Mr. Penton’s long interview with the young solicitor had ended in this:—and though it did not seem exactly a settlement of the question, it had been taken for granted by both families as such—that he consented to treat with Sir Walter Penton. The terms might take a longer time to arrange, and there were conditions—some of a rather peculiar character, as his opponents thought—which Mr. Penton insisted upon. But upon the general question he was supposed to have yielded. It had taken him a great deal of thought, and he was not happy about it. He went about the house and his few fields with a moody countenance, avoiding every turn or point of view which revealed Penton—those points of view which had once been his happiness. This fact alone took a great deal of the pleasure out of his life. It had been his relief in former days to mount the road to that corner where the view was, or to go out and sit on the bench under the poplar-tree; but now he turned his back upon these favorite places. When he was low he had no longer this way of escaping from himself. Of all points of the compass, that on which Penton lay had become the most distasteful to him. He would have liked to have had it blotted out from the landscape altogether: there was nothing but pain in the sight of it, in the mere knowledge that it was there. And winter is cruel in this particular. It spares you nothing—not even a chimney. The weather-cock, glowing through the bare trees, seemed to catch every ray of light and blazon it over the whole country; the windows that faced the south were in a perpetual scintillation. The great house would not be hidden; it made no account of the feelings of those who were in the act of parting with it forever; though its aspect was now a reproach and humiliation to them instead of a pride, it seemed to force itself more and more on their eyes. Walter felt this almost more strongly than his father, if that were possible. He, too, went about moody, with the air of a man injured, turning his back on the once favorite quarter where the sunset was. He said in his haste that he never wanted to see a sunset again, and when the girls called his attention to all the stormy gorgeous colors of the winter afternoon, would turn his back upon them and declare that the reflection in the river, the secondary tints in the cold gray of the east, were enough for him. He said this with a vehemence which his father did not display. But Walter had solaces and alleviations of which his father was incapable; and Mr. Penton was the one who felt it most deeply after all. In his middle-aged bosom the tide of life was not running high. He had few pleasures; even few wishes. It no longer moved him in his habitual self-restraint that he had no horses, no means of keeping his place among his peers. All that had dropped away from him in the chill of custom—in that acceptance of the inevitable which is the lowest form of content. But there had always been Penton in which his imagination could take refuge. Penton was still an earthly paradise into which one day or other he should find entrance, which nobody could close from him. And now that too was closed, and his fancy could no longer go in and dwell there. He said very little about it, but he felt it to the bottom of his heart. It was the sort of thing of which he might have died had the floods been out or the atmosphere as deleterious as it sometimes was; but happily it was not an exceptionally wet season, and the river had not as yet been “out” that year.

The ladies from the first had taken it better, and they continued to do so. Mrs. Penton began to make calculations with bated breath and many a “hush!” when either father or son were nigh—of what she would now be able to do. She thought it would be well for them all, as soon as matters were settled, to go away; for though the waters were not out yet, it was scarcely to be hoped for that they should not after Christmas, in rainy February at the latest, have their way; and a separation from the scene of their disappointment would, she thought, be good both for Mr. Penton and Wat. Mrs. Penton said this with a sigh, feeling already all that was involved in a removal in the middle of winter; but it would be good, she felt, for Horry and the rest to be out of the damp, and it would be very good for Wat. The thing for Wat would be to go to Oxford without delay; fortunately he was not too old, and that would take him off thinking about Penton if anything would. As for the father, there was no such panacea for him. What can be done to distract or divert a man who has outlived the ordinary pleasures, and can not have his mouth stopped or his heart occupied with any new toy? A horse or two such as he would now be able to afford would have done a great deal for him once; but now he had got out of the habit of riding, and might not care to take it up again. It was easier to think of the young ones whose life lay all before them, and who would enter the world now under so much better conditions, though not those they had calculated upon. Mrs. Penton made up her mind that if all was settled on the terms proposed she would be able to give the girls “every advantage.” They should be taken to see a great many things, they should have clothes and surroundings that suited their condition; they might even “see a little of the season” when the proper time came round. All these things were pondered and decided upon in the many hours when the feminine portion of the household sat together, which were more than had ever been before. For Wat did not care to have his sisters constantly with him as he once had done; they set it down to his disappointment about Penton, and the disturbance of his temper and of his life which had ensued—which when they accused him of it he agreed in with a sort of satisfaction. But when Anne said, without thought, “One would think Wat had found somebody else to go with him,” he was very angry, and grew very red, and demanded to know who else? who was he likely to have else? with an indignation which the provocation did not justify.

