miserable, and was evidently in earnest, and perfectly ignorant that her view was strange to him.He felt afraid to say anything to her. She was inconceivable to him. Was this astounding innocence superhuman or inhuman? He had the sense to see that it was genuine. But what modus vivendi could he have with a creature so devoid of any sense of proportion?"Well, Miss Fairford," he said, "it's a good thing for me that Amy has had more mercy on the makeshifts a poor fellow is driven to. I must get back, I think, now."He went off quickly, and she, with a quick new consciousness of having vexed him, a quick new fear, which she did not recognise, went home. "Does he mean that he doesn't always tell the truth either?" she thought.A sharp personal pang shot through her, she had had more than one confidential talk with Worthington, the falsely suspected hero, who had proved so kind a friend. But she could never like a person who made light of truthfulness. Couldn't she?In answer to that question, poor Nancy's share of the experience of life began.They passed an odd, subdued sort of evening. One pressing thought seemed to baffle another. Austin came down to dinner, very pale, but with his usual impassive manner. He went away with his father afterwards to talk over the terms to be offered to Colonel Lyall.Kit and Miss Agatha politely talked politics, on which in the main they fortunately agreed. Kit abused the foreign policy of the Liberals, and his aunt said that his mother had wanted her to join the Primrose League, and to let the girls do so, but that she thought its meetings were "too mixed."Hilda sat listening and turning over thoughts on the political questions, which struck herself as daring and dangerous, but she refrained from raising an "argument," which was much disliked at Ford. Nancy sat apart wondering what Dr. Worthington had meant.Her heart came into her mouth, as Kit by-and-by said."I'm going to call Austin and tell him that I asked Worthington to look in the last thing—I wouldn't keep him all night on tenterhooks, but I don't want him to be startled again."He had hardly left them, when "Worthington came, cheerful and more confident than in the morning. All was going well. The Colonel's voice when he and Austin entered was quite brisk with relief from anxiety, and in the fulness of his heart he told Worthington about the discovery of the morning."Then I think I should have it out with the mother," said Gerald. "She went into hysterics this morning. I've come to the conclusion she knows all about it. Don't you think so, Austin?""She must," said Austin briefly."Well now—you get off to bed," said Worthington. "Captain Fairford, can't you take him away? A few weeks in the south of France would be very good for you also.""Yes," said Kit, with conviction, "I shall never get over my neuralgia in this damp place. We'll see about it.""You must give his nerves a rest," said Worthington in an under tone, and then aloud, "Good night, Colonel, I'm very glad to have brought you good news. Your son was my first friend here, and pulled me through some black hours with his company. A few innocent little outings and games of billiards together kept me going. Good night.""I feel better now I've said that," he thought to himself, as he walked home. "If she knew that I had avoided the chance of being called as a witness to the innocence of Austin's outings, because I thought they might tell against the doctor's propriety? If he had called me in as a witness what should I have said? Ah well, I escaped that question. Why is my tail between my legs? It seems Amy was right about him, he's a queer fish. And she—it would be rather like marrying a mermaid—but—I'll risk it."It was a much greater risk that he even yet knew, but after all, the risks of life are what make life even if they sometimes mar it.CHAPTER XLVI.SELF-SACRIFICE.DAFFODIL, meanwhile, found herself at Midwell among many old acquaintances and some old friends, who demanded from her an immediate resumption of former interests and realised but faintly that she had any new ones of equal strength.As she helped to decorate the church, to entertain the parish and to get up a Christmas tree for the orphans of whom her mother had formerly had charge, it was quite true that no one saw that she was miserable; but none the less did her brave heart faint and fail. Mrs. Villiers, whether of malice prepense or from the inveterate optimism of her easy-going nature, remarked once that she was sorry to have said so much to her, the affair was practically over, and of course no girl could help feeling it. Daffodil had been very plucky and there was no more to be said about it.And then in the reaction from her mighty efforts, Daffodil was seized with inward doubts. Was the tie which she had told Austin was stronger than the grave, anything more than her own lingering feelings? Was she anything to him? Could she do anything for him? Were she and Austin really, as well as apparently, parted altogether?There were two girls in the house where she was staying, one was going to be married and, though Daffodil scorned herself for the feeling, this happy maiden's trousseau, wedding presents, drawing-room furniture, love letters and future prospects seemed to her full of solid satisfaction. And worse still, the other sister had had a disappointment, as to which she was confidential and tearful, and such were the circumstances and the sentiments that Daffodil was forced to see that the sooner it was all over the better, and to bestow on this other girl advice very like that which her mother had given to her. This incident left a cold, cynical and disbelieving feeling behind it, and passionate longings, unspeakable yearnings, as well as little normal natural wishes, rose up and surged over the inward light of that high endeavour to be content if only she could help Austin to endure and to conquer."I should have thoroughly enjoyed a comfortable, commonplace engagement, no girl more," she thought. "I'd like, oh, how I'd like to be getting wedding clothes cheap, and to be choosing carpets, and—nice things for the kitchen—it would be perfectly heavenly!"The poor girl cried in her bed, and wondered why she had got such a queer love affair."After all, if I have him," she thought, "I'd give up the pots and pans and the carpets." She remembered all the early days of silent interest in Austin, the curious understanding of him that had gradually grown up within her, the sense that he had secret ways which Nancy did not guess, the slow, sure strengthening of her love for him, and her knowledge that he was not at all in love with her. Then, as her helpful impulses grew, the desire to help him, if only by making him laugh, or read an amusing book. He had not been much in the habit of coming to Pretty Peep. It was one of Mrs. Villiers' little principles to be much sterner about the cousins than about other young men. "I won't have any family fusses," she used to say, and poor Austin never went where he was not invited. But she had done something for him, even in those days when he did not know that she was anything to him. Without her he would have had a still duller life, fewer jokes, fewer teasings, fewer ideas would have penetrated the dull weight that lay upon him. And now she could put herself in his place, follow the thoughts of his heart, feel its strong fears and its weak hopes. She could be ready."That's not the same thing," she exclaimed viciously to herself, "as keeping the end of his cigarette in a box under one's pillow, like Rose. Or crying myself sick because I want him so—like me at this minute; and I never shall have the chance of finding out that he likes his curry hot, and cream in his coffee, and getting it for him, like Bessie, nor of wearing his favourite colour. I'm sure I don't know if he has one, and I don't think he'll ever form my mind, and tell me not to read novels he doesn't approve of. Oh, it's hard lines—so it is. No! I declare," here Daffodil sprung out of bed, pulled on her dressing gown, and crouched on the rug in front of the fire." I declare I'm every bit as bad as Minetta Lyall; she got tired of poor Kit because it was so melancholy thinking about him when he was ill. No, no, I'm for the morning! It's—
'God's task to make the heavenlyPerfect the earthen.'
I can't eat my cake and have it. My lover's got the hardest battle a man ever had to fight, and I can fight it, too—I won't shirk!"She hid her face in her hands, and the thought of how she could make one more appeal to Mrs. Purcell came to her. That was something she could do Doing was a tremendous comfort."I only wish I had more to do," thought the busy eager girl, who had hardly an unoccupied moment; and then she laughed to herself as she remembered that Miss Worthington had once said that six months' hospital training was the modern alternative for the time-honoured brain fever of disappointed heroines.Daffodil could laugh even while she wept, and when she sensibly went back to bed, and courted sleep under the warm coverings, she followed in thought, not Austin so much as Mrs. Purcell; every feeling of the woman's heart seemed plain, she felt as if she was sending forth her own strong spirit to help this weak one to the stupendous effort of confession which would free her soul.She wrote her Christmas letter and waited, and by the first possible post an answer came."THE HOLE,Dec. 26th."DEAR MISS DAFFODIL,"I've been a very wicked woman, as I'm sure you'll say when you read this letter; but indeed, I should have been worse but for a dear and beautiful young lady, who has shown me what an angel on earth can be like. Miss Daffodil, I took that money. It was me and no one must blame my poor dear boy for it. It was like this. I'll not deny that he has his little troubles, and money was short, and I thought to borrow the thirty pounds for him, which is a snare which I have often read of, and ought never to have fallen into; but so it was, and I put it in a little tin box and rubbed off the label which was cough lozenges, and Miss Daffodil, I hid it in the wood pile, for I felt as if Purcell's eyes would penetrate if I had it anywhere in the house. And then my boy was struck down, which was a judgment on me for I knew I was sinning, and I never, never, touched the tin box till this very morning, when I went to look for it, and meant to put it where Mr. Austin's eye might fall on it, and, oh, Miss Daffodil, it was gone, and who has it I know no more than the babe unborn. But my poor boy shall die cleared, for he is dying, being ever so much worse than before. It was all his mother's fault, and no one must cast it up to his ghost—and as for Mr. Austin, of course, I know suspecting him could only be an engine to work on my feelings—though I can never, never bear to look on his face as has been the death of my boy. I know, Miss Daffodil, you thought it was Jack, so I have written this confession that may clear every one but my sinful self. Which please do just as you like with it—and I am ready to bear anything if only it mayn't come to the ears of my poor Purcell, who will have no one but me when the grave has closed over Jack."Your sorrowing and repentant"FLORENCE PURCELL."Daffodil read this startling communication twice through. Was this then the meaning of it all? It was not exactly an improbable story in itself, and it fairly well fitted the facts of the case. At the same time, it did not carry conviction to her mind. And where was the money? And then, was Jack really worse? was he dying? If Mrs. Purcell had done nothing else she had communicated the terror of that night and day of awful suspense. Had Austin's Christmas been passed in such quickened anguish? There was no