When Aunt Rachel had spent a fortnight or thereabouts in Heydon Hay, and had got her own small dwelling-place into precise order, she began to make a round of visits among the people she had known in her youth. She had met most of the survivors of that earlier day at the parish church on Sundays, and had had no occasion to find fault with the manner of her reception at their hands. If there was not precisely that warmth of greeting which she felt in her own heart, she found at least a kindly interest in her return and a friendly curiosity as to her past. To her, her return to her birthplace was naturally an event of absorbing interest. To the other inhabitants of the village it was no more than an episode, but nobody being distinctly cold or careless, Rachel was not allowed to see the difference between their stand-point and her own.

In her round of calls she left the house of Sennacherib Eld till the last, though she and Mrs. Sennacherib had been school-fellows and close friends. Perhaps she had not found Sennacherib's manner inviting, or perhaps the fact that Ezra Gold's house lay between her own and his had held her back a little. Everybody had supposed that she and Ezra Gold were going to be married six-and-twenty years ago, Rachel herself being among the believers, and having, it must be confessed, admirable ground for the belief. Nobody knew how the match had come to be broken off. It was so Old-world a bit of history that even in Heydon Hay, where history dies hard, it had died and been buried long ago. Even Rachel's return could not resuscitate it for more than one or two. But the story that was dead for other people was still alive to her, and as fresh and young—now that it was back in its native air again—as if it had been an affair of yesterday. It was something of a task to her to pass the house in which the faithless lover lived. It would be the first achievement of that feat since Ezra had treated her so shamelessly, and it was almost as difficult after six-and-twenty years as it might have been after as many days.

She clinched her lips tightly as she came in sight of the tall poplars which stood beyond the spire of the church, and rose to an equal height with it, and at the lich-gate of the church she paused a little, feigning to take interest in one or two tombstones which recorded the death of people she had known. Her troubled eyes took no note of the inscriptions, but in a while she found resolution Jo go on again. With her little figure drawn uncompromisingly to its fullest height, she rounded the corner of the church-yard and saw the familiar walls. Ezra, contrary to his habit, was standing at the side door and looking out upon the street. She was aware of his presence, but walked stiffly past, disregarding him, and he coughed behind his wasted hand. She thought the cough had a sound of embarrassed appeal or deprecation, as perhaps it had, but she refused to take notice of it, except by an added rigidity of demeanor.

Sennacherib's house stood back from the highway a hundred yards or so beyond Ezra's. It was fenced all round by an ill-trimmed hedge of hawthorn, and the only break in the hedge was made by the un-painted wooden gate which led by a brick-paved walk to the three brick steps before the door. The door stood open when Rachel reached it, and the knocker being set high up and out of reach, she tapped upon the wood-work with the handle of her sunshade. This summons eliciting no response, she repeated it; but by-and-by the opening of a door within the house let out upon her the sound of Sennacherib's voice, hitherto audible only as an undefined and surly buzz.

“Who's master i' this house?” Sennacherib was asking—“thee or me?”

“If brag and swagger could ha' made a man the master,” said a feminine voice, in tones of feeble resignation, “theer's no doubt it's you, Sennacherib.”

“Brag and swagger?” said Sennacherib.

“Lord o' mercy!” replied the feminine voice, “what do you want to shout a body deaf for? Brag and swagger was what I said, Sennacherib. But if you think as a mother's heart is agoing to be overcome by that sort o' talk, and as I shall turn my back upon my very own born child, you've fell into the biggest error of your lifetime.”

Rachel rapped again somewhat louder than before.

“Canst choose betwixt that young rip and me,” replied Sennacherib.

“That's right; let the parish know your hard-heartedness! Theer's somebody knockin' at the door. Go and tell 'em what you've made up your wicked mind to—do!”

Sennacherib thrust his head into the hall and stared frowningly at the visitor through his spectacles.

“Good-morning, sir,” said Rachel, with frigid politeness. “I called for the purpose of paying my respects to Mrs. Eld. If the moment is inauspicious I will call again.”

At the sound of her voice Mrs. Sennacherib appeared—a large woman of matronly figure but dejected aspect. She had been comely, but thirty years of protest and resignation had lifted the inner ends of her eyebrows and depressed the corners of her mouth until, even in her most cheerful moments, she had a look of meek submission to unmeasured wrongs.