Thus it will be seen that the circumstances of the household were much changed. They had not been in a very flourishing condition when they first discussed the law of entail and the possibility that it might be attacked by a reforming parliament and their birthright taken from them; but somehow that simple time of expectation and depression, which now looked as if it might be years ago, had been, with all its straitenedness, a happier time than now. A certain agitation had got into all their veins; the girls and their mother sat mostly alone in the evenings. There was no reading aloud. Wat was out almost always, taking a walk, he said; or when he was not out he was in the book-room, grinding, as he told them, at his Greek, which was quite necessary if he was going up to Oxford in the beginning of the year. The girls would have thought this state of affairs insupportable a little while ago, but in the commotion of the approaching change they found so much to talk of that they were partially reconciled to making pinafores all the evening in the light of the paraffin lamp, though it smelled badly, and there was no one to read to them. They had a great deal to talk about. As for Mrs. Penton, her mouth was opened as it had never been in her life before. She talked of balls, and theaters, and of the “things” they must get as soon as ever matters were settled. She recounted to them her own experiences—the dances she had gone to before her marriage, and all the competition there had been to secure her for a partner. “They said I was as light as a feather,” she said, with her eyes fixed upon the stocking she was darning, and without raising her head; “and so they will say of Ally, for Ally is just the same figure I was. But you must have some lessons when we go to town.” She was pleased thus to talk, recalling old recollections, to which the girls listened with astonishment; for they had never supposed that their mother knew anything of those gayeties, which to themselves were like the fables of golden isles unknown to men; but they were not displeased to listen, weaving into the simple story as it flowed the imaginations, the anticipations which filled that unknown world upon the threshold of which they stood. It was even more absorbing than the stories of the good and fair heroines (for Mrs. Penton was very particular in her choice of the books which were read by them) to which they had been in the habit of listening. But they missed Wat, to whom, however, they allowed the narration of mother’s tales might have seemed a little flat had he been there. Wat up to the present moment had shown very little interest in anything of the kind; but it was a little strange now that he should so often be “taking a turn” even when the moon was not shining, and when the country roads were so dark.

Mr. Rochford, the solicitor, came on several occasions during this time of transition. He came often enough to make the children quite familiar with that trim and shining dog-cart, and the horse which was so sleek and shining, too. Horry had been driven round and round in it, nay, had been allowed to drive himself, making believe, before it was put up: and he and his smaller brother assisted at the harnessing and unharnessing of this famous animal with the greatest enthusiasm every time he came. Young rustic lads attending at a monarch’s levee could not have been more interested than were these babes. And Mr. Rochford made himself more or less agreeable in other ways to the whole family, except Wat, who did not take to him, but kept him at a distance with an amount of unfriendly temper which he showed to no one else. There was no idea now of a tray carried into the book-room when this visitor came. He was introduced to the early dinner where all the children sat in their high chairs, and where the food was more wholesome than delicate—a meal which was too plainly dinner to be disguised under the name of luncheon. Mr. Rochford made himself quite at home at this family dinner. He praised everything, and declared that he was always most hungry at this hour, and eat so heartily that Mrs. Penton took it as a personal compliment; for though Mrs. Penton sometimes made a little moan about the appetites of the children, she yet was much complimented when visitors (who were so few at the Hook) eat well and seemed to relish the simple food. “Roast mutton may be very simple,” she said, “but there is roast mutton and roast mutton—a big, white, fat leg half cooked is a very different thing from what is set on our table, for I must say that Jane, if she is not much to look at, is an excellent cook.” She liked to see people eat; not Horry getting three helps and gorging himself; that was a different matter altogether; but a visitor who could appreciate how good it really was.

And after dinner was over Mr. Rochford would ask whether he might not to be taken round the garden to see, not the flowers, for there were none, but the flood-marks of different years, and how high the river had come on the last occasion when the waters were “out.” He had a great interest in the floods—more than Mr. Penton, who got weary of his guest’s enthusiasm, and stole back to the book-room, leaving him with the girls; and more than Anne, who heard her mother calling her, or found she had something to do in the poultry-yard, every time this little incident occurred. Ally was the most civil, the most long-suffering, and it soon became evident that there was only one who had patience to conduct Mr. Rochford to see the flood-marks.