other letter. It was cruel of Miss Worthington not to have let her know.But what was to be done? Here was a confession which would clear Austin at once, and yet—that confession did not seem to her shrewd insight to ring true. Should she send it to Austin? No, that wouldn't quite do, there was a better thing to do than that; she would send it straight off to Christopher Fairford.She put it up with the briefest note of explanation and no comments whatever. Then she wrote to Mrs. Purcell."DEAR MRS. PURCELL,"I have received your letter. I will not deny that I have tried hard to induce you to tell what you knew about the lost money. I did not suspect you of having taken it. As I told you, I wanted to clear Mr. Austin, and I wanted you to own up if you were keeping a secret, both for your own sake and because I thought if you really loved Jack, you would never wish to help him to do wrong; that would not be a kind of love worthy of you or anybody who knows what it is to love a person truly. I am much grieved to hear that he is worse—and I am always,"Your true and affectionate friend,"DAFFODIL VILLIERS."She read this over when she had written it with a sort of surprise."I had to put it like that," she thought, "but it's not at all what I should have said if I quite believed her for certain. She'll think it very unkind."By the time Mrs. Purcell received it she had had leisure to consider the effect of her own letter, which she had written in the agony of Jack's relapse, and of her own terror at finding that the money had been taken away. Daffodil's appeal had not been fruitless, she had felt as if Jack's danger were a judgment on her, and that confession would save his life. And then into her vehement, ill-judging heart had darted what seemed the magnificent idea of taking her boy's sin upon herself. If only she had put the money that first time into her pocket she might have returned it now and cleared up the mystery. Jack would die with a good name, or, if he lived, be for ever grateful to her for her action.When the accession of illness passed off, and Dr. Worthington spoke for the first time with some confidence in his recovery, she felt as if she had brought him back from the grave. She poured out wild thanksgivings, she felt herself to be her son's saviour, and all the next day, while his betterment was becoming confirmed, she made pictures of how she would reform him, and lead him aright, bound to her as he would be by such an enormous obligation. For herself, of course she might suffer, but such a voluntary confession might win forgiveness. Only, where was the tin box? This was her greatest anxiety until the morning of the 28th of December, when Daffodil's letter was put into her hand. She had seen nobody; Dr. Worthington had forbidden visitors to the house, as much perhaps out of regard to Austin's nerves as to Jack's, and she had not yet been told of the discovery of the tin box.When she had opened the letter with trembling and yet eager fingers, and had read it quickly through, she felt at once, blankly, that it was not at all the sort of letter that she had expected to receive. "It has turned Miss Daffodil against me," she thought, and then she read it once more, and with quick insight said, "Miss Daffodil doesn't quite believe it."She felt frightened, she did not know why. Then she read it a third time, noted the last sentence, " if you really loved Jack, you would never wish to help him to do wrong, that would not be a kind of love worthy of you."If Jack had died unconscious, that would not have mattered, but if he recovered and accepted the sacrifice she had made for him, if he allowed her to bear the guilt of his sin?When an idea once struck Mrs. Purcell she could not help knowing what it involved.The glory of her deed faded before her. "I believe that the time might come when I should cast it up to him."The flashing thought was gone almost before it had come, but it could never be forgotten, and while she stood, mentally blinded by its sudden glare, there was a tap at the outer door of the kitchen, and there stood Mr. Christopher Fairford.CHAPTER XLVII.PIECES OF SEVERAL MINDS.ON the morning of the 27th of December, not long after Messrs. Jackson and Macnamara had got their place of business open and the confusion of the recent holiday over, Mr. Austin Fairford and his uncle Mr. Christopher walked in and asked to speak to both partners in private. Macnamara jumped at once to the conclusion that the young" gentleman had come to make his confession, and to throw himself on their mercy, and yet, if so, he looked wonderfully composed as he took at once the initiative in the interview."I have made a discovery," he said; "the thirty pounds is found. I have come to ask Mr. Jackson to be good enough to make the bill out again for my father, and to receipt it in our presence. My uncle will explain that these are the identical bank notes which you ought to have received in the first instance."Here Christopher produced the tin box, and from it the bank notes and the ten sovereigns which he laid on the table.He identified the numbers, and then in the briefest dryest tones, Austin stated where he had found the box, and how, hearing that Jack had been haunted in his delirium by the wood-pile, had induced him to search there for the lost money."Now, Mr. Jackson," he said, "it appears to me that our share in the matter is over. My father has his money and what you may choose to do with regard to the forgery is your affair not ours. But as you know Jack Purcell has nearly died through an accident brought about through my means I earnestly recommend him to your mercy."Astonishment and puzzlement deprived Jackson of the power of speech. He stared and hesitated, unable to grasp the bearings of the matter. Macnamara was sharper witted. He saw at once that the story did not exonerate the young man before him, resting as it did on his own testimony, but he saw also that he had a strong case. His statement was clear—no doubt the delirious talk could be corroborated, and besides——He had never forgotten, being a kind-hearted if self-important man, the abject miserable youth who had been made to beg his pardon, and whom he had let off with some satisfaction in having the young gentleman at his mercy. He looked up now at the steadfast sorrowful eyes that looked him straight in the face without fear or falter, and recognised the difference."Well, sir," he said, doubtfully, "there's yourself or the Colonel might prosecute for the theft.""We might," said Austin, "but we shall not. Mr. Macnamara, you saved one miserable boy from social ruin, may we beg you now to use your influence with your partner to save another—already severely punished?"Christopher Fairford held his breath. He had never been so astonished in his life, while Macnamara stammered out—"Lor' sir, I'm sure it wouldn't be in no way worth my brother-in-law's while to go to the expense of going to law. Not at all, sir, and the young man's my connection. Here's the bill, and in my opinion, Mr. Jackson, there'd better be no more said.""Certainly," said Jackson, "not but what I think that a young man who could play such a dirty trick isn't fit for much, and he ought to be made to feel it.""I think he will," said Austin, "that is if he recovers. Well, we'll say good morning.""Well, I'm beat!" said Macnamara, after he had bowed out the two gentleman. "I never saw the like of that since I was born.""I hardly expected, Austin——" began Christopher as they got into the street."I dare say not," said Austin, "but I should have been a fool to shirk what must have been in his mind. Of course I cannot keep Jack's secret, but I don't think it would become me to prosecute him or to give public evidence against him, unless forced to do so by others. I feel it to be impossible, even to justify myself in the eyes of any one who may still think I require it."Austin's voice was as self-contained as usual, his face still and unsmiling; but it struck his uncle that he looked pale, probably the late scene had been trying."Young Purcell's out of danger," he said, wishing to give a cheering turn to the conversation."They say so," said Austin, quickly, with a flush and quiver. "You are coming back, are you not—to see about writing to Colonel Lyall?"For this other trouble, this other interest, whichever it might be called, brooked no delay. As if nothing else were in their thoughts, all the details of the letting of Ford had to be discussed—details, each one of which would have gone near to break the poor Colonel's heart—if they had not been put forward in Austin's steady voice, and decided in the main by the young man's clear judgment. He was losing Ford, he was finding his son, and he said "Thank God!" under his breath, as the painful plans were put into writing.Everything was done to avoid a sudden break up. The old servants, the old horses, the old furniture could go on for a year—save the selection of each that would be taken to Bishopsford. The move could be made almost immediately without any fuss, and as few people as possible would suffer by the Colonel's losses."Settled is it?" said Kit, as Christopher came out of the library, and found him alone in the morning room. "It's a dreary business.""It is," said the uncle,"a bad look-out. You are staying on here, I see.""Yes," said Kit, "and then I want to get Austin away with me, as soon as that young scamp's quite round the corner and this business settled. He'll knock up otherwise.""He has certainly had a good deal of annoyance lately," said Christopher, thoughtfully."I think," said Kit, "that the family don't appear to realise that Austin is made of flesh and blood."Kit was moved to this statement by his conviction that his attack on Miss Agatha had had worse than no result, and it had indeed deeply hurt and offended her.She had never before known what it was to feel herself at the bar of the younger generation, and she could not separate what she thought due to their elders in the abstract from what she thought due to herself. Besides, it was almost incredible to her that a person who had sinned as Austin had done—who had gone on, confessedly under false colours, who, as she supposed, now repudiated his religious duties, and who had not set about repenting on any lines which she recognised as proper, could now be behaving with something like heroic courage. The fact of his present praiseworthiness did not square with any theory which she entertained—it seemed to her so much more likely that there should be something behind now, as there had been before, so much more likely that her judgment of him rather than Kit's should be the true one. She was very unhappy, suffering keenly in the break-up of the house—and less able perhaps than usual to control her feelings, but she looked at all Austin's actions with a jaundiced eye. And though she told Nancy to be kind and patient with her brother, she showed that she felt such kindness and patience very hard to bestow. And as she watched his ways with his father, she came to think they had a motive.This never struck Austin for a moment, his object was to please and comfort his father, and the joy of being able to do so was so great, that it almost outweighed the nervous dread of a relapse for Jack that haunted him, and quite conquered the pain of his loss of fortune, and he showed his pleasure in the simple and outspoken way that had once been natural to him.On the afternoon of this same 27th they were all sitting at tea in the drawing-room, when Austin came in quickly and went up to the Colonel."Look here, father,"he said, "you liked that walking-stick I cut for Kit. Here's another, I think it is a nicer one. I've prepared it; it's got a capital