Cynthia Marlowe had come to Lafer Hall when little more than a baby. She was the only child of the Admiral's only son. His soldier's death in an Afghan gorge killed his young wife, and then Cynthia was sent to her grandparents.

Her life was lonely but very happy. She knew no other children, but the Admiral was always ready for a romp. There was plenty of room for them to have it without giving Mrs. Marlowe a headache. When grandmamma shook her head, and feared Cynthy would grow up a dreadful tomboy, grandpapa declared she was precluded by all facts of nature and grace from being otherwise than a lady. How could Lennox, Cholmondeley, and Marlowe in one produce an anomaly? No, no; if she did not romp, stretch her muscles, and inflate her lungs she would be puny, and he would rather she could not mark her own name than be puny. He pished at samplers, and delighted to interrupt the working-lesson. Cynthia, caught by Mrs. Marlowe, and made to sit on a little stool at her feet, with flushed cheeks and impatient fingers that tugged and tugged at the silks until they were tangled among broken threads, listened with strained senses for the Admiral's step in the corridor. So did Mrs. Marlowe, and was much the more nervous of the two. It meant release for the one and defeat for the other.

'What! ho, Cynthy,' the Admiral would say, 'snared again, my pretty bird? Getting a round back and a narrow chest for a fal-lal? Come, granny, this'll never do; you don't reason, my dear. The child'll always have a woman for her fineries; why let her risk her eyesight and her figure?' Then he would pretend it would grieve Cynthia dreadfully to lay the tangle aside, and that she far preferred the morning-room to the park. 'I'm very sorry, Cynthy, but out you must go this fine day. Granny hasn't seen the sunshine, or your tippet would have been on an hour ago. Where's your work-box? Now gently; put it in tidily; always be tidy. Don't burst the hinges. That's a good girl!'

And off she would fly with the always fresh wonder whether grandpapa really had no idea how delightful it was to go.

Poor Mrs. Marlowe made an equally useless struggle over books. This was a subject that had greatly exercised the Admiral too, and indecision engendered irritation. He was still more peremptory.

'Now, Juliana, it's no good, no good at all, bringing out all these old volumes of yours. Mangnall's Questions might comprise all that was necessary for a girl to learn in your day, but it's obsolete. So is Murray. Why, good Heavens! a chit of a creature told me the other night at the Deanery that there isn't an article now in our English grammar, and all the other parts of speech are playing puss-in-the-corner—for want of it, I should think. Cynthy must learn to read and write and cipher, of course; she'll have to sign cheques and witness deeds one of these days. She can read any book in my library; there isn't one vicious thing there; and as for allusions in Shakespere, for instance, well, she'll lay the good to heart and won't understand the bad. She'll pick up information as she goes along, and then, of course, she must finish off with masters. But as for Mangnall, it's no good at all. Just leave the child alone. I'll teach her to ride, and jump, and fence, and play bowls, and we shall have her a fine woman, and that's all a woman need be.'

But he pulled his moustache ferociously, and his hand trembled so much in fixing his eye-glass, when he presently took up the Gentleman's Magazine, that Mrs. Marlowe was sure he had misgivings. However, it was a mercy that she was not expected to lay down the law and take responsibility.

But this did not exempt her from unhappiness on Cynthia's account. She had a clear vision of a via media that should not entail mathematics and classics, but should comprise more than the three R's. It made her miserable to see Cynthy's fearlessness on her pony; she would ride to hounds and break her neck; she would sprain her ankle when jumping and be crippled for life; and when she had learnt dancing who in the world was to chaperon her to balls? The Admiral was too headstrong; she would be a tomboy after all, and set every social rule at defiance and chaperon herself! The skipping-rope was all very well; she liked to see her spring up and down the length of the corridors on a wet day, and it was really pretty to watch the Admiral teach her bowls, but was a girl ever taught to fence? He would be teaching her the tactics of naval warfare next. Why was he crazy for her to be a fine-looking woman? she had never been so. Just so; and she was delicate. Well, perhaps he was right. But she sighed and was sure he was wrong.

It was when Cynthia was nine years old that Mrs. Marlowe found a strong-willed ally. Mrs. Tremenheere, the wife of the Dean of Wonston, had girls of her own and very clear ideas of the via media in which health and education go hand in hand. She had the audacity to tilt with the Admiral on the subject. They were equally self-opinionated, but he was not only obliged to defer to her as the lady, but she could produce her own daughters as proofs of her common sense. She also derided the possibility of health of body being compatible with mental ignorance in nineteenth-century England, and commiserated the masters who were to 'finish' unprepared ground. The Admiral, who had long secretly felt himself in a dilemma, listened and yielded. For her own sake Cynthy must not be a dunce. Mrs. Tremenheere undertook to find a governess, and she found Mrs. Hennifer.

