It was the first day of the Christmas holidays, and a fine hunting morning, with clouds that showed no immediate threat of rain, and a soft air that contained an illusive promise of spring. Young George, looking out of his bedroom window, found life very good. Previous Christmas holidays had held as their culmination visits to country houses in which he might, if he were lucky, get two or three days' hunting; but hunting was to be the staple amusement of these holidays, with a young horse all his own upon which his thoughts were set with an ardour almost lover-like. He was to shoot too, with the men. His first gun had been ordered from his father's gun-maker, and Barbara had told him that it had already come, and was lying snugly in its baize-lined case of new leather, with his initials stamped upon it, ready for the family present-giving on Christmas morning. Furthermore there would be a large and pleasant party at the Abbey for Christmas, and other parties to follow, with a ball in the week of New Year. Young George, under the maturing influence of Jimmy Beckley, had come to think that a grown-up ball might be rather good fun, especially in one's own house, and with country neighbours coming to it, most of whom one knew. There would be other festivities in other country houses, including a play at Feltham Hall, which Jimmy, who was a youth of infinite parts, had written himself during the foregoing term. Kate Pemberton, to whom his fancy had returned on the approach of the hunting season, was to be asked to play the heroine, with himself as the hero. There were also parts for the Grafton girls and for Young George, who had kindly been given permission to write his own up if he could think of anything he fancied himself saying. The play was frankly a melodrama, and turned upon the tracking down of a murderer through a series of strange and exciting adventures. Young George had first been cast for the professional detective—Jimmy, of course, playing the unprofessional one, who loves the heroine—but, as no writing up of the part had prevented it being apparent that the professional detective was essentially a fool, he had changed it for that of the villain. Young George rather fancied himself as the villain, who was compounded of striking attitudes, personal bravery and occasional biographical excursions revealing a career of desperate crime, to which he had added, with Jimmy's approval, a heart not altogether untouched by gentler emotions. Maggie Williams was to be his long-lost little sister, the thought of whom was to come over him when he was stirred to his blackest crimes, aided by a vision of her face through transparent gauze at the back of the stage; and she was to appear to him in person on his deathbed, and give him a chance of a really effective exit from a troubled and, on the whole, thoroughly ill-used world. It would be great fun, getting ready for it towards the end of the holidays, and would agreeably fill in the time that could not be more thrillingly employed in the open air. He was not sure that he would even want to go up to London for the few nights' play-going that had been suggested. There would be quite enough to do at Abington, which seemed to him about the jolliest place that could be found in England, which to an incipient John Bull like Young George naturally meant the world.

The meet was to be at Wilborough. The whole Grafton family turned out for it. George Grafton had hunted regularly two days a week with the South Meadshire since the opening of the season, and the three girls had been almost as regular, though they had all of them been away on visits for various periods during the autumn. Young George felt proud of his sisters, as he saw them all mounted. He had not thought that they would show up so well in circumstances not before familiar. But they all looked as if horses had been as much part of their environment as they had been of the Pemberton girls, though in their young grace and beauty, which neither hats nor habits could disguise, not so much as if it had been their only environment.

There are few scenes of English country life more familiar than a meet of hounds, but it can scarcely ever fail to arouse pleasure in contemplation. It is something so peculiarly English in its high seriousness over a matter not of essential importance, and its gathering together of so many who have the opportunities to make what they will of their lives and choose this ordered and ancient excitement of the chase as among the best that life can offer them. If the best that can be said for it in some quarters is that it keeps the idle rich out of mischief for the time being, it is a good deal to say. The idle rich can accomplish an enormous amount of mischief, as well as the rich who are not idle, and perhaps accomplish rather less in England than elsewhere. For a nation of sportsmen is at least in training for more serious things than sport, and courage and bodily hardness, some self-discipline, and readiness to risk life and limb, are attributes that are not to be gained from every form of pleasure. There was not a boy or a young man among all those who gathered in front of Wilborough House on that mild winter morning to enjoy themselves who did not come up to the great test a few years later. The pleasures, and even the selfishness, of their lives were all cast behind them without a murmur; they were ready and more than ready to serve.

