N THE OLD HOUSE

To the right of the front door, as one entered the house, was the dining-room—a long, narrow room, furnished with the straightest-backed chairs and sofa in mahogany and horse-hair, and with few ornaments save some black-framed prints on the walls, representing scenes from Scripture, depicted with a liberal breadth of interpretation. Out of this room opened another smaller room, which Mabel liked to call the drawing-room, but which was known by the rest of the household as the summer parlour, because, having a cold aspect, it was little used by us in winter. Even on this July day the air of the room struck chill on me as I entered it, and it had the musty smell rooms are apt to get when they are little used. I liked this apartment the least of any in the house, it had such a stiff, prim appearance, with its spindle-legged chairs ranged against the wall and the round table in the centre, on which Salome had placed at regular distances certain albums and keepsakes supposed to afford entertainment for visitors.

But there was one object in that room on which my eyes loved to rest. It was a miniature portrait of my mother, which hung above the mantelpiece. It represented her as she was at the time of her marriage, a pretty dark girl, with her dark hair falling in long ringlets on her white shoulders. She wore a low-necked, short-waisted gown. The slender neck clasped by the coral necklace, and the delicate "petite" features, reminded me of Mabel; but there was also an odd, indefinable look of Edmund in the portrait, and I had been told that the dark eyes resembled my own.

I looked at the miniature for a few minutes, then turned away with a sigh. It always saddened me to look on that bright, girlish face and think how soon death had claimed it as his own, for my mother had been but five-and-twenty when she died.

I quitted the summer parlour, and passing through the dining-room, went across to the room on the other side of the passage—father's room, we called t, though we children had the freedom of it. To me it was the pleasantest room in the house. It had two windows, one looking on to the road, and one at the side commanding a view of the tan-yard. I liked this room because when sitting here, I could see everyone who went along our country road, or passed to or from the tan-yard.

Mabel disliked the room on account of its proximity to the tan-yard, a place which she desired to ignore, and never willingly entered, for she declared that the smell of the hides made her sick. And certainly on some days the smell of the tanning was stronger than was agreeable, but I was too well used to it for it to trouble me. That somewhat sickly odour had mingled with most of the happy hours of my childhood and made part of the home life which I loved. At this day, I cannot pass near a tannery without the familiar scent of the skins bringing back with a painful rush of memory the dearly loved past, now for ever gone from me.

But father's room had another attraction for me in the shape of some large, well-stocked book-shelves. For although I did so badly at school, having no clear perception of the benefit that would accrue to me from mastering the rules of the French grammar, solving the knotty questions on all imaginable subjects proposed by Mangnall, or packing my memory with the dates of occurrences in which I felt no kind of interest, I was yet an ardent lover of books, and here were books that excited and gratified my imagination—Scott's novels and poems, Jane Austen's novels, Miss Martineau's and Miss Edgeworth's tales, Shakespeare's works, and those of many a lesser poet whom I had learned to love. There was of course abundance of more serious reading, but I cared more for the lighter literature.

My father was in this room when I entered; he was generally to be found here when not in his office across the yard. Most of his leisure he spent in reading, for he was a man of quiet, studious habits, shy and reserved even with his children. He would not have been a tanner, I believe, had not his father almost forced him to follow in his steps, for he was little fitted to conduct such a business.

He was not reading when I entered, but stood leaning against the mantelshelf, lost in thought, his face wearing an anxious troubled look, as it seemed to me. My entrance roused him from his meditations, whatever they were. He looked at me for a few moments in his grave, gentle way, and then asked a question which was by no means welcome to me.

"Well, Dorothy, have you brought home a prize?"

"No, father," I answered, with a flush of shame, "but Mabel has two, the first French prize and the first English."

"That is well," he said, looking gratified; "but how is it that you have not done so well?"

"I don't know," I replied, feeling very uncomfortable.

"I'm afraid it is the old story," he said, gravely. "You have been idle, Dorothy. My dear, a day may come when you will keenly regret that you have not made the most of the advantages of gaining knowledge which you enjoy at Miss Carefull's. What would you do if you had to earn your own living?"

"Surely there is no fear of that, father?" I said, quickly, for his grave manner stirred some uneasiness within me.

"I cannot tell," he said, almost sadly; "it is well to be prepared for reverses of fortune, my child. I have little doubt that Mabel would do well for herself, but you—what sort of a situation would you be fit for?"

I looked at him blankly. I could hardly believe that my father was speaking seriously. The idea of my ever having to take a situation was most distasteful to my pride, for, in common with the narrow minds of Burford, I imagined that for a young lady of good family to earn money for herself was to descend in the social scale. Vexed with father for uttering such words, I turned from him abruptly and went out to the kitchen, where Salome was busy frying bacon and eggs for our tea, and vigorously scolding Jane, the younger servant, for some act of thoughtlessness.

It was hard for me to entertain the idea my father had suggested, for though we lived simply, there was no stint our household, and I had always believed him to be very well off. Indeed, I had heard it said that my grandfather had left him a large fortune.