“Dear me!” said Mrs. Sennacherib, sailing round her husband and down the hall, “it's Miss Blythe! Come in, my dear, and tek off your cloak and bonnet. I'm glad to see you. I wondered if you was never comin' to see me. And how be you?” She bent over the little figure of her guest and buried it in an embrace like that of a feather-bed. “It's beautiful weather for the time o' year,” she continued, almost tearfully, “and I have been a-thinking of makin' a call upon you; but I'm short of breath, and Eld is such a creetur he'd rather see a body stop in the house as if it was a prison, than harness the pony and drive me half a mile, to save his life.”

“Short o' breath!” said Sennacherib. “Thee talkest like one as is short o' breath! Her talks enough,” he added, addressing the visitor, “to break the wind of a Derby race-hoss.”

“Ah,” said his wife, shaking her head in a kind of doleful triumph, “Miss Blythe won't ha' been long i' the village afore her'll know what manner o' man you be, Sennacherib.”

“I'll leave thee to tell her,” said Sennacherib, with a grunt of scorn. “If I'd ha' been the manner o' man you'd ha' liked for a husband, I should ha' been despisable. My missis”—he addressed his wife's visitor again—“ought to ha' married a door-mat, then her could ha' wiped her feet upon him wheniver the fancy took her.”

With this he took his hat from a peg, stuck it at the back of his head, and marched out at the open front door.

“Ah, my dear,” said Mrs. Sennacherib, “you did a wise thing when you made up your mind to be a single woman. The men's little more than a worrit—the best of 'em—and even the childern, as is counted upon for a blessin', brings trouble oftener nor j'y.”

The visitor pinched her lips together and nodded, as if to say there was no disputing this glaring statement. The hostess, stooping over her, untied her bonnet-strings as if she had been a child, helped her to remove her mantle, and then ushered her into a sitting-room which looked upon a well-cultivated garden.

“I wouldn't say,” pursued the hostess, “as I'd got a bad husband—not for the world. But he's that hard and unbendin' both i' little things an' big uns. I've suffered under him now for thirty 'ear, but I niver counted as he'd put the lad to the door and forbid his mother to speak to him. Though as for that, my dear, he may forbid and go on forbiddin' as long as theer's a breath in his body, but a mother's heart is a mother's heart, my dear, though the whole world should stand up again her.”

“Precisely,” said Rachel.

“The lad's just as unbendin' as his father,” pursued Mrs. Sennacherib, “though in a lighter-hearted sort of a way. He's as gay as the lark, our Snac is, even i' the face o' trouble, but there's no more hope o' movin' him than theer'd be o' liftin' the parish church and carryin' it to market. He's gone and married again his father's will, and now his father's gone an' made his last dyin' testyment an' cut him off wi' a shilling. He'll get my money, as is tied on me hard an' fast, and that's my only comfort.”

“They may be reconciled,” said Rachel. “We must try to reconcile them.”

“Reconcile Sennacherib Eld!” cried the wife, dolefully. “Ah, my dear, you don't know the man. Why, who's that? There's somebody a-walkin' in as if the house belonged to 'em.”

A young man in a stand-up collar, and trousers supernaturally tight, appeared at the open door and nodded in a casual manner.

“Mornin', mother,” said the young man, cheerfully. “Wheer's the governor?”

Mrs. Sennacherib screamed, and running at the new-comer began to embrace him and to kiss him and cry over him.

“Theer, theer!” he said, after kissing her off-hand. “Tek it easy.”

“Oh, Snac!” cried his mother, “if father should come in what should we do?”

“Do?” said the younger Sennacherib, “why, set me down afore the kitchen fire, an' mek me happetizin' afore he sets to work to eat me. How be you, mum?”

The younger Sennacherib's face was gay and impudent, with that peculiar mingling of gayety and impudence which seems inseparable from freckles. His face was mottled with freckles, and the backs of his hands were of a dark yellowish brown with them.

“This is Miss Rachel Blythe,” said his mother, “as was at school with me when I was a gell. This is my poor persecuted child, Miss Blythe.”

“Me, mum!” said the persecuted child, standing with his feet wide apart, and bending first one knee and then the other, and then bending both together. “The governor's out, is he?”

“He's only just gone,” returned his mother. “But, Snac, you'll only anger him, comin' in i' this way. You'd better wait a bit and let things blow over.”