But the great war had not yet cast its shadow over the mellowed opulent English country. Changes were at work all round to affect the life mirrored in its fair chart of hall and farm, village and market-place, park and wood and meadow, even without that great catastrophe looming ahead. But the life still went on, essentially unchanged from centuries back. From the squire in his hall to the labourer in his cottage, they were in relation to each other in much the same way as their forefathers had been, living much the same lives, doing much the same work, taking much the same pleasures. For the end of these things is not yet.

Wilborough was a great square house of stone, wrapped round by a park full of noble trees, as most of the parks in that rich corner of Meadshire were. Its hall door stood widely open, and there was constant coming and going between the hospitalities within and the activities without. On the grass of the park and the gravel of the drive stood or moved the horses which generations of care and knowledge had brought to the pitch of perfection for the purpose for which they would presently be employed, and their sleek well-tempered beauty would have gladdened the eye of one who knew least about them. The huntsman and whips came up with the hounds—a dappled mob of eager, restless or dogged, free-moving muscle and intelligence, which also filled the eye. There were motor-cars, carriages and smart-looking carts, and a little throng of people of all sorts and conditions. The scene was set, the characters all on the stage, and there was England, in one of its many enchanting time-told aspects.

Old Sir Alexander Mansergh, in a well-worn pink coat of old-fashioned cut, was in front of the house as the party from Abington Abbey rode up. He was welcoming his guests with a mixture of warmth and ferocity peculiarly English. He was an old bear, a tyrant, an ignoramus, a reactionary. But his tenants respected him, and his servants stayed with him. There was a gleam in his faded old eyes as he greeted the Grafton family, with the same gruffness as he used towards everybody else. He liked youth, and beauty, and these girls weren't in the least afraid of him, and by their frank treatment brought some reflection of the happy days of his youth into his crusty old mind—of the days when he had not had to wrap himself up in a mantle of grumpiness as a defence against the shoulders of the world, which turn from age. He had laughed and joked with everybody then, and nobody had been afraid of him.

"My son Richard's at home," he said. "Want to introduce him to you girls. All the nice girls love a sailor, eh?"

This was Sir Alexander's 'technique,' as the Graftons had it. Nice girls must always be running after somebody, in the world as the old bashaw saw it. But it did not offend them, though it did not exactly recommend 'my son Richard' to them.

Of the three girls only Barbara accepted Sir Alexander's pressed invitation to 'come inside.' Caroline and Beatrix, comfortably ensconced in their saddles, preferred to stay there rather than face the prospect of mounting again in a crowd. But before the move was made Lady Mansergh waddled down the house steps accompanied by a young man evidently in tow, whom she presented to them forthwith, with an air that made plain her expectation that more would come of it. "My stepson, Richard—Captain Mansergh," she said, beaming over her broad countenance. "He knows who all of you are, my dears, for I've never stopped talking of you since he came home. But in case there's any mistake, this is Caroline and this is Beatrix and this is Barbara; and if there's one of them you'll like better than the other, well, upon my word, I don't know which it is. And this is Mr. Grafton, and Young George. If Young George was a girl I should say the same of him."

Captain Mansergh was not so affected to awkwardness by this address as might have been expected, but shook hands cheerfully all round and produced the necessary introductory remarks with great readiness. He was not so young on a closer inspection as his trim alert figure had seemed to indicate. His open rather ugly face was much weathered, but a pair of keen sailor's eyes looked out of its chiselled roughness, and his clean-cut mouth showed two rows of strong white teeth. He was taller than most sailors, but carried his calling about him even in his smart hunting-kit. He was likeable at first sight, and the Grafton girls liked him, as he stood and talked to them, in spite of the obvious fact that they were on exhibition, and that one or other of them was expected to show more than liking for him at very short notice.