crook. It's hazel, out of the Hole plantation. It's a Christmas present, rather behindhand," he added, with a smile.Walking-sticks were a little vanity of the Colonel's, and he looked at this one with the eye of a connoisseur, leaning on it and feeling it."Capital," he said, "just the thing I wanted. Wants some sort of ferrule, though.""Yes, I thought I'd see if you liked it and then take it to get one put on. Is it tall enough?""Quite, thank you, Tosty."Perhaps Kit's example had revived the old nickname. It had fallen out of use, but the sound of it from his father made an epoch for its owner.The Colonel sat down, and asked cheerfully for some tea. As Nancy took it to him she passed Agatha and met her eyes, and, somehow, she read the thought in them.Agatha was silent, she expressed no thought, her look was involuntary, she was saying to herself that one must not judge others, when she passed on to Nancy her evil doubt of the sincerity of Austin's little action. Austin felt happy and at ease, and when Nancy's teapot proved to be empty, teased her in a normal and natural fashion, till her silence was too marked to be passed over, and made him silent in his turn. He went away presently with Kit, and the Colonel went into his study, leaving the ladies alone.Then suddenly, Hilda, who had been sitting back in the dusk, broke out:"Nancy, how can you be so cruel! How little you understand! Agatha, will nothing open your eyes to what you are doing?""Good gracious, Hilda! Whatever do you mean?" exclaimed Nancy startled, and suddenly Hilda's spirit was moved within her and she spoke:"You neither of you understand the state of the case in the very least. I do, and I think all those years ago we were all frightfully mistaken in the way we managed Austin—frightfully. We never saw, I never saw, that if we were ashamed—he was crushed He wanted holding up, not beating down. I never said a kind word to him. I thought it was so dreadful to come in contact with a sin of that kind. I behaved to him as if he'd been a snake. And since, we have expected him to follow all sorts of little rules and shibboleths, to be like our idea of what a repentant sinner ought to be. We expected him to give up being himself. Just as we all have. Haven't I concealed and pretended and induced all my wishes to keep to what other people thought right? And haven't I had my thoughts and my feelings all the time? Do you think I've been really religious and good r Never! Haven't I read books that you don't know of, and written things you wouldn't like? I was a coward and so was he, poor boy. He didn't dare say he wanted a little amusement, and so he took it. He has never had a life of his own—nor have I, I may as well say it now—I can't go on—I'm not going to go on. I'm going to go away and find out about myself. I must! And as for Austin I wonder—I only wonder he does not hate us all. But, after all, his life is before him. He has got it to come. He has not lost it all under such awful repression."Thus egotistically and unwisely, and altogether unexpectedly, did Hilda drop her mask, and at length assert herself."I'm sure I've never repressed myself," said Nancy, staring at her. "What on earth do you mean?""You," said Hilda, "you haven't come to the time to have anything to repress. You haven't got a soul, if you had, you wouldn't be so cruel to Austin.""I think, Hilda," said Agatha, coldly but gently, "that you are strangely excited. It would be better to control yourself. I do not know what you mean by repression. I have tried to take your mother's place to you. It will be better to discuss it when Nancy is not here.""No, Aunt Agatha, I don't think that at all," said Nancy. "We'd all better come to an understanding while we're about it. It's my affair as much as any one's about Austin."At this moment Austin himself came suddenly into the room. Kit had left "Barrack-room Ballads" behind him, and "he didn't think they'd suit Aunt Agatha.""Austin," said Hilda, hotly, as he paused, perceiving that something was wrong, "I will speak for myself. I believe you, I trust you, and I know I helped to make things bad for you long ago because I thought only how bad it all was for us.""You are very kind, Hilda," said Austin, "very. But indeed I think it is better not to discuss my character just now.""It is not kindness, it's because I understand, because I've felt like you," said Hilda."That's hardly possible," said Austin, who did not understand her in the least; " you've been very kind often, Hilda, I know.""Let us drop the subject," said Agatha, rising with dignity."I will drop the subject," said Hilda, sobbing, "but as we have begun to talk about it, I will say now that I mean—I mean to take a lodging somewhere by the seaside for at least two months.""And why shouldn't you?" said the ungrateful Austin as Hilda fled, feeling as if she had burnt all her ships, while Nancy laughed hysterically."I think," said Agatha, as she left the room, "that you had better come up-stairs, Nancy. When we are tempted to lose self-control it is better to go away at once."Her voice shook; the self-control was evidently maintained with difficulty, but she went, and the brother and sister were left alone.Poor Nancy in her tempestuous sorrow wanted to scold him for being a disgrace to her. She almost felt that if she reproached him enough that somehow the dreadful thing could be talked away."It was not my fault that it was ever kept from you," he said, after a moment."It's not that," said Nancy; "oh, I can't be sorry that I've had a few happy years. I shall never have any more, never. It's awful to me not to believe you!""But don't you believe that I found the box in the wood pile?" said Austin.It is a long time before the children of one household, come what may, grow quite distinct from one another. It is possible to quarrel and make up, to think hard thoughts, and speak of them to each other, and blot them out again. And they did love each other, poor things, very much."I don't see how I can," said Nancy, "I don't see how I can be certain. And if you are sorry for what you've done, I think you'd be more miserable.""Do you?" said Austin rather grimly. " Nancy, if an angel went down into hell and held out a hand to a soul in torment, don't you think the poor thing would smile?""An angel?""Yes. Angels have come to my help; look at Kit what he has been. And my father trusting me! And Daffodil, who's given life to my soul! Why, I must pull through. And I shall. If Jack doesn't get bad again! But for the rest, indeed, Nancy—though I wish with all my heart you believed me—I've gone through so much that even what you think doesn't make it much worse for me.""I shall try to bear leaving Ford," said Nancy, still sobbing."Yes, that's hard, isn't it?" he answered, "but it's worse for father and Aunt Agatha than for us after all.""You know," she said "I always did think that it was such happiness to think of papa and grandpapa being such good men, such a thing to be proud of, like being English and belonging to the English Church. I felt so proud of being a Fairford, and of knowing every one belonging to me was better than other people. It's not a wrong feeling.""I don't know, Nancy, it's a long time certainly since I could thank God that I was not as other men are.""It's not myself," said Nancy. But she looked struck, and there was silence.Suddenly she turned round and flung herself right into his arms."Oh, Austin, I'd so much rather you had died," she said, but she kissed and clung to him. Austin had thought so many a time himself.CHAPTER XLVIII.A. B. C.THE debts which had been manageable by the heir of Ford would have looked ugly enough to Austin under his changed prospects but for Kit's intervention, and the help which might have been taken naturally from a comrade to save a family explosion became more humiliating when its acceptance was an absolute necessity. In fact, Kit's offer had utterly silenced Austin's confidences to him on the subject until the morning after the last recorded conversation, when, as they sat in the study, as lightly as he could, Kit renewed it."Get 'em off your mind, Tosty," he said, "we're uncoiling by degrees, you see; you'll get to the last scene of the play presently.""It's the sort of coil that strangles men," said Austin, grimly."Well, let's name the figure and have done with it. Then it'll be no business of anybody's. What? " as Austin laid a packet of bills before him, "No, I don't want to look at them. Why should I? Give us the total, that's all."Austin wrote some figures on a slip of paper, then turned away and laid his head down on his arms on the mantelpiece."Well," said Kit, "we'll survive it. There!" as he wrote the needful cheque. "Now make an end of it all as soon as you can. O, come, I say, Tosty, it's not worth I Do you think I'd nothing to settle up when I came into my godfather's money?""You told no lies about it," said Austin, after a minute or two."Nobody asked me any questions," said Kit. "Besides, a blundering chap like you would be sure to tell a great many more lies than were necessary. Now, look here, the thing is, what next? I'm to be sent away, out of the damp, you know, and you must come with me. You're about played out. We'll run down to the south of France—Aunt Agatha can pack up without you. Meanwhile I'm going to write to Uncle Winchester's agent, and the mater knows other quarters to apply to, and something for you will turn up somewhere—I don't think there can be any more surprises in this game—nothing else.""If you please, sir, Mr. Christopher's here. He has been to the Hole, and wants to see you."Poor Austin started up, his face like a sheet of paper, debts and self-reproach forgotten, as he left cheque and bills on the table, and rushed away. News from the Hole meant only one thing for him.But when Kit, having gathered up the tell-tale papers, made his way to the library, he found the whole family, including the Rector, who had come in while he was in the study, gathered round Christopher, who was shaking hands with Austin, and saying in a loud and formal tone:"I congratulate you, Austin, on the final clearing up of an awkward business. I wish to make known to every one that Mrs. Purcell has confessed to having appropriated the thirty pounds, hidden it in the wood-pile, and herself written the forged receipt. It was to pay a debt of her son's; but she declares that he was not privy to the transaction. I have made her repeat her statement before Dr. and Miss Worthington. She will do so to Jackson and Macnamara, and I am most thankful to have got to the bottom of a most unpleasant business."The Colonel grasped his son's hand. The Rector made him a kind speech. He was cleared before the very tribunal which had first judged and then suspected him. He had faced them then, but now he looked quite stupid and confused, and did not speak."How did it come out?" asked Dr. Fairford."Why, her conscience, it appears, was moved by her son's danger, and, frightened at the disappearance of the money, she wrote to Diaphenia Villiers, who appears to have been kind to her, and Diaphenia, very sensibly, sent her letter on to me. She seems to be in a very agitated state of mind—hardly what I should call repentant—but that, of course, is your business, Augustine. We've got at the truth at last.""I always thought it was the fellow himself," said Kit."Well," said Miss Agatha, "I always felt that Mrs. Purcell was unsatisfactory—I am afraid she has been encouraged. Daffodil has lent her books above her station—poetry, I believe, of Browning's. It seemed unwise."My dear Agatha,' said the Colonel, "it appears that Diaphenia's influence has been greatly to her advantage. And though I am not myself