“Well,” said Snac, “I shouldn't ha' come for any-thin' but business. But I've got a chance o' doin' a bit o' trade with him. He's had his mind set on Bunch's pony this two 'ear, an' Bunch an' him bein' at daggers drawn theer was niver a chance to buy it. But me an' him bein' split, old Bunch sells me the pony, and I called thinkin' he might like to have it.”

He laughed with great glee, and flicked one tightly clad leg with the whip he carried.

“Wait a bit, Snac,” his mother besought him. “Let it blow over a bit afore approachin' him.”

“Wait for the Beacon Hill to blow over!” said Snac, in answer. “I've no more expectations as the one 'll blow over than th' other. He'll do what he says he'll do. That's the pattern he's made in. I've got no more hopes of turnin' the governor than I should have if I was to go and tell a hox to be a donkey. It's again his natur' to change, and nothing short of a merracle 'll alter him. But as for livin' at enmity with him—wheer's the use o' that? He's all the feythers I've got, or am like to find at my time o' life, and I must just mek the best on him.”

“A most commendable and Christian resolution,” said Rachel, decisively.

“Very nice and kind of you to say so, mum,” Snac answered, setting his hat a little more on one side, and bending both knees with a rakish swagger. “You can tell the governor as I called, mother. The pony's as genuine a bit of blood as is to be found in Heydon Hay. The p'ints of a hoss and a dog is a thing as every child thinks he knows about, but bless your heart theer's nothing i' the world as is half so difficult t' understand, unless it is the ladies.” There was such an air of compliment about the saving clause that Rachel involuntarily inclined her head to it. “You'll tell the governor as I was here, mother,” Snac concluded, stooping down to kiss her.

“You mustn't ask me to do that, Snac,” she answered. “I dar' not name your name.”

“Rubbidge!” said Snac, genially. “Does he bite?”

“It's for your sake, Snac,” said his mother, “not for mine. But I dar' not do it.”

“Well, well, mayhap I shall light upon him i' the village. If I shouldn't, I'll look in again. Good-mornin', mother, and good-day to you, mum. I'm just goin' to drop in on Mr. Ezra Gold, seein' as I'm this way. I'm told he wants to part with that shorthorn cow of hisn, and I'm allays game for a bit o' trade.”

“Ah!” said Mrs. Sennacherib, shaking her doleful head. “He'll part with everythin' earthly, poor man, afore he's much older.”

“Why,” cried Snac, “what's the matter with the man?”

“The young uns see nothin', Miss Blythe,” said Mrs. Sennacherib, shaking her head again, but this time with a sort of relish. “But old experienced folks can tell when any poor feller-creetur's time is drawing nigh. His father went just at his time o' life by the same road as he's a-takin'.”

“Well, what road is he takin'?” her son demanded.

“Look at his poor hands,” said Mrs. Sennacherib, with a pitying gusto. “As thin as egg-shells, and with no more color in 'em than there is in that cha-ney saucer. Hark to that dry cough as keeps on a hack-hack-hackin' at him.”

“Pooh!” cried young Sennacherib. “He's been like that as long as I can remember him.”

“Mark my words,” his mother answered, with a stronger air of doleful relish than before, “he'll niver be like that much longer.”

“Theer's them as looks at the dark side,” returned Snac, “and them as looks at the bright. Niver say die till your time comes. I'll go and wake him up a bit, though he's no great hand at a bargain, and seems to find less contentment in gettin' on the blind side of a man than most on 'em. Good-mornin', mother; good-mornin', mum.”

Snac took his way with a flourish, and his mother looked after the tight-clad legs, the broad shoulders, the tall collar, and the rakish hat with mournful admiration.

“Do you think,” asked the little old maid, coughing behind her hand, and looking out of window as she spoke, as if the theme had but little interest for her, “that Mr. Ezra Gold is really unwell?”

“Yes, my dear,” said Mrs. Sennacherib; “he's got enough to last his time, unless it should please the Lord to send him a new and suddener affliction. I've seen a many go the same road. It's mostly the young as bears his particular kind of sufferin', but it's on his face in as plain readin' as the family Bible. He's a lonish sort of a man, save for his nephew Reuben, but he'll ha' the parish for his mourners when his time does come. The gentlest, harmlessest creetur as ever was a neighbor is Ezra Gold.”