I was feeling rather "put out" when I entered the kitchen, but my ill-temper vanished when I saw Salome's generous preparations.

"You dear old thing," I cried. "You've made us some of your delicious teacakes, and oh! There's some of my favourite raspberry jam. It is good to be at home again!"

The old kitchen, with its uneven stone floor, huge fireplace, and its long dresser, bearing such a collection of old china as would have made a connoisseur's mouth water, had been a place dear to me in childhood, and it was dear to me still. It was a large room, having a bow window (not the modern bow) built out into the garden, and a door opening into the same. There was a shelf running round this window holding pots of geraniums and fuchsias, on whose healthy condition Salome prided herself, and the outside of the window was overhung by a climbing rose tree, one shoot of which had managed to push itself through a crevice in the window frame, and was actually flourishing and bearing roses inside the room.

As a child, this large, sunny window had been a place of terror to me in hot weather, on account of the number of bees and wasps which buzzed up and down the panes and revelled amidst Salome's flowers. I remember that one summer the door from the kitchen into the garden was closed for us children as a precaution against our being stung by some vagrant bees who had made their nest outside that door. But I must not linger to describe every nook and corner of my old home. I am apt to forget that the pictures I love to recall can have for no other the interest they have for me.

"Ah! And it is good to see you here," Salome said, in response to my words, whilst I stood looking about the kitchen. "What with the wet summer and everybody grumbling about the crops, and Luke for ever raving about the bad times, it's been as much as I could do sometimes to keep up my spirits. And I doubt not the master's felt the same, for he's been looking most days like as if he had a mountain of care on his shoulders."

"Has he?" I said, wondering if my father could have had anything more than usual to trouble him.

"Yes," continued Salome, "I thought for sure that when Master Edmund came home, the master would brighten up a bit, so proud of Master Edmund's cleverness as he is, and well may be, I suppose, for Luke he says that Master Edmund's quite a 'generus.' But lor! It's poor work being clever when ones so thin and delicate as Master Edmund. I expect it was that grieved the master to see him so like his poor, dear mother."

"What do you mean, Salome?" I said, half inclined to laugh, yet not without a thrill of fear lest Salome's words should not be so foolish as I thought them. "Edmund is not delicate."

"Oh, is he not!" said Salome, rather huffed. "You were not here when he went fishing in the river—how I do hate that fishing—and caught such a cold as kept him in bed for a couple of days, coughing fit to kill himself, and his breath so hard and fast, as I could not but think of my poor young mistress."

I felt myself grow white as she spoke. Such a horrible, horrible dread clutched my heart at that moment.

"How is it that I never heard of this?" I exclaimed, with sudden anger. "Why did no one tell me?"

"That is more than I can say," returned Salome, her manner showing that she considered it none of her business.

"How long is it since he was ill?" I demanded.

"Oh, a fortnight or, maybe, three weeks," she said.

"He could not have been very bad or I should have heard of it," I said, and I threw the dark idea from me as something too dreadful to be borne.

In those days, my heart rebelled against the very thought of sorrow. But though I refused to let my mind dwell on it, I could not forget the fear Salome's words had suggested. I went back to the dining-room where the table was being laid for tea, feeling as if everyone were conspiring to rob my return home of its usual joyousness.

Mabel stood within the room looking very charming and pretty in contrast to her sombre surroundings. But her face wore a discontented expression as she stood rearranging the things on the tea-table according to her own taste.

"What notions Jane has! Do you see how she has put those salt-cellars? Oh dear!" said Mabel, drawing a long breath. "How shabby and 'outré' everything looks at home."

"What does it matter?" I said, feeling that Mabel's vexations were slight compared with the terrible dread that had assailed me.

"Oh! Of course you would not care how hugger-mugger a style we lived in," Mabel said.

Her words stung me, and I was about to retort sharply, when my father entered the room, followed by Edmund, and I forgot my irritation as I anxiously studied my brother's appearance.

"Edmund," I said, as we seated ourselves at the table, "Salome says that you were ill a fortnight ago. Why did you not let me know?"

"Ill! Pooh, it was nothing but a cold—not worth making a fuss about; but of course Salome must croak over it. You know what she is. If a fellow cuts his little finger, she thinks he will die from loss of blood."

I laughed, and felt reassured as I looked at Edmund. There was a glow of vivid colour in his checks, and his eyes were so bright and merry that it seemed absurd to talk of his being delicate.

He chatted away in the most lively fashion as we took our meal, telling us stories of his college life, in which father seemed as much interested as we girls were.

Salome was right in saying that father was very proud of his son. From his earliest days, Edmund's quickness and cleverness had been surprising. Mother herself had taught him to read by the time he was four years old, and he could do rule of three in "fractions" at an age when most boys have hardly gained insight into the processes of addition and subtraction. My father expected great things from my brother's college course, and it seemed to me that he might well hope to gain honour from Edmund's scholarly attainments.

Though Edmund spoke of himself very modestly, it was evident that he had done well during his first year at Cambridge. But he extolled with real enthusiasm the intellectual power of his friend Ralph Dugdale, of whom I now heard mention for the first time.