After this every one had an uneasy time at Lafer Hall until Mrs. Hennifer arrived. The Admiral had yielded, but he was not at all sure that Mrs. Tremenheere knew what sort of a governess he wanted.

'She may have got us something Jesuitical, Juliana,' he said. 'I know Mrs. Tremenheere pretty well, she's a worldly woman and a schemer. She's done well for her girls so far, and she'll marry 'em well; and there's Anthony, you know, her only boy, and depend upon it she'll want a masterpiece for him; and she knows, every one does, that Cynthy's an heiress. Very nice to land Anthony at Lafer Hall, eh? Now what I say is, she may be sending us a creature of her own.'

'Oh Simon, and Cynthy only nine years old!'

'Well, well, I don't say she is, but she's a schemer, depend upon it she is, Juliana. She'd twist you round her little finger, and maybe she's twisted me too, God knows.'

But Mrs. Hennifer was not a 'creature,' and when the Admiral found that she had never seen Mrs. Tremenheere until she was introduced to her in Mrs. Marlowe's drawing-room, his qualms were set at rest. It was soon evident too that Cynthia's happiness was doubled. Forces in her that had been running to waste were now directed into wholesome grooves of work. Her spirit and enterprise devoted themselves to becoming as clever as Theo and Julia Tremenheere. She still romped with the Admiral, and then she rushed into the schoolroom, sat down, threw back her golden hair, planted her elbows on the table, and mastered her difficulties in grammar and arithmetic. As she could not help laughing when the Admiral would walk past the window, looking forlorn and signalling to her to be quick, she remonstrated and said if he still would do it she must change her seat. To change her seat, she added, would be a great trouble, for it did help her to look at the sky. Her fervent seriousness quite abashed him, and he resisted the inclination to laugh at her quaintness. He did not understand, but Mrs. Hennifer did and gave her a book called Look up, or Girls and Flowers. Mrs. Hennifer had a wonderful knack at choosing pretty books, and sometimes when they read them aloud together Cynthia found that they brought tears to those keen eyes.

'My darling Mrs. Henny,' she said once, 'don't cry. It's only a story, and a very very little bit of the story too.'

She did not know, and Mrs. Hennifer prayed she never would, that the 'very very little bit' is often that round which the whole of life centres, tinging its joys and sorrows, hopes and fears, thenceforth. Nor would this be sad if it were realisable at the time. But it is afterwards, by added experience and unexpected sequence, that the incident becomes the event.

One day when Cynthia was no longer a child the Admiral happened to join his wife and Mrs. Hennifer on the terrace. Beyond the broad reach of gravel and the stone balustrades in whose vases geraniums glowed, the ground fell abruptly into the finely-wooded undulations of the park. A group of red deer lay in the shadow of a line of chestnuts which swept a slope, at whose base the lake gleamed. In the distance, over the dark shoulders of the woods, Wonston was visible. Its red tiles and yellow gables lay in a haze of smoke, above which rose the Minster towers. Admiral Marlowe was Lord of the Manor as far as they could see in every direction.

As they strolled up and down, their talk wandered from small details of social pleasures and duties to more important ones connected with the estate. No allusion was made to the dead son. Mrs. Marlowe had not named him since the day she heard of his death. But the Admiral felt her hand tremble on his arm as he speculated on the amount of Cynthia's knowledge of her heiress-ship. He looked down at her tenderly. She had been a beauty in her youth, and sorrow had chiselled her features into increased delicacy by giving her an air of plaintive melancholy.

'Let us tell Cynthy the truth and hear what she will say,' he said.

'Yes, by all means,' said Mrs. Marlowe.

'My good Mrs. Hennifer, will you bring her here? She's on the bowling-green, or was. Heaven knows where she may have been spirited off to by this time, Heaven or the fairies. I think they're her nearest of kin.'

Mrs. Hennifer went in search, disappearing behind a group of cedars whose shadow, thrown at noon on the drawing-room windows, kept it cool on the hottest day. They heard her calling 'Cynthia!' as she passed in and out among the trees or crossed the lawns. Presently a man's tones answered 'Here we are!' Then came a girl's light laugh. A few moments more and Cynthia appeared alone upon the terrace.