“I have been used to them all my life,” the young lawyer said. “I have an old aunt who lives as close to the river as this, and who has the water in her garden every year. I used to be sent on visits there when I was a child, and oh! the transports of the inundation and the old punt in which we used to float about. To come up under the windows in that punt was bliss.”

“You could not do that here,” said Ally, with that pride in the Hook which was part of the family character. “The water never comes above the garden. I showed you the highest flood-mark was on a level with the terrace round the house.”

“Yes,” said the visitor, with an implicit faith which was not universal among those who heard this tale. “What a piece of good fortune that is! You must feel as if you were in an oasis in the midst of the desert.”

Ally felt that the metaphor was not very appropriate, but of course she knew what he meant. She said, “The little boys are as fond of seeing the floods as you were when you were a boy.”

“It would be difficult work if at any time the house was cut off—I beg your pardon,” said Rochford, “that is nonsense, of course; but do you know I dreamed the other night that the river was higher than ever had been known, and was sweeping all round the Hook, and that the family were in danger? I got out in my boat on the wildest whirling stream, and steered as well as I could for your window. Which is your window, Miss Penton? I knew quite well which it was in my dream, and steered for it. That one! why then I was right, for that was where I steered.”

“You frighten me,” said Ally, “but the water has never come near the house.”

“It did on this occasion. There were people at all the windows, but I steered for yours. I heard myself calling Miss Penton, and you wouldn’t let me save you. You kept putting the children into my arms, and I could not refuse the children—but I shall never forget the horror with which I woke up, finding that you always delayed and delayed and would not come.”

“How kind of you,” said Ally, laughing, but with a little blush, “to take so much trouble even in your dream.”

“Trouble!” he cried, “but yet it was great trouble, for you would not come. I heard myself calling, trying every kind of argument, but you always pushed some one in front of you to be saved first, and would not come yourself. I awoke in a dreadful state of mind, crying out that it was my fault, that it was because of me, that if it had been any one else you would have come.”

“How ungrateful you must have thought me,” said Ally, blushing more and more, “but of course I should have put the children first. You may be sure that is what I shall do if it should ever come true.”

“I am forewarned,” he said, laughing. “I shall know how to beguile you now that I am informed.”

“I hope you may never have the occasion,” she said.

“Of helping you? Do you think that is a kind wish, Miss Penton? for it is a thing which would be more delightful than anything else that could happen to me.”

Ally, being a little confused by this continuance of the subject, led him round by the edge of the river to the poplar-tree and the bench underneath. “We used all to be very fond of this seat,” she said, “because of the view. If Penton is going now to be nothing to us we must take the bench away.”

“Can it ever cease to be something to you? It is the home of your ancestors.”

“Oh, yes; but one’s father is more near one than one’s ancestors, and if he is to have nothing to do with Penton—”

“You regret Penton,” said the lawyer, fixing his eyes upon her; “then I wish my hand had been burned off before I had anything to do with the business.”

“Oh, what could that matter?” cried Ally. “I am nobody; and besides,” she added, with gravity, “I do not suppose it could have been stopped by anything that either you or I could do.”

This made the young man pause; but whatever was disagreeable in it was modified by the conjunction “you and I.” Was it only civility, or had she unconsciously fallen into the trap and associated herself with him by some real bond of sympathy? He resumed after a pause, “Perhaps we might not be able to cope with such grandees as your father and Mrs. Russell Penton, but there is nothing so strong as—as an association—as mutual help, don’t you know?”

Ally did not know, neither did he, what he meant. She replied only, “Oh!” in a startled tone, and hurriedly changed the subject. “Will it take a long time to draw out all the papers, Mr. Rochford? Why should it take so long? It seems so simple.”

“Nothing is simple that has to do with the law. Should you like it to be hurried on or to be delayed? Either thing could be done according as it pleased you.”

There was the slightest little emphasis upon the pronoun, so little that Ally perceived it first, then the next moment blushed with shame at having for a moment allowed herself to suppose that it could be meant.