a reader of Browning, I have never gathered that he was an immoral writer. I think you mistake."Kit sniggered a little in spite of himself, and Christopher said, "I asked her why Jack talked about the wood pile, and she said that that was only because it was the last thing he had been doing. She was relieved, I think, really to know who had found the box. Here is her letter to Daffodil. Take care of it, it is valuable evidence."Austin took it, and when next he was appealed to, after more eager discussion, was found to have vanished."Let him be," said Kit, "he's had as much as he can stand. Something new turns up every minute!"The Colonel drew a long breath, walked up and down once or twice, and then called his brother's attention to the drawers full of family letters which he had been inspecting."They should go to your office, Christopher," he said, "for at my age there is no saying what may happen."There was an incongruous refreshment in his voice, and, as Kit said, "Uncle Nicolas went on to lay himself in his grave quite cheerfully." Kit strolled after the ladies as they went back to their own quarters. Nancy, who was little the worse for the flood of tears she had previously shed, was ashamed to say she was at last satisfied, and so proceeded to shed more, while Hilda wondered how much they had all been to blame for indulging false suspicions. Kit looked at his aunt—manifestly expecting her to speak—and after a moment or two she did so, not without true agitation."I have been endeavouring, as of course I know is right, to find out if I have in any way been to blame as Kit and Hilda think. If I have thought too much of my authority, I am sorry for it. It will soon be over. And if I have in any way made an idol of it, I hope I shall be thankful for the lesson. I am most thankful that this sad matter is cleared up, but I cannot altogether blame myself for my doubts. I don't think love for any one ought to sway our judgment."Kit escaped without a reply, and followed Austin. "Your young woman has done a stroke of work for you this time," he said."She can do most things," said Austin, fervently. "But, Kit, what did you say about getting off somewhere? If you'll manage that for me; get me somewhere where it doesn't matter what I do, and where nobody cares a hang for me, in any way that will seem natural and reasonable, I'll thank you more for that than for anything—I don't care if it's Kamaschatka or Timbuctoo.""Kamschatka would be neuralgic, and Timbuctoo feverish," said Kit, "but I'll work it somehow."He did so, to such an effect that when, hardly a week later, Daffodil had gone up to London on a shopping expedition from Midwell, and business obliged her to go by the way that led her through the open space in front of Westminster Abbey, she saw approaching a tall young man, whom her fancy pictured with quite a different background. He saw an almost equally tall maiden, trimly dressed, and coming to meet him with some little parcels in her hand."You!""You!"Their hands met and their eyes met—and a slight earthquake appeared to shake the historic towers before Daffodil's eyes."I'm very glad I've met you," said Austin, tritely. "There's something important I wanted to say. May I come with you a little way?""I was going to that A. B. C. over there. I don't believe you know what an A. B. C. is! Well, to that Aerated Bread Company's restaurant to get some lunch. I came up from Midwell to do some errands for the bride that is to be. That accounts for me. But you?""Kit and I are going to Cannes for three weeks. He must get into the sunshine. He carried me off, and to-day I came out to get some things he wanted, while he saw his doctor. He told me to go to Madame Tussaud's, being such a country cousin, but I thought I'd take a look at the Abbey. But I may come with you?""Yes, but you mayn't take my parcels. I have learned, probably from Cousin Barbara, that a gentleman should never carry anything but a book, a pineapple, or a brace of pheasants. So you mustn't be seen with frilling and gloves, in whitey-brown paper. Here we are—No—if you give the orders I'm sure you'll ask for,pâté de foie gras like a man in a sensa-tional novel. You shall have some cold meat if you like. There, that's a nice corner."When Austin found himself sitting at a little marble table, with a cup of coffee before him, while Daffodil, sitting opposite, removed her veil and gloves, he hardly knew if he was in the body. It was like a dream come to life. Only a minute, the next they were both in the heart of things."Daffodil," said Austin, "is that woman's confession true?""They all believe it, don't they? "said Daffodil quickly."Oh yes, but I am sure Jack did it himself. Is she screening him?""I don't know," said Daffodil, "I wondered what you would think. I don't feel sure, but I shall know when I see her.""What shall you do then?""What do you think?" she said doubtfully."Why, you see," said Austin, "they have never let me go near the place since. But if Jack gets round, as they say now he will, I must try and have it out with him. I'm bound to do that.""I haven't heard anything," said Daffodil. "Miss Worthington went away directly after it came out about Mrs. Purcell. Is it all right for you now?""No," said Austin, "that's one of the things I must say to you. There is something in people's minds about me. Not more or so much as the truth, and nothing more than I deserve. I don't think any one out of the family really knows about this last business—nor indeed about the other, but they know, as I say, that there's something. But I shall get the better of it now.""And in the family?" said Daffodil."My uncles have been very kind, and the others, oh well—it's all right they should feel as they do! Then about our affairs—I don't think we need sell Ford, at least while my father lives. We shall try to sell Wood End, and perhaps the Hole, and if we do, and let the other farms and the shooting, we might at the year's end be able to come back. But we shall never have any money, so to speak, again.""And you?" said Daffodil, softly."Yes, I want to tell you. Kit has paid my debts, Daffodil. I sometimes think now that you guessed at those poor bills and things all along."Well, yes, I did in a way.""It's a poor mean, shady record," said Austin frowning. "I lived in fear—and yet God knows it was the tears in my father's eyes I was afraid of.""Yes, I know.""Well—Kit has done that for me, and besides—you know Aunt Barbara is cousin to half the great folks in England. He says she'll find me a place. But I want to tell you that I want to pay him back with the first money I can save—I must.""Yes, yes," she answered, "I quite understand.""I thought you would. And you'll understand this too—Kit says that I had to go to church parade, and that it's absurd to worry about it. It was drill, he says. And now that I'm all square that will be square too. But it never was drill to me. I went because I was afraid to stay away. And drill or not, that sort of thing is drained for me by my own fault of all connection with the life of my soul. I can't be absolved with bell, book, and candle. I must go out into the wilderness alone, where there is no big bribe for doing my duty!"Daffodil nodded with her eyes on his.This was an Austin that she had never known, with an experience beyond her intuitions. They gazed at each other for one self-forgetful moment—then Austin said more lightly:"Can you believe that I thought that I loved you and would not tell you my story?""I should have known.""Yes—and yet it was a good thought to begin with. It was better than cringeing to you. If I can get work to do! Of course, I've thought of a colony, but I'm turned five and twenty, and that's old to learn everything fresh. And besides that I think—I do think, it would be a grief to my father if I went—I couldn't then win back my good name for him. People would only know I was a bad lot gone abroad. Your mother would still rightly think I was offering you a piece of damaged goods. But I do know something about the management of land in England. I like it, and I begin to see that there are many interests belonging to it. You see, Daffodil, I have never till now been enough myself to have thoughts or opinions about anything."He was very grave, but the talk was of the future, not the past, and Hope, though veiled, sat between them."I'm glad," said Daffodil emphatically.He looked at her, and presently said in a slow shy voice——"You always wear the most beautiful dresses, Daffodil, much prettier ones than any of the other girls. But you don't want a great deal of money to buy them, do you?"Daffodil took up her glove, and showed him a mended finger."Two and elevenpence last spring," she said, nodding, "and I've only two pairs and some scrubs. Minna Lyall's cost at least four and sixpence, and match all her frocks.""Oh, Minna Lyall! "exclaimed Austin, descending upon common ground—"I do believe she is sorry she turned off Kit. She came over to Ford with her parents—they said they didn't know he was there. And she made eyes at him all tea time.""And Kit?""Kit, oh he's a perfect fool about her. She's only to say, ' Please, I'm sorry,' and back he'll come—I should say he was laying up a lifetime of misery, but he'll be quite happy if she'll only condescend to stamp on him.""She's a baby," said Daffodil, "if she does get fond of him perhaps she'll grow.""She won't, she'll only like to have him fond of her. No! I don't envy him at all!""I'm glad of that," said Daffodil, demurely. "Now, you ought to go, for some of my friends will meet me here and mother wouldn't like them to—to pass remarks. You'll have a holiday now, won't you, and not worry.""No," said Austin, "I shan't worry now".He smiled. Hope lifted the edge of her veil. Life was before and not behind them, and it was hard to pretend not to see her face. A new shyness seized on Daffodil. She chatted fast, and would not look at him, insisting on paying for her share of the hardly tasted luncheon."There's sixpence still to divide," she said, offering him a threepenny bit."Yes—there's sixpence still to divide," said Austin.He put a sixpence into her ungloved hand and taking the threepence from her, he opened the back of his watch and shut it in."I'll keep it there for the present," he said, "now we've halved sixpence."Hope dropped her veil altogether, and showed them for once a smiling face.When Daffodil got back to Midwell she told her mother of the meeting and of Austin's prospects and intentions, and also of Mrs. Purcell's confession, as to which she had hitherto been silent."The thing that I don't quite understand," said Mrs. Villiers, "is the difference between your point of view and that of any girl who persists in a dutiful way in an undesirable attachment."Daffodil knelt down on the hearthrug, so that her tall head was on a level with her mother's, as Mrs. Villiers sat by the fire."One difference is," she said, "that I think I am quite right, instead of rather wrong.""Yes?" said her mother, inquiringly."Then, I know the separation is right. I shouldn't have wished Austin to wish to marry me as things were. I knew he ought not.""Well?" said Mrs. Villiers again."Well then, mother, the point of view is that since we love each other and know each other we have the best part, the love itself, and what we must give up is less important. We are—united.""Yes," said Mrs. Villiers. "I have often read that in poetry. Browning, I believe, constantly says so. But did you feel it held water in real life—is it easy to keep up?""No, mother," said Daffodil, "it's very hard. But I'd rather have it than all the rest without it. That is true."Mrs. Villiers scanned the girl's bent head."Yes," she said—"but you don't