They discussed it frankly enough between themselves later on. "It can't be me, you know, because I'm already engaged," said Beatrix, "and it can't be Barbara, because she's too young. So it must be you, Caroline, and I don't think you could do much better. He's really nice, and he won't be grumpy and bearish like old Sir Alexander when he gets old. That's very important. You must look ahead before you're caught. Of course when you are caught nothing makes any difference. If I thought RenÉ was going to turn into a grump when he gets old I shouldn't mind. At least I should mind, but I shouldn't want not to marry him. But I know he won't. I don't think my son Richard will either. He's much too nice."

"If neither of you want him he might do for me," said Barbara reflectively. "But I think I'd rather wait for a bit. Dad likes him very much. But I don't think he wants him for Caroline."

"He doesn't want anybody for any of us," said Caroline. "He wants to keep us. Most fathers would only be too glad to get one of us off, but he isn't like that. If he likes him to come here, I'm sure it isn't with any idea of that sort."

"I'm not so sure," said Barbara oracularly.

Pressed to explain, she advanced the opinion that their father hoped Richard Mansergh would fall in love with Beatrix, and she with him; but the idea was scouted by Beatrix almost with violence. She should love RenÉ, she said, as long as she lived, and would never, never give him up. She even became a little cross about it. She thought that her father was not quite keeping to the bargain. He made it impossible for her to talk to him about RenÉ, for whenever she tried to do so his face altered and shut down. She wanted to be able to talk to him about everything, but how could he expect it if he cut himself off from the chief thing in her life? Well, she didn't care. She loved Dad, of course, and always should, but it must make a difference later on, if he wasn't going to accept the man she had chosen for her own, the man whom she loved and trusted.

This little outburst, which was received by Caroline with a mild expostulation, and by Barbara in silence, indicated a certain constraint that was growing up between Grafton and Beatrix. He had given way, but he could not get used to the idea of her marriage, nor take it as a thing settled and bound to happen. The six months' of parting and silence must surely work some change. Beatrix's bonds would be loosened, she would see with clearer eyes.

But more than half of the time of waiting was over, and Beatrix showed no sign of having changed. She only did not talk of her lover to him because he made himself such an unreceptive vessel for her confidence. It was as she said: if she did so, his face altered and shut down; and this was the expressive interpretation of his state of mind, which shrank from the disagreeable reminder of these two, so far apart in his estimation, considering themselves as one.

His thoughts of Lassigny had swung once more towards complete antagonism. He seemed to him far older than he really was, and far more immoral than he had any just reason to suppose him to be. He resented the assurance with which this outsider had claimed his sweet white child as his fitting mate, and even the wealth and station that alone had given him that assurance. And he also resented the ease with which he had accepted his period of banishment. He would have been angry if Lassigny had tried to communicate with Beatrix directly, and would not have liked it if he had sought to do so indirectly. But he would not have liked anything that Lassigny did or didn't do. The image of him, coming to his mind, when perhaps he had been able to forget it for a time, jerked him down into a state of gloom. After a moment's silence his face would often be darkened by a sudden frown, which did not suit its habitual agreeable candour, and had seldom before been seen on it. It had been his habit to take his morning cup of tea into one of the children's rooms and chat with them, sitting on the bed, while they drank theirs. But his visits to Beatrix were always shorter than the others, because she had a photograph of Lassigny always propped up on the table by the side of her bed, so that she could see it when she first woke in the morning; and he couldn't stand that. He never sat down on her bed, because he could see the face of the photograph from it, but walked about the room, or sat in a chair some way off. And of course she knew the reason, but wouldn't put away the photograph before he came.

This was one of her little protests against his attitude; and there were others. She also could make her pretty face shut down obstinately, and did so whenever the conversation might have led naturally to mention of her lover. She almost succeeded in creating the impression that it was she who refused to have his name mentioned. At times when the family contact seemed to be at its most perfect, and the happy occupied life of the Abbey was flowing along in its pleasant course, as if its inmates were all-sufficing to one another, it would be brought up with a sudden check. There was an irritating factor at work, like a tiny stone in a shoe, that settles itself where it cannot be felt except now and then, and must eventually be got rid of. But this influence could not be got rid of. That was Grafton's trouble.