“Oh, we could not wish for either one thing or another,” she said. “I shall be sorry when it is altered, and I shall be glad. Naturally it is Walter that feels it most.”

“Ah, he is the heir.”

“He was the heir, Mr. Rochford. I feel for him. He has to change all his ways of thinking, all that he was looking forward to. But why should we talk of this? I ought not to talk of it to any stranger. It is because you have so much to do with it, because you—”

“Because I am mixed up with it from the beginning,” he said, regretfully. “How kind you are to receive me at all, when it was I whose fate it was to introduce so painful a subject. But one never knows,” he went on, in a lower tone, “when one drives up to a door that has never been opened to one’s steps before, what one may find there; perhaps the most commonplace, perhaps”—he turned his head away a little, but not enough to make the last two words, uttered in a lowered but distinct voice, inaudible to Ally—“perhaps one’s fate.”

The girl heard them, wondered at them, felt herself grow pale, then red. There is something in words that mean so much, which convey a sort of secondary thrill of comprehension without revealing their meaning all out. Ally, who was unprepared for the real revelation, felt that there was something here which was not usual to be said, which concerned her somehow, which made it impossible for her to continue the conversation calmly. She turned away to examine some moss on the trunk of the nearest tree. Did he mean her to hear that? Did he mean her not to hear? And what did it mean? His fate—that must mean something, something more than people generally said to each other while taking a turn round the garden, whether it might be to see the roses or to examine the flood-marks.

At this moment the most fortunate thing occurred—a thing which ended the interview without embarrassment, without any appearance of running away upon Ally’s part. Mrs. Penton suddenly appeared in the porch, which was within sight, holding a letter in one hand and beckoning with the other. She called, not Ally, but “Alice!” which in itself was enough to mark that something had occurred out of the common. Her voice thrilled through the still damp air almost with impatience; its usual calm was gone; it was full of life, and haste, and impetuosity—more like the quick voice of Anne than that of the mother. And then little Horry came running out, delighted to escape out-of-doors in his pinafore, without cap or great-coat, or any wrap, his red stockings making a broken line of color as he ran along the damp path, his curls of fair hair blowing back from his forehead.

“Ally! Anne!—Ally! Anne!” he cried, “mother wants you! Ally-Anne! mother wants you!—she wants you bovth She’s got news for you bovth. Ally-Anne! Ally-Anne!” shouted the small boy.

“I’m coming, Horry,” cried the girl; and from the other side of the house came the same cry from her sister. Ally entirely forgot Mr. Rochford and his fate. She ran home, leaving him without another thought, encountering midway Anne, who was flying from the poultry-yard, in which she had taken refuge. What was it? At their age, and in such simplicity as theirs, a letter suddenly arrived with news might mean anything. What might it not mean? It might mean that the queen had sent for them to Windsor Castle. It might mean that some very great lady unheard of before had invited them on the score of some old unknown friendship. It might mean that somebody had left them a fortune. The only thing it could not mean was something unimportant. Of that only they were assured.

Mrs. Penton stood at the door in her excitement, with the letter in her hands. Her tall figure was more erect, her head borne higher than usual. When she saw the girls running from different directions she turned and went in-doors, and presently Walter appeared in answer to another summons, walking quickly up to the door. Young Rochford, standing under the poplar looking at them, felt ridiculously “out of it,” as he said. It would have pleased him to feel that he had something to do with the family, that their consultations were not entirely closed to him. He had been so much mixed up with it—all the details of their future means, every bit of land which they relinquished, every penny of that which they got as compensation, would pass through his hands. He had been feeling of late as if he really had a great deal to do with the Pentons. But here arose at once a matter with which he had nothing to do, upon which he could not intrude himself, to which he was left as much a stranger as though he did not know exactly what their income would be next year. He went slowly into the book-room, with feelings that were utterly unreasonable, though not without the excuse of being natural. The book-room, that was his place, and Mr. Penton and the formal business. But he must not even ask what was the other business which was so much more interesting, the letter which had been sent to Mrs. Penton, which the young ones had been called in such excitement to hear, and no doubt to give their opinions on. He had certainly no right to have an opinion on the subject, whatever it might be. He was only the solicitor managing an external piece of business—and treated with great civility and kindness—but nothing more. How could he be anything more?