know what ' the rest of it' can be till you have tried it."Daffodil turned round and looked at her."Oh yes, mother, I do," she said, "I've been trying doing without it."And Mrs. Villiers, who could read the signs of the times, saw that her daughter had an experience of her own."You're very like your father, Daff," she said more softly, and Daffodil turned and kissed her."Mimsey," she whispered, "I would do without it and never grumble. But I can't help thinking—now—that some day——""I don't see that day in the almanack," said Mrs. Villiers. "If it had been Kit—now——""Kit? Kit is splendid, but he hasn't been down into the depths.""Ah, my dear, but when people go down into the depths, it's so very doubtful how they come up again. My Daffadowndilly, I'm not a fool, I've got to let you 'dree your weird.' But there's one thing you don't know, not if you've been down into the central fires, and that is, how very hard it is for your mother to let you do it."Daffodil threw herself into her mother's arms, and they kissed and cried together, as she uttered the eternal truth—"Your mother had to let you."CHAPTER XLIX.A FALLEN IDOL.THE removal of Austin from the scene of action, the cessation of acute anxiety about Jack Purcell, and the apparently final clearing up of the mystery of the lost money, brought the changes at Ford into their natural pre-eminence in the minds of the rest of the family. The "Bishopsford House," as it was commonly called, was nameless. It belonged to a period when to give a house a name, whether good or bad, was supposed to turn it into a suburban villa. It stood a little way out of Bishopsford, on the Ford-Regis road, and was a square, solid-looking building, with a garden and orchard, secluded from the road by a tall row of elm trees. There were some stables, and the outgoing tenants were glad to accept a small rent for the furniture, which was sufficiently good. Altogether, as the Colonel said, it was a house which no one ought to complain of having to live in—it was not too far from the old church, quite convenient for the magistrates' meetings. They might have been far worse off."I daresay we might," said Hilda, catching Miss Worthington for a last talk, "But it's just like a little, dull, shabby Ford; and when we all live there, it will be the old thing over again, only smaller.""I shouldn't wonder," said Amy, "if you found that it made a great difference to Miss Agatha.""Poor Agatha! She feels it awfully—I really mean awfully, so she wouldn't mind my saying so. She made me feel so wicked. She said perhaps she had been to blame, and made an idol of her authority. But I know she thinks I'm selfish. And Austin—I am sure we were wrong about Austin; and yet, even now, I can't quite see how. It was a most dreadful thing to happen. We seem to have got wrong through trying to do right."Amy was sitting by the fire in Hilda's sitting-room at Ford; she stared into it for a few minutes, then she said:"I'm going to hit out.""Well?" said Hilda."You know I don't exactly know what did happen, but I think it is a great deal because you haven't used your imaginations. You thought so much of being ashamed yourselves, that it never occurred to you to realise what the shame was to the poor boy himself. Then you thought more of keeping up a high standard, of not thinking lightly of evil, than of helping him to be good. And, moreover, you seem to have lumped all his failings together. I don't believe there is a more dangerous mistake in the world than the idea that one sort of wrong-doing is as bad as another—that all sins are equally bad, and so on. There are infinite degrees, and to think otherwise is nonsense.""But surely," said Hilda, "the only safe way is to shun all evil, and if we admit a distinction, if we excuse little sins, we may be led on to big ones—whereas, if we stop the little ones, the worse ones can't grow.""Yes, they can," said Amy, "because often you don't see the wood for the trees. One must use one's judgment, and have faith. There! you would have it. And, of course, though I do think you have made an idol of goodness—at least of one way of being good—yet I know it has been goodness. I know Miss Agatha is a very good woman, and I daresay it will work out somehow."Amy's tones had been more like a "soft sledge-hammer" than ever—the results of six months' study of the Fairfords had suddenly formulated themselves."And what about me?" said Hilda, in unconscious confirmation of the indictment of self-occupation.Amy looked at her shrinking figure and her fidgety fingers, and listened to her faltering accents. What about her, indeed!"Well, I should say, go, as you propose, for a bit, and look about you. Then you'll come back and make a fresh start, and, of course, there must be a chance of new beginnings. There's a place I know near Redmouth, a sort of holiday and convalescent home—ladies go there. The Lady Resident is a friend of mine; she always takes in Mokanna when I go to pay visits. It's a lovely place, and very cheap. Should you like that?""Why, I think I should," said Hilda, "I really couldn't think how to set about going anywhere. It will be easier if I have a plan to propose.""Don't propose it as if you meant to retire to a hermitage in the desert of Sahara! " said Amy, wickedly.Hilda laughed. "It seems nearly as surprising," she said, "but I know what you mean. Dear me—I'm so glad you came here. You're coming back?""For a time, yes. I get thoughts you know, Hilda, and say them out, but indeed, I believe, as much as Miss Agatha, in what Shorthouse calls ' the winsome grace of an ideal life.""I am sure I can't think what would have happened if you and your brother had not come here," said Hilda. "Jack Purcell would certainly have died without Dr. Worthington, and for me I know quite well that you have been the making of me."Amy felt guilty. Hilda did not know of what importance to her family Gerald Worthington's sojourn at the Hole might prove, and the more she thought of his intentions towards Nancy Fairford, the less she liked them. Here was a girl, out of the common intolerant and ignorant of life, passionate and emotional, inheriting all sorts of fibres of delicate feeling—and there was Gerald, not a bad fellow in his way, but without an ideal or an aspiration, kind-hearted, with his own professional enthusiasms, grateful, and yet capable of a prudence which no Fairford could have shown to save life itself, so thorough a materialist that he had never troubled himself even to settle that he was not religious. What could come of such a mating? How unhappy they would make each other!And yet it was going surely to be. They had already worked upon each other. Nancy had softened because he thought her hard, and he had felt ashamed before her high young judgment. Already Nancy's sorrow at the break up of home was softened, she was quite unexpectedly good over it—and much more helpful than she had ever been before. She hardly knew it, but the change was no longer her first thought. That was when and how she should next see Gerald Worthington.But for Agatha there were no consolations. When the crisis of a long calm life comes late and out of due time, it is doubly confusing and hard to face. Agatha's grooves were deep and smooth with long usage, changes of feeling and interest had always seemed undesirable, and had become yearly more difficult to her. Her habits and surroundings she had never changed at all. She had never had a different bed-room since she was promoted from the nursery, and sat habitually in the same chair, possessed the same little trifles and kept them in the same places as in her youth. Stiff and elderly as were her manners and appearance, there was a great deal in her that had never grown or developed since youth, and her regrets were like those of a girl. She was lonely too in her sorrow. Nancy even seemed to find change endurable, Hilda had openly said that she did not regret it. The Colonel thought more of his son's letters than his father's house, and poor Agatha's regrets went back to those who had gone before, she grieved anew for her parents, with the pathetic sorrow of the latter years of a life heightened by no new affections and hopes.And there were other thoughts, other regrets within her, for, as Amy Worthington said, goodness does work out somehow, and the process is even less pleasant at seventy than at seventeen.In a month's time Austin came home. He wished to come home once more to Ford, and left Kit to complete his cure by a few more weeks of sunshine. The month of absence and change, novelty and independence, had been like the waters of Lethe. Everything was fresh, surprising and amusing, he had had no chance of thinking about himself. He saw new people, and new places. Kit said that to travel with a fellow to whom a table d' hôte was a new experience made him feel old and world-worn, but he knew how to make the experiences very pleasant, and Austin always looked back on that month of sunshine as on one of the best of good times.He brought back new things to say, and new spirits to say them, and they had an evening of cheerful chatter, when the Rectory party came to hear his report of Kit's improvement, which quite covered the melancholy of their last dinner at Ford."For," said Lady Barbara, "I don't think I shall ever bring myself to dine with the Lyalls."The move might seem but a simple business, as soon as the new house was ready, as there was very little moving of furniture, but the personal possessions of more than one lifetime had to be sorted out, put away or destroyed, books to be selected and catalogued. The Fairfords were people with a love of hoarding, and an inclination to regard old hoards as sacred relics. Nancy shed many tears over the contents of the old nursery cupboards, and Agatha—well —it had been her nursery too—and some of the toys had been old in her own childhood.The last day had come—the last trifles left to the last moment had to be packed up and despatched. Austin had hurried things up, there was no use in prolonging the partings. Agatha had done her share and more than her share, unflinchingly, and last of all she went into her own room to pack all her little treasures which were to be taken away in a basket. Little unaesthetic ornaments, many of which had stood there for sixty years. She had half a mind to leave them behind her. Then she could think of them in their old places, instead of seeing them in new ones. In the middle of the mantelshelf stood a china dog, of a spaniel breed, with long wavy ears, with reddish patches on them. Agatha took him in a clumsy trembling hand and dropped him against the fender, and when she saw his well-known old head roll off in the opposite direction to his body, the little jar was too much for her overstrained nerves, and she burst into tears, the reluctant exhausting tears of an elderly woman."Aunt Agatha—shall the carriage——"It was Austin, who tapped at the open door; either Hilda or Nancy seeing the tears would have gone away, thinking that Aunt Agatha would prefer it, but Austin came in."Let me help you," he said, "what, an accident?" picking up the pieces, " why, it's old Rover—I remember you used to let Nancy and me kiss him when we were babies. What a pity!"Agatha was so entirely overcome by her long suppressed feelings, that she could not control herself, and sobbed out something about "broken idols——""Oh, but he'll mend," said Austin, only half hearing, and referring to Rover. "I'll see about it. Don't fret, Aunt Agatha, I feel almost sure that you'll be setting all the things up again next year. Let me pack up the rest of them."He began rapidly to pack the basket, while Agatha, full of feelings which, almost for the first time