She was very lovely. It was prophesied that she would be the beauty of Riding and county. She had been in town this spring for the sake of masters, and her portrait had been painted by one of the greatest artists of the day. He generally spiritualised his subjects, but when he saw Cynthia Marlowe he knew that if he added to nature's spiritualisation he must add wings. It went from his studio to Lafer. The Admiral would allow no 'vulgar herd' to criticise it at Burlington House. His pride in her was the chivalrous pride which guards against publicity for women, and recognises even beauty's 'noblest station' as 'retreat.' The portrait was hung at one end of the long drawing-room. In walking towards it, it seemed that Cynthia herself was standing to greet the comer. She was already tall, and as slight and straight as the natural gymnasium of judicious liberty, fresh air, and pure influences could make her. She was dressed in white, and her golden hair hung in curls to her waist. Her fair skin readily showed a flush. Her brows were level, her lips firm yet sensitive. There was an exquisite transparency in her eyes, which were large and of a warm hazel colour. She looked at every one with a frank and fearless confidence that was unwittingly fascinating.

'Cynthy,' said the Admiral, smiling upon her as every one did, 'there's a question we want to ask you. Have you ever wondered to whom Lafer will go when we die?'

'Yes,' she said; 'but I have not liked to know you will die.'

'We must in the course of nature. Nature sometimes fails to keep her courses, though, as in our case, where a generation is gone between us and you for some wise purpose of the Almighty's. The fact gives you great responsibilities. My dear, Lafer will belong to you.'

'I have sometimes thought it would,' she said.

As she spoke she rested one hand on the balustrade and with the other shaded her eyes and looked at Wonston. He followed her gaze.

'You will be Lady of the Manor as far as the most southernly house in Wonston Earth and to Great Whernside on the north. Do you realise it, you a slim girl in your teens?'

'I was not trying to realise it. Just at the moment I was sure I saw the Deanery, Anthony has often assured me he could from beside this vase. I shall not be a "slim girl in my teens" when I am Lady of the Manor, grandpapa. Don't let us think of it. It won't be for a very long time, and we will forget it unless you want to tell me something I must do.'

'My dear, when the time comes you'll do all that's good, even to rebuilding the old bridge, eh? But there's one thing you must get, a good husband. You mustn't be left alone in the world.'

'He must get her, my dear,' said Mrs. Marlowe.

'Of course, of course. There, there, Cynthy, no need to colour up. Plenty of time and no rocks ahead, choice in your own hands, et cetera. Now kiss us and you can go back to Anthony. He'll stay and dine, and then you'll sing to us.'

She did as she was bidden like a child. They watched her out of sight. Then the Admiral went to the vase near which she had stood and, fixing his eye-glass with a nervousness so unusual that it resisted many efforts before it was steady, stared at Wonston.

'We certainly ought to see the Deanery,' he said in a tone so dissatisfied that it was certain he did not.

'Certainly we should.'

'Well, if we don't the best thing is for him to persuade her that we do.'

'I think he has.'

'I have no doubt he is convinced he sees her room from his room.'

'Don't say so to Cynthy.'

'Juliana! as though I should be such a fool as to say anything about it—the very thing to upset our schemes!'

'Do you remember, Simon, how frightened you once were lest Mrs. Tremenheere should scheme for us?'

The Admiral puffed out his cheeks to hide a little embarrassment. But Mrs. Marlowe looked so inoffensive that this could not be maliciousness.

'I am yet,' he said. 'It's out of a woman's province to scheme, quite beyond it, she'll only make a mess. Now, she's a worldly woman, she'd want Cynthy's money, but we want Anthony because he's a good fellow, and 'll make her happy. No good could come of her scheme, but ours is moral to the marrow. A world of difference, my dear Juliana, a world of difference.'

When Cynthia came out, it was under Mrs. Tremenheere's chaperonage. Since she must come out, it was safest for her to do so with Anthony's mother. She went through two seasons of the conventional routine, refused many offers of marriage, and each time returned happily to Lafer and her friendship with the Tremenheeres. Never for a moment did the Admiral fear for the success of his plan.

It was on the day of his ordination to deacon's orders that Anthony asked her to be his wife. She promised that she would. It seemed the one natural sequence.

Yet she shrank from accepting his ring. He was going to the Holy Land, need they be openly engaged until his return? He smiled and insisted, and she gave way. But the first seed of self-distrust was springing up in her heart. During his absence she became gradually restless and dissatisfied. Every one about her noticed the change. The Admiral, purblind, attributed it to want of Anthony; but Cynthia realised each day more clearly that it rose from the dread of his return, for upon it their marriage must quickly follow. She longed for the old time of friendship, and at last confessed to herself that she had made a mistake, she did not love him. When he returned it was to a great sorrow, for she broke off her engagement.