If only he had known that on the night before the meet at Wilborough Beatrix had forgotten to prop Lassigny's photograph up against the emergency candlestick on her table! It had been in its usual place when he had gone into her room with the news that it was a fine hunting morning, a kiss and a word of censure for sleepy little girls who let their tea grow cold. He often began in that way, recognising her childishness, and the fact that so short a time ago she had been all his. Then the sight of that alien figure, to whom she had ceded the greater part of his rights in her, who could in no way be brought into the fabric of his life and his love, would stiffen him, dimming his sense of fatherhood and protection. Antagonism was taking its place, and a sense of injury. After all, he had given way. She had what she wanted, or would have when the period of probation was over, with no further opposition from him. Why couldn't she be towards him as she had been before? She was changing under his eyes. It was only rarely now that he could think of her as his loving devoted little daughter.

The worst of it, for him, was that he had now no confidants to whom he could express himself as to the unhappiness and dissatisfaction that was working in him. Caroline, whose love for him and dependence upon him was an assuagement, yet did not seem to be wholly on his side. She seemed to be playing, as it were, a waiting game. The affair would be settled, one way or the other, when the six months had run their course. It was better not to talk of it in the meantime. She was all sympathy with him when he showed himself hurt and troubled by Beatrix's changed attitude, and he knew that she 'spoke' to Beatrix about it. But that did no good, and he could not use one daughter as a go-between with the other. Miss Waterhouse, having sagely expressed herself at the time when the affair was still in flux, had retired again into her shell. Worthing also took it for granted that, as he had conditionally given way, there was no more that could profitably be said about it until the time came for his promise to be redeemed; and perhaps not even then. If Lassigny should come to be accepted as a son-in-law, the obvious thing for him to do was to make the best of him.

Ah, but Worthing had no daughter of his own. He didn't know how hard it was to take second place, and to depend for all the solacing signs of affection from a beloved child upon whether or no he was prepared to accept a disliked and mistrusted figure as merged into hers.

It is true that the Vicar had offered him his sympathy. At first Grafton had thought that he had misjudged him when he had come to him with a tale of how troubled he had been that Mollie Walter seemed to have been backing up Beatrix in setting herself against his will, how his wife thought the same, and—although he would never have thought of asking her to do so—had of her own accord spoken to Mrs. Walter about it. Grafton had been a little disturbed at finding that the Vicar seemed to know 'all about everything'; but the Vicar had expressed himself so rightly, commending him for the stand he had taken, and the reasons for it, that any doubts he may have come to feel as to whether he had been justified in his opposition to Lassigny's suit, had been greatly lessened. The Vicar thought as he did about it; even rather more strongly. The innocence of girlhood was a most precious thing, and a father who should insist that it should mate with nothing but a corresponding innocence was taking a stand that all men who loved righteousness must thank him for. As an accredited and official lover of righteousness the Vicar perhaps rather overdid his sympathy, which required for expression more frequent visits to the Abbey and a return to a more intimate footing there than he had lately enjoyed. Grafton did not want to be forever discussing the general question of male misdeeds and feminine innocence with a man who appeared from his conversation to have shed all traces of human infirmity except that of curiosity. And there was a good deal too much of Mollie Walter brought into it. What had Mollie Walter to do with it, or he with her? Or indeed the Vicar with her, if it came to that? It seemed that he feared the same sort of danger for her that Grafton had so rightly and courageously warded off for Beatrix. Grafton knew what and whom he referred to, and put aside his proferred confidence. He also began to close up to intimate references to Beatrix's innocence, and came to dislike Beatrix's name on the Vicar's lips.

The end of it had been that the Vicar had been returned to his Vicarage, politely but indubitably, with nothing gained but another topic of acrid conversation with his wife.

But there was one other person to whom Grafton was beginning to unburden himself.