in her life, she could not label or pigeon-hole, recovered outward composure, and went on with her preparations. Austin presently vanished, and informally, one by one, as convenience pointed, the wretched moment of parting was gone through.By the time Agatha came to the new house, it looked more like "a little Ford " than she could have supposed possible. The cousins had helped, and the little household gods were all in order, there was tea, and a fire, and a lamp, Lady Barbara with flowers, and all the miserable cheerfulness of a new beginning.But when Agatha went up to her new room, the mantelpiece was arranged in exact imitation of the old one, and Rover sat as usual in the middle."You mustn't touch him, Aunt Agatha," said Nancy, "because he isn't quite dry, but Austin got some adamantine cement and mended him, and the mark won't show, because his head came off just above his blue ribbon. He went round by the High Street to get the stuff.""It was very kind of him," said Agatha.Even then she was afraid of speaking on impulse, and hardly knew what to say; but she felt that something besides Rover had been broken on that afternoon. She saw Austin looking in at the door, and walking over to him said, as if timidly:"Austin, I could not have expected that you should have taken so much pains to please me."CHAPTER L.FELLOW SINNERS.IN the meantime the Purcell household was going through experiences by no means unlike those of their employers, and, in some ways, even more acute. Here, too, there was a change and break up in prospect. Purcell would never be able to work again: he could neither manage the Hole Farm nor afford to pay its rent without his salary as bailiff, and he, like his master, must turn out of a life-long home and accommodate himself to new conditions."It makes me feel ashamed of complaints," said the good Colonel, "for I have health and some hope of return. Poor old Purcell has neither, and he was born at the Hole as I was at Ford."There were savings and some little inherited capital, and Mrs. Purcell, who with all her aberrations had the saving strength of a woman who had always had to work for her living, struck out the idea of taking a small house in the Bishopsford neighbourhood, where she might continue to let lodgings, and which offered facilities for keeping poultry, the ways of which she thoroughly understood. For she knew quite well that whether under the Colonel or any other master, Jack could never take his father's place. His recovery had progressed in a satisfactory manner, though his strength returned but slowly. His mother hardly knew at what moment, or in what words, she had made him aware of what she had done for him, but as the days went on it became quite clearly under-stood between them. Jack, shamefacedly, abjectly, but as a matter of course, accepted the sacrifice she had made for him. It was understood that his father was never to know anything" about the thirty pounds, its loss, or its recovery, but the miserable pressure which had driven him to the theft, held back for the; time by his dangerous illness, must recur, and would have to be met by a sum out of those savings, and to gain this his father would have to be told once more that he owed money, and be persuaded to give him another start.Mrs. Purcell had, of course, to undergo an interview with the Rector. The tears and the penitence with which she met him were genuine enough, and it did not occur to him that anything lay behind her story. He talked also to Jack, who expressed any amount of regret for extravagance and folly, and made elaborate promises for the future, and though Dr. Fairford did not think much of his trustworthiness, he could do nothing more than say that he hoped time would show the reality of these professions.The Colonel, though he came to discuss the future with Purcell, quietly silenced her tearful apologies. Miss Worthington, Miss Villiers, Mr. Austin were all away, and she had to bear the results of her own action in silence. It had been quite successful, she had been forgiven when her son might have been punished. A total cut from the Macnamaras, though disagreeable, was a light price to pay for Jack's safety. What would she not bear for his sake? And yet, as she watched him at last with open eyes, more and more she knew that she had done him a wrong. By no mental gymnastic could she admire him any more. It came over her sometimes that she almost despised him. What had she made of him, and what would he be in his honest old father's sight? She could hardly bear to be alone with her boy; she was afraid that some day she might suddenly denounce him to his face.These were her inner thoughts, and all the time the outer arrangements went on so much easier than they would have been if she had not taken Jack's sins upon herself.As for Jack, the various discomforts which he experienced took the form of a determination to get away to a distance. It was not a nice story, he knew, but his mother was not much the worse for her share in it, and he thought that he had expiated his own by being nearly killed for it. It would soon be forgotten.He was left by himself one afternoon early in February when his mother had gone into Bishopsford to make some inquiries about the new house. His father was asleep upstairs, and he thought that he would go for a stroll as the day was pleasant, and fresh air was good for him.He came out into the clearing and looked about him. He turned his back on the wood pile, which suggested painful reflections. The woods were still all bare and wintry, but the birds were singing; the air was sweet, and the wild snowdrops were peeping up through the withered leaves of autumn. Jack felt life stirring fresh and strong within him; he felt cheerful, he even tried, to whistle a tune in his old fashion. A figure came rapidly down the glade, and Austin Fairford came up to him and stopped, looking full in his face as he had done at their last meeting, but with how different a meaning.They looked at each other for a moment, then Austin said:"It is quite impossible for me to say, Jack, how glad I am to see you out here and getting well again.""Yes, sir," said Jack, awkwardly, "I'm getting quite strong again, thank you.""I've got a great deal to say to you," said Austin. "We can't pretend, can we, to meet as if nothing had passed between us? Will it hurt you to walk along here?""No, sir," said Jack, "but there's no one in the kitchen if you like it better.""Well, then, let us go in and sit down."They went in, and Jack civilly offered Austin a chair and sat down opposite to him.He did not know what to expect, but on the whole he regarded himself as the injured party. What happened was certainly beyond his expectations."You and I, Jack," said Austin, "as you probably know, have had a very similar sort of record. I am. aware that you know, indeed you cast it up to me, that I came home, nearly six years ago, because I was in disgrace. You too, I think, had got into trouble. Well, we had a fresh start, and our friends kept our secrets, in different ways perhaps, but pretty much from the same motives. I don't know how you felt, but I had very little notion of how to pick myself up again, and I made a fool of myself in various ways, as you also know. I got into debt, and I betted and gamed, more or less, and went off on the spree secretly, and had to tell lies when I came home again. So I believe did you.""Well, Mr. Austin, you've owned to it yourself," said Jack, "a young chap is a young chap under all circumstances.""Yes, that's about the English of it," said Austin. "Then you, too, have a thorough good father, and know what it is to be ashamed to look in his face.""Well, I knew, of course, he'd be down upon me," said Jack."And ashamed of you. That's worse. Well, by degrees I got to know better, and I. thought I saw my way to a new life altogether, I threw all the infernal low folly behind me, and began fresh.""Well, Mr. Austin, and so did I mean so to do," said Jack, "when I came back here when father was ill. I'd have begun again and been as steady as old time if I could. But there, some one went and blabbed at Winborough, and the young lady that had, I thought, returned my affections, turned her back upon me and wouldn't have anything more to say to me. Her family is rather high, sir, you see, her father being clerk to the Local Board, but I did think she'd have heard what I had to say for myself.""Oh," said Austin, "then I mustn't be down on you. I haven't had that to bear.""No, sir, Miss Daffodil's one to stand on her own feet."Austin coloured a little, not prepared to be so entirely understood, but he went on."Well, when that money disappeared and the forged receipt was sent to my father I couldn't wonder that they doubted me. Of course I knew quite well who had done it, and how it must have been, but I had no business to fall on you as I did. I was set on hiding my past, but if I had come to you as a fellow sinner, and told you I knew how hard disgrace and difficulty were, and that I had no right to despise you, I think, Jack, you would have owned up. No, let me go on now. Of course I don't know exactly how your mother was mixed up in it, but it was your doing really, of course it was. You needn't think I didn't suffer for having nearly been the means of killing you; besides, I know you won't bear malice for that—I shouldn't, and you won't, but, Jack, I've had to face it all, all the shame and the fear, the awful mean cowardice of it all, Jack. I believe I can even feel how you made your mother tell lies for you. But I've overcome. I've come out of it, Jack, and so can you."He paused for a moment, with shining eyes, while Jack trembled and was silent."I shall never do a dishonest thing again, Jack, nor tell another lie, by God's help I shall not. And you must not either. But you've got to look it all in the face."Jack lifted his shifty uncertain eyes, and looked Austin in the face. Did the great gulf lie between them, or was there anything in the meaner sinner that could respond to the nobler one who knew how to repent? Did the enormous irresistible influence of a great spiritual effort only touch him on the outside? Who can say?"Mother took it on herself," he said, faltering and turning aside, "but—but I did get her to back me up. Well, I don't know; but what I'd as soon go to prison as keep it up; mother hates me for it—and—I thought being a gentleman you'd be sure to get out of it somehow, and it would be worse for me.""Yes," said Austin, "that's very true, I have had a great many helps which you haven't. But nobody wants to send either of us to prison. It's the chain of our sins we're bound with.""I never did set up for being religious," staid Jack."Ah," said Austin, "that's just what I did. But I tell you, Jack, that I feel in my soul a power that can deliver me. And so will you."Jack could not appreciate the force of the motive which made a young English gentleman so give away reserve and distance as to put his experiences in the power of one at once so near him and so removed from him as the bailiff's son. He thought that Austin had left off talking religiously when his ears no longer caught a familiar expression. But it did in a degree come home to him that his companion did not stand up above him on a point of vantage unfairly gained, but was beside him in the gulf, bringing to him whatever power it was that had rescued himself."Well, sir," he said, "mother knew nothing about it in the first place. But it was her doing, writing to Miss Daffodil. I never would have put it on her—never.""Let us hear all about it," said Austin.And gradually Jack's whole story came out. It was painted in poorer and gaudier, even in fouler colours than