The succeeding months were unutterably bitter. For the first time in her life she was brought face to face with unhappiness. For herself she did not care, but to know that she had wounded and disappointed those she loved cost her many a tear. And Anthony worshipped her; he would never marry if not her; he was a noble-hearted man, and she missed him. He had made her understand it must be all or nothing; if not her husband he could only be her steadfast friend at a distance. The old familiar intercourse was all done away. A miserable year passed; he asked her again but she refused; yet as she loved no one else he still hoped. She found another chaperon, and went up to town as usual, returning to entertain the Admiral's shooting-parties and glide into a dull winter. But it was not quite so bad as the previous one. Mrs. Hennifer, who was the friend of both, persuaded Anthony to go away. He threw up his curacy and went out to Delhi on a commission for the translation of the Bible into some of the Hindoo dialects; he was more scholar than priest, and the work was congenial. In his absence the Admiral ceased to harass Cynthia, and by degrees Mrs. Hennifer, more even than the winsome and disarming patience into which his harshness disciplined Cynthia herself, managed to narrow the breach and restore to the Hall its old atmosphere of affection.

During Anthony's absence of some years the Dean died and he returned to the inheritance of entailed property. But he did not live on it. If in England he must be near Cynthia. He took a house near the Minster, accepted an honorary canonry to please his mother by keeping up a link with the ecclesiastical prestige of the place, and devoted his time to study. His library was upstairs, and Cynthia knew he had made interest with one of the woodmen for the felling of a tree and the lopping of some branches that hid his view of the Hall.

One day he showed her it, explaining how cleverly it had been managed. His manner proved to her as well as words could have done that time had quenched none of his affection. It had taught him to endure, and still to be happy and useful. He had not prayed for more. She stood in the window silently for a long time. He had never touched her so much. There was such a noble and simple courage about him that the pathos of it all nearly overcame her. At last she turned and smiled tremblingly.

'Anthony,' she said, 'I would have given all that will one day be mine to have been able to be your wife.'

There was no uncertainty in his smile. It was quick and bright.

'I know you would, Cynthia. Nothing is your fault, it is our joint misfortune. You may still find a perfect happiness. As for me I shall be faithful, as you would have been had you cared. That is my happiness, and to be able to be so near to you, I can enjoy that now—"so near and yet so far,"' he added after a moment's pause.

His tone was more wistful than he knew. Cynthia felt herself on the very verge of yielding to a sudden strong impulse which she was impelled to trust. She put out her hand. But he was not looking. He had looked and been unnerved. He had thought himself stronger. With a hasty movement he turned to the table and took up a pamphlet, furling its edges with fingers that might at that moment have closed over Cynthia Marlowe's in lifelong possession. Her courage failed. She went to the other side of the table and surveyed the accumulation of books and papers; most of them were, she knew, in Hindostanee and Sanskrit. The sight did not abash her. On the contrary it renewed her courage.

'Anthony, you know that line—

"I do not understand, I love,"'

she said; 'now, in how many languages can you conjugate those verbs?'

But he did not look up, and nervousness made her tones too buoyant. He never saw the light in her eyes which would at last have answered the question in his.

'In nine languages and a dozen dialects,' he said lightly.

She had failed to convey her meaning. Her lips closed. She shut her eyes, feeling for a moment faint and tired. When she wished him good-bye, he thought she looked at him strangely. But he did not guess the truth or know that he had failed to take the tide 'at the flood.' In a few days she ceased to wonder what was truth.

Shortly afterwards, Tremenheere's sister, Theodosia Kerr, with whom she corresponded regularly, perceiving listlessness in her letters and an exasperating resignation in his, threw herself into the breach by proposing that she should travel with her and her husband. Kerr was delicate, and after a yachting cruise in the Mediterranean, was going to winter in Jersey. The plan took Cynthia's fancy. She had never travelled, discovered she had a great wish to do so, and was speedily on her way to join their yacht in Southampton Water. Mrs. Kerr, in her superior wisdom of married woman, meant to give her what she spoke of to her husband as 'a good shaking-up,' and then have Tremenheere quietly out to Jersey in autumn; the result was to be all that everybody could wish!

Three months later news reached Lafer Hall which struck consternation into Mrs. Hennifer's soul, and sent her over to Old Lafer to see Mrs. Severn at once. The consequence was that a few hours after Mrs. Severn was again at the Mires.