"A splendid fellow he is," he said, "one of those long-headed fellows whose brain never seems to tire. If only I had his strength—"

"But you are strong, Ted," I put in, anxiously.

"Oh, yes, I am strong enough," he said, carelessly, "but I sometimes envy that fellow his power of application. If I mistake not, we shall see him 'senior wrangler' one of these days. Dugdale is A 1 in mathematics, and yet altogether as jolly a fellow as you could wish to know."

"Is he one of the Hertfordshire Dugdales?" Mabel asked.

"Why yes, he comes from Hertfordshire. But what do you know about him?" asked Edmund, with an air of surprise.

"Is his home at Beechwood, near Weylea?"

"You are right; but how do you know so much about him?" demanded Edmund.

"I have seen the house in which he lives," said Mabel, looking a little important. "I drove past it once with Mrs. Lyell, and she told me a good deal about the Dugdales. She knows them."

"Oh, to be sure, I forgot that you had stayed at Weylea," said Edmund. "So Mrs. Lyell knows the Dugdales."

"Yes, though she is not very intimate with them, I believe. Indeed, she visits no one. I found it rather dull staying with her," said Mabel. "But the Dugdales have a lovely old house; it stands in a sort of park, and there is an avenue of trees leading up to the house. I am sure from what I saw of it, that it must be a charming place. I am glad you have become acquainted with this Ralph Dugdale, Edmund; he will be a nice friend for you."

"Why? Because his parents live in a lovely old house with an avenue of trees leading up to it?" asked Edmund, satirically.

Mabel reddened.

"You know I did not mean that, Edmund," she said, with dignity.

Somehow we none of us seemed quite at our ease on this the first evening of our reunion. It was as if there was a mischievous spirit moving amongst us, which constantly excited discord. Even the servants came under its influence, for already Mabel had begun to tell Jane how she meant to have things done in future, and to assume the air of being mistress of the house in a way that Salome found it hard to endure.

But the clouds passed with that evening, or if not, I forgot them during the pleasures of the coming days, for the long delayed warm weather set in at last, and Edmund and I made the most of the summer's glowing hours. Again I went fishing with my brother, a favourite amusement of mine ever since the childish days when, toddling by Edmund's side, I tried to fish in the little brook which ran through the large old garden at the back of our house—a sport we persisted in regardless of prohibition, though it not seldom ended with a tumble into the brook, and results sadly destructive of Salome's peace of mind.

Once more we rambled about the old castle, and went for long walks in the pleasant summer evenings. My brother's year at Cambridge had but made him the more interesting companion; there was such a freshness and brightness in his talk. My ideas of men and things enlarged considerably as I listened to him, and I felt my own ignorance as I had never done before. Of course I often heard mention of Ralph Dugdale. I liked all I heard of him. I made a mental picture of my brother's friend, and felt sure that if ever we met, I should like him.

Mabel seldom accompanied us on our walks; she was not fond of walking. She preferred to drive with father to Halstead or Braintree, if business called him to either place, or to call on friends at New Burford, or to sit at home doing the delicate point lace work in which she excelled, or reading the improving books which she had been told that every young lady should read. Our home life was very quiet and uneventful, but it was wonderful how well Mabel adapted herself to it. She was always engaged in some becoming occupation, and never complained of feeling dull.

It was different with me. If Edmund went away for a few days, as he did occasionally, the hours hung heavily on my hands, and I could find no outlet for my energy save by taking solitary walks accompanied by Rough. Mr. Steinthorpe came frequently to see father during my holidays, but his visits were made in the office, and I seldom exchanged any words with him. Once or twice, though, it happened that he called late in the afternoon, and father brought him in to take tea with us.

I remember what trouble Mabel took in arranging the table and getting everything as nice as possible on those occasions, and how pretty she looked as, with slightly-flushed cheeks but without embarrassment, she presided at the meal in her graceful way. I have no doubt that Mr. Steinthorpe admired her as much as I did. I know he never seemed to care to look or speak to me when Mabel was near, but then I gave him no encouragement to pay me attention, for I did not like him better on fuller acquaintance.

It was dreadful how swiftly my six weeks of holidays sped by. Father was willing that Mabel should remain at home, but he would not hear of my doing so.

"It was very important that my education should not be deficient," he said.

And he begged me so earnestly not to waste my opportunities that I with tears promised that I really would work hard, and, if possible, make a better appearance in the next examinations.

I cried, too, though from a different cause, when I said good-bye to Mabel. We had never been parted before, and I felt as if I could not bear to go back to school without her. But Mabel, though she embraced me tenderly, did not give way to emotion when we parted. She had always more self-control than I. Besides, she had much pleasure in the prospect that lay before her. She thoroughly enjoyed her position as mistress of father's house, for it had not yet lost its novelty, and her mind was full of the changes and improvements which she meant to effect in the ways of the household. I felt sure that these changes would bring her into collision with Salome, with whom she had already had more than one passage of arms, and I doubted whether she would be able to carry out all her plans. But I need not have doubted.

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