his own. The beginning, the course of it was at once like and unlike. The little child, whose transgressions had been hidden lest he should lose his position; the youth away from home, led astray and in trouble; the mother's falsehoods, even the father's shifts—they were all a caricature of his own experience."Ah," thought Austin, "at least my people told no falsehoods for me. Better contempt than that."Then, one thing leading to another—a downward course, with no Kit, no Daffodil, much less class honour, and yet, compared to many another, Jack's chances and surroundings were exceptionally good. Austin hung down his head. What shadow of excuse had he?"You must get out of it, Jack," he said; "you shall!"He turned as he spoke, for they were no longer alone. Mrs. Purcell, looking flushed and excited, came into the house.CHAPTER LI.SIDE BY SIDE.MRS. PURCELL had very seldom been glad to get out of the sight of Jack; but on this occasion she had found herself out of doors and away from him with great relief. She walked fast into Bishopsford, and went to inspect the little semi-detached villa, which was a new, sunny cheerful place, and on the side of a hill. A completer contrast to the Hole could hardly have been found. But while she found fault with the fixtures and measured the windows, and made the despicable character of the kitchen range plain to the landlord, her thoughts had all the while an undercurrent, and when afterwards she went by herself into the little piece of ground adjoining, to plan out accommodation for her cocks and hens, she was hardly surprised to see Miss Daffodil walking along the road, though her heart leapt into her mouth at the sight of her."Why, Mrs. Purcell," exclaimed Daffodil, "what are you doing here?""It's what we're coming to, Miss Daffodil. Things are changed. I did not know you had come home, miss.""Why, it's only scarlatina at my school that's given me such a long holiday, but we came home yesterday. May I come in and see the new place?""The kitchen's perfectly heart-breaking, Miss," said Mrs. Purcell, leading the way, "and I can't picture Mr. Purcell anywhere in it, nor my copper stewpans either. They'll be out of keeping to the last degree.""Has the move from Ford been made?" said Daffodil."Oh yes, Miss, so I don't feel that I've the only call to complain. I am very sorry for the Colonel and Miss Fairford—it makes me feel the common lot. And Miss Worthington's away and the doctor he's going to move——""And how is Jack?""Nearly well, though not as strong yet as he should be."By this time they were in the parlour of the little house, looking out of the little bow-window. Daffodil leant back against the shutters. "Mrs. Purcell," she said, u I was awfully surprised at getting your letter.""I—I suppose you were, Miss," said Mrs. Purcell, suddenly remembering that she ought to have met Miss Villiers with a far more abject sense of guilt and wrong-doing. " I'm sure you must wonder to hear me complain of this house, which is ever so much better than a prison, as indeed I know."Daffodil received this, the first unreal note that Mrs. Purcell had struck, in silence."It's—it's what I can't expect, that you should understand the temptation.""Oh yes I do!" said Daffodil. "I understand about the temptation. It was to get Jack off.""Oh yes, Miss Daffodil, off—his debts, you know.""Mrs. Purcell, don't you believe that I can keep a secret?""Yes, I know you can.""Well then, I know perfectly well that you did not take that money yourself. I never believed you did. You pretended, for Jack's sake. I know he did it and made you promise not to tell.""Oh, Miss Daffodil!—he knew nothing about it, nothing. It was all my doing—I'll not say different—I won't, I can't.""But look here," said Daffodil eagerly, "I quite see that you can't go back and round on Jack now. And it doesn't matter so much for you about telling people, because it doesn't matter to the Colonel or Mr. Jackson whether it was you or Jack. And your telling now wouldn't do any good. I'm not going to tell them. But you see it's on account of Jack that it's so dreadful.""Miss Daffodil, wouldn't you have done it for Mr. Austin's sake? Wouldn't you rather people thought you wicked than him?""Yes," said Daffodil, "perhaps I would if he didn't know it, though I don't believe even then it would do any good. But I'd rather, yes, I would rather have him sent to prison—than know he let me bear his disgrace.""Miss Daffodil, that's plain between you and him. But you're not his mother; oh, my dear, you're not his mother—a mother may do anything for a child—and children can take from their mothers, Miss. It's nature, Miss Daffodil, and some day you'll know.""Perhaps I don't know how very hard it is for you," said Daffodil, with tears in her eyes. "But I do know—I do know about loving, and you've helped Jack to consent to such a dreadful thing. Oh, Mrs. Purcell, what do you suppose I think of Jack? And what do you think? And—there's God.""Miss Daffodil, it was just as if it came from heaven till it was done! There was my poor Jack lying helpless, and I never thought of him being responsible any more than if he'd been a baby.""Yes, yes. I know. Of course he wasn't responsible. He was ill, you know, he hadn't begun to think. He hasn't quite begun to think yet perhaps. But he will—he will—and then?""Then there came stabs—and the day he began to ask questions—and—I told him—and he—he didn't——""Yes, yes! Mrs. Purcell perhaps I don't quite know about a mother. But I'd rather, oh, I'd rather never see Austin again—than help him to a meanness. I solemnly say it. And yet, I'd rather see him——but you understand about that?"The colour mounted up to the roots of Mrs. Purcell's hair. She gazed fixedly out of the window, and looked, as Daffodil thought, like somebody else. Her thoughts were going back a very long way."Yes," she said, "I understand about that. Miss Daffodil," she added, "what can I do? I've done it, and my letting it out wouldn't undo what you say.""No," said Daffodil, "but if we try and pray—and think very hard perhaps we shall see what to do about it."She thought for a moment and then went on:"I should promise very solemnly never to tell any one myself, and then see what he said, now he's well, Mrs. Purcell, and a man again, and able to bear things. If one means a thing very much, the right thing to say comes into one's head."There was a good deal more talk, which ended in Mrs. Purcell making her way back, still doubtful how to act, with her wishes distinct though tremulous, and with the feeling that if Jack confessed, the joy would outweigh the shame.She wondered what he would say to her, how she could probe his feelings—what she would come to at the bottom of his heart.She quailed before that question.When she came in, Austin, the injured and the injurer, rose up to greet her. Before either he or she could speak, Jack said:—"Mother, Mr. Austin knows the rights of the story. I'm not going to accept of your taking it upon yourself. I've owned to him that I took the money, and sent the receipt to the Colonel.""Oh, my boy, my boy!" cried Mrs. Purcell,flinging herself into his arms, "what a wicked, wicked woman I've been to make it harder for you to tell him.""Now look here, Mrs. Purcell," said Austin, "it won't do for Jack to be too much agitated. We've had such a long talk, I should say nothing more today, and to-morrow I'll come back and we'll settle what is to be done.""I could come up and speak to the Colonel, sir," said Mrs. Purcell, eagerly."No, mother," said Jack, "I expect I've got to tell him myself.""Let's shake hands upon it," said Austin, turning round and putting out his hand. His hearty clasp was as strengthening to poor Jack's weak soul as Kit's had once been to his."Now then," he continued, "I've thought what to do. I'll bring Mr. Christopher here to-morrow. Then he can put it right with any one else whom it may concern."Accordingly, Christopher was once more astonished by a sudden visit from his nephew, and a request to come with him at once to the Hole. "I should prefer not to tell you why till we get there," he said."Well," said the uncle, "I'm becoming resigned to the unexpected. We'll drive down in the trap.""Surprising, isn't it?" he said, as they passed through the High Street and saw the doctor's house, "to think of Worthington coming there. How that young man has picked himself up! Many fellows would have gone under.""He's a good plucked one," said Austin, "and a very clever man—I shouldn't at all wonder if he ended by being Sir Gerald. And as for picking himself up, I don't think any one can do that for himself altogether. His sister pulled him through.""Oh, she's a remarkable woman, a little eccentric though. What is this place where she has induced Hilda to go and stay; some kind of sisterhood? I don't think your aunt liked it.""I don't know what sort of place it is," said Austin, "but Hilda writes as if she was enjoying herself. She is quite old enough, you know, uncle Christopher, to go away by herself."There was a little twitch at the corners of Austin's grave mouth, and his uncle said:—"Bless me, yes, I suppose she is—but I always count her in among the girls. And how does the new house get on?""Nancy is behaving splendidly," said Austin. "I think it's a horrid little hole myself. We must get father home again at the year's end, whatever happens afterwards."Christopher appreciated the full force of this remark from the future owner or loser of Ford, but he did not choose to commit himself upon the matter, and a few more minutes brought them to the Hole, where there was a fire in the best parlour, and cold shivers in the hearts of both Jack and his mother.Jack was not, however, a tongue-tied person. He looked at Austin, who went over and stood by his side—while Mrs. Purcell covered her face."My mother, sir," said Jack, "informed Miss Villiers that she took that money for me, but she knew nothing about it. I did it myself, for which I ask the Colonel's pardon, as I am truly repentant.""Bless my soul!" exclaimed Christopher, "haven't we come to the bottom of that business yet?"He soon became convinced that the bottom was reached at last, as he asked sharp searching questions, the answers to which gave him a sense of satisfaction, which Mrs. Purcell's sensational confession had never afforded him. Jack answered rather sulkily, but without any attempt at prevarication, and once or twice Austin, close beside him, put in a word."And what's brought you to the point of owning your meanness? "said Christopher finally.Jack looked rather puzzled."Mr. Austin said I could," he said at last."Jack had been too ill to think about his mother," said Austin. "When he saw what she had done, of course he had to take it on himself."Christopher now turned round on Mrs. Purcell, and asked her how she could suppose that any good would be done by encouraging her son to play a dirty trick, and by deceiving Miss Villiers, who had, he was sure, shown her much kindness."Miss Villiers wasn't deceived, sir, for long, and she showed me I had done badly by my son—but we couldn't tell how to act, and while she was talking to me, here was Mr. Austin bringing my poor Jack to repentance. It was like as if one spirit moved them."Austin's eyes shone, but he did not speak."H'm!" said Christopher. "The proper story must be told to the Colonel, and all those to whom the false explanation was offered, Dr. Worthington among others. For the rest, Colonel Fairford and Mr. Jackson have already expressed their intention of letting the matter drop. The money has fortunately been recovered, and I hope, young man, you may profit by the shame you are now experiencing.""He had at least a choice," said Austin, "whether