“Hem!” said Aunt Rachel. The monosyllable was at once curt and frozen. It implied as complete a denial as could have been expressed in a volume.

“Why, what have you got again him?” asked Mrs. Sennacherib.

“I?” said Rachel. “Against whom, my dear creature?”

Mrs. Sennacherib had spoken in the absolute certainty of impulse, and found herself a little confused.

“Mr. Gold,” she answered, somewhat feebly.

“What should I have against Mr. Gold?” asked the old maid, with a chill air of dignity and a pretence of surprise. She was not going to take everybody into her confidence.

“What, to be sure?” said Mrs. Sennacherib, retiring from instinct. “In old days there used to be a sort of kindness between you; at least it was said so.”

“It is a great pity that people cannot be taught to mind their own business,” said Rachel.

“So it is, Miss Blythe—so it is,” Mrs. Sennacherib assented, hastily. “I hate them folks as has got nothing better to do than to talk about their neighbors. But, as I was a-sayin', he's a-breakin' up fast, poor man, and that's a thing as is only too clear to a old experienced eye like mine. A beautiful sperrit the man's got, to be sure, but allays a mild and sorrowful look with him. When me and Sennacherib was first married, he'd a habit of coming over here with 'Saiah Eld and Mr. Fuller for the music. It was pretty to hear 'em, for they'm all fine players, though mostly theer music was above my mark; but sometimes they'd get him to play somethin' by himself, and then 'twas sweet. But he give up playin' all of a sudden—I could niver mek out why or wheer-for, an' I suppose it's over five-an'-twenty 'ear since he touched the fiddle.”

Now Mrs. Sennacherib, though not an untruthful woman as a general thing, had an idea as to the why and wherefore of Ezra Gold's withdrawal from the amateur ranks of Heydon Hay. She took most of her ideas from her husband, though she was not accustomed to think so, and it was he who had inoculated her with this one. She laid her small trap for her old friend and school-fellow with an admirable nonchalance and indifference of aspect, and looked at Rachel with an eye from which all appearance of speculation was carefully abstracted.

“He gave up playing?” Rachel asked, with a tone of surprise.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Sennacherib, with a stolid-seeming nod. “He give it up clean. Why, now I come to think on it, I don't believe he iver touched the music—” She paused in some confusion, and to cover this feigned to consider. “Let me see. He give up the music just about the time as you went away to Barfield.”

The old maid's lips twitched, her cheeks went pale, and a look of absolute terror rose to her eyes.

“I was always under the impression that nothing could have induced him to give up his music. As I remember him he was peculiarly devoted to it.”

She did her best to speak indifferently, but her voice shook in spite of her.

“He give it up just about the time as you went away,” repeated Mrs. Sennacherib. “I've heard our Sennacherib and his brother 'Saiah say over and over again as since that time he niver so much as opened a piece of music.”

The little old maid arose with both hands on her heart, tight-clasped there. Her eyes were wild and she panted as if for breath.

“Miss Blythe!” cried the other, alarmed by her aspect—“Rachel! What's the matter? Why, my dear, you're ill! A glass o' wine; me own mekin', my dear. Theer's no better elderberry i' the parish. Tek a drop, now do; it'll do you good, I'm sure.”

“No, thank you,” said Rachel, waving the proffered glass aside and sinking back into her chair. “It passes very soon. It is quite gone. I thank you. Pray take no notice of my ailments, Mrs. Eld. I am sorry, to have discommoded you, even for a moment.”

She was her prim and mincing self again, though there was still a tremor in her voice, and the exalted look in her young eyes was more marked than common. After a little time she recovered herself completely, and Mrs. Sennacherib entertained her for an hour with mournful histories of death and burial. The good woman had a rare nose for an invalid and a passion for nursing. Such of her old school-fellows as had died since Rachel's departure had mostly been nursed out of life under the care of Mrs. Sennacherib, and she was intimate with the symptoms of all of them, from the earliest to the latest. There was but little need for Rachel to talk at all when once her hostess had entered upon this absorbing topic, and when the old maid arose to go she had altogether recovered from the effect of whatever emotion had assailed her.

She walked homeward so prim, so old, so withered, that ninety-nine in a hundred would have laughed to know that she was living in the heart of a love-story, and that story her own. But we rarely grow old enough to forget our own griefs, howsoever cold the frost of age may make us to the griefs of others.