or no to face it.""I'll say good morning," said Christopher, retiring, while Mrs. Purcell went to show him to the door."Mr. Austin," said Jack, "did you ever want to blow your brains out?""Yes, often," said Austin, "but I didn't, nor will you. You've got to make up to your mother, as I have to my father. We're going to begin fresh.""Sir, shall you tell father?" said Jack."No," said Austin, "but he nearly told me, by warning me to look after his keys. I shall tell him now that all's square and straight, as he left it.""I'm sure, sir," said Jack, "I'm greatly obliged to you." And he meant it.CHAPTER LII.WHEN DAFFODILS BEGIN TO PEER.A FORTNIGHT or so later, Kit, with recovered health, came back to the Rectory. He met there a letter from one of the connections to whom he had applied on Austin's behalf, which sent him over to Bishopsford the first thing the next morning, after the recent events had been fully explained to him, and he had perceived that Austin's name was mentioned with a much more cordial respect."I have had," said Dr. Fairford, "of course, communication with young Purcell and his mother, and I own to being struck with what I gather has been Austin's line with the youth. It strikes me as remarkable.""And does the young cur know pearls from pig's-wash?" said Kit, with some confusion of metaphors."He seems satisfactory," said the Rector, "and has been to church with his mother. I could wish that Austin could see his way better. But I believe his line to be conscientiously taken—that he feels himself at present unworthy.""Never mind, father. Tosty stays away from church just because he is a chip of the old block, and full of scruples. Let him alone, and he'll come home—some day. I must go and show him this letter at once."Kit went off across the woods, and found himself as he came upon the Ford estate, thinking more of who was now at the Hall, than of his cousin's absence from it."I suppose I shall have to see her some time," he thought.Behold, there was a little furry figure, moving through shadow and sunshine among the young oak stems, rustling the withered leaves, and hunting among them for woodland treasures.Kit's heart stood still, but his feet moved quickly, and in a moment Minna crossed his path—with her hands full of snowdrops and early violets and her face like an English rose."There's no use in being a fool," thought Kit. "I'll have to meet her some time."So he raised his hat, and said politely, "Good morning, Miss Lyall. I hope you find our woods pleasant."And Minetta looked at him, and then she dropped all her snowdrops, and began to cry. And Kit's heart gave a great leap."Minetta, Minetta, shut your eyes—don't look at this place. We're back in last spring—at Calcutta. You haven't answered me—but you will now. I love you more and more every minute—and you love me, don't you, one little bit?""Oh, Kit—I'm afraid—I do.""Afraid? My darling, you know I'd give my head to make you happy.""I've been a horrid girl, Captain Fairford," said Minetta, still sobbing. "I always did! but I did forget you a little. And I couldn't bear to think about you when you were ill, it seemed so miserable—and I wanted to dance and have a good time.""But, my darling, do you think I wouldn't have you dance and enjoy yourself? I'm not such a beast!" said Kit, vehemently."No," said Minetta, "but I found out I—I couldn't enjoy myself when you were ill—and so I tried to forget you. And besides——""Yes, but I'm quite well. There was a great deal too much fuss made. I'll spend all my life in keeping worries away from you. Besides?—tell me.""I like you better than dances," said Minetta, and, so far as she went, she meant it truly. "I pretended I didn't want to come to Ford, and I was so afraid they wouldn't take it," she whispered.It was a long time before Kit got to Bishopsford, and when he did appear he had forgotten all about the object of his visit.His wonderful news came out with a rush, with his raptures at Minetta's angelic innocence and sweetness, and his fears that he should never understand how to take care of such a tender and exquisite creature.She had been so grieved that he was ill that she couldn't even bear to think about him."Well," said Austin, with admirable forbearance, "I am very glad you're so happy, and I think she's the luckiest girl in the whole British Empire.""Oh, that's your stupid partiality," said Kit. "She's throwing herself away."That afternoon Mrs. Villiers was waiting the return of Daffodil from a walk. As the gate clicked she looked out of the dining-room window, and beheld Austin Fairford coming up the path.She looked at him for a moment, put a mark in her novel, and shut it up."Kismet! " she said to herself. Then she opened the window and said: " Come in, Austin, I am here."He came in at her call. "It is you I want to see," he said."Well," she said, "I don't see any use in beginning with general conversation, because I suppose you have something particular to say.""Yes, I have," said Austin. "Kit's uncle, Lord Winchester, has bought some property in the north of England, chiefly for the shooting upon it. It consists of woods and a piece of moor, and has been much neglected. He asks me to go down there for six months and see what it requires. If I give him, or rather his agent, satisfaction after that time, we may come to a permanent arrangement. I suppose you know pretty well all that has been passing lately, and how I now stand in the eyes of my relations. I should like also to tell you myself, that though I hope we may manage to keep Ford during my father's lifetime, it is most unlikely that I shall ever be able to live there afterwards. I suppose you know, too, that Kit paid my debts for me, and before anything else I must repay him. But I hope that in two or three years I may be able to marry, and of course you know I shall never marry any one but Daffodil. Will you let me come to you again, if all goes as well as I hope it will, when I have made a new name for myself?""If you married an heiress," said Mrs. Villiers, " you might be able to keep Ford and hand it on to your children.""But I can't marry one," said Austin, "especially with that motive.""Well, Austin," said Mrs. Villiers, "of course I know that if it's a reasonable thing for Daffodil to engage herself to you I can't prevent it. I suppose it has become reasonable. I see how people's opinions of you have changed in the last three months. I own that I am surprised. I always find it rather difficult to believe in unusual developments of character, they are so often misleading. I had much rather there had been nothing to get over. But I recognise that if you have got over it you must have some good strong stuff in you. As for your probable income, Daffodil has no claims to wealth. I'd rather," here the tears came into her eyes, "I'd rather my girl had fallen in love with you in an ordinary way and thought you perfection, and life a dream of bliss, than have to strain up her feelings to such a pitch. And if you disappoint her——""Mrs. Villiers," said Austin, "there have been times when I could have fled to the world's end rather than see her face—when her love has burnt me. But it has burnt out the base fear. She has made me, in your sense, good enough for her, and in the way you mean, I shall never disappoint her."A few minutes afterwards Daffodil came up the garden-path and in at the window, fresh from her woodland walk, with a basket of violets, and some long green leaves and tiny peeping daffodil buds in her hands.Austin went up to her and took the buds of promise into his own.This has been, as it professed to be, a story of good people. In such a one, necessarily, climaxes are baulked, and contrasts modified. The strong currents of human passion do not flow straight, they are met by a thousand delicate fibres of habit and thought, and are spread into a thousand channels. Such people feel revengeful, but they do not often revenge themselves, if they do, they quickly repent. They are hard and severe, even cruel, but they will not, it they can help it, be unjust. Sometimes they are mean and untruthful—if so they are covered with shame. Very often they are selfish—oftener still prejudiced and narrow—but it is never impossible that nobler impulses may stir them into generosity and open their eyes. The good are, in sober truth, more merciful than the wicked, imperfect as the tenderness of their mercies may be. If it were not so, then indeed were they of all men most miserable.It does not need much imagination to look a little forward for those whose fortunes we have followed so long.I do not think that old Purcell's chair was ever placed by a new and incongruous hearthstone. He died before there was any move or break up, and without knowing that the Colonel had ever ceased to be his master. But Mrs. Purcell had to begin life fresh and work it out for herself, according to her lights, to the best of her ability. As for Jack, who certainly did not deserve to be counted among the good, he too has made efforts to amend, but it probably will need a strong hand to keep him straight. He will never quite understand how Austin influenced him, though he knew that he had behaved very handsomely. But his mother knew, and gave thanks.Every one will agree that Kit deserved his heart's desire, and he certainly had it. For him the wedding bells will ring in the most orthodox manner, and fortune will smile in his face. He will perhaps have to take a double share of life's burdens. He will certainly try to do so, and let us hope that Minetta will gradually learn to put out at least her little finger to help him. She has been sent to a very indulgent school.If Nancy marries Dr. Worthington, she will have her schooling in ways which she has partly prepared for herself. But there is plenty of stuff in the Fairfords, and she will probably learn her lesson. As for Gerald, he deserved success in life and he will have it, and I think he will act up to his own ideas of duty. There are a great many useful and successful people in the world who nevertheless have been afraid to hinder themselves by lifting lame dogs over stiles. He will at least never forget that Amy helped him over his.She, having much experience, will not expect much more for Hilda than what actually happened—one or two new and congenial friends, a few new interests, a good deal more power to come to the front if she was left, when Nancy married, with increasing responsibilities and duties; just enough stuff perhaps to last out life, instead of just too little. Hilda knew the difference if no one else did: she knew that she had been saved from inward shipwreck.And Agatha, who had tried to be a good woman all her life long, and had, as it appeared, succeeded so badly? Character even in an old maid of seventy is not quite a fixed quantity, and she never forgot that she had greatly misjudged Austin. It is possible that when she and the Colonel are alone, they talk a great deal of Austin's doings and sayings, and if she lives to see another generation I think she will probably spoil them.As for Austin and Daffodil, a fight with fortune lies before them. They will, as Kingsley says of his noblest creations, have trouble in the flesh, and probably also trouble in the spirit, for the depths are troubled in which living spirits move.If it is true, as some say, that there are men and women who have faculties that become aware of forces unknown to most of us, the privilege must be a difficult and a dangerous one. And so, those who live in the life of their souls, and not in that of their bodies, sail in vast unknown seas and sight dark continents.But Austin and Daffodil will be hand in hand, and, no doubt, will meet the Pilot face to face.THE END.