Everything was very quiet at the Hook on the funeral day; all the blinds were drawn down, even those which could be seen only from the garden and the river, and Mrs. Penton—nay, Lady Penton, though she did not easily fall into the title, and, indeed, until Sir Walter was buried scarcely felt it right to bear it—had quite a little festival of mourning all to herself with the girls, who had no inclination to gainsay her. They knew nothing of the vagaries of girls of the present epoch, and it never occurred to them to go against anything she proposed or to doubt its propriety, though if there was an absurd side to it they saw that too later on, and made their little criticisms, no doubt, with little jokes to each other, not to be ventilated till long, long after. There is perhaps a natural liking in the feminine heart for all those little exhibitions of importance which the great crises of life make natural. To stand in the privileged position of those who are immersed in sorrow, yet not to be immersed in sorrow; to have all the consequence which is derived from fresh mourning and nearness to “a death;” yet to have the heart untouched, and no real trouble in it—this is something which pleases, which almost exhilarates in a somber way. It is so good to think that the death is not one which touches us, that we are only lightly moved by it, sitting in a voluntary gloom to please ourselves and compliment the other, not in the Valley of the Shadow of Death. Lady Penton in her way enjoyed all this, especially after her husband had gone. She put on her mourning, and made the girls dress themselves in the black frocks which had just come home, and then sitting down in the midst of them she too read the funeral service. It was very soothing, she said—all the more that she had so little real need of being soothed. The girls were full of awe and acquiescence; the new thought that some one had died, though it was only an old man, touched them, and the idea of all his death would bring about increased the subduing, half-compunctious sentiment. It was not their fault that he had died, yet they seemed somehow involved in it—almost to blame.

Little Mab put on a black frock also, though she had no intention of going into mourning, and made one of the little audience to whom the mother read the burial service. She was the spectator amid the group who felt themselves more immediately concerned, and it was all very strange to her—almost droll, it must be allowed. She was not wise enough to see how far the sentiment was real, and sprung out of the confused emotions of this critical period, and she was too sympathetic to pronounce that it was all false, which to a little woman of the world would have been the reasonable thing. She did not, in fact, at all understand these innocent people, though they were so easily understood. Her education made her look for motives in what they did; and they had no motives, but acted on the simple instinct of nature. Her keen little blue eyes, which were so child-like and full of laughter, scintillated with interest and the endeavor to understand. It was all so strange to her, so novel—the large family, the homely living, the community of feeling, everybody moving together, which was puzzling beyond description. She had seen so much of the world in her wealthy orphanhood, even though she was so young, that a sphere so simple and action so single-minded, were altogether beyond her understanding. She kept looking out for the secret, the rift within the lute, the point at which this unanimity would break up, but it did not appear. She had been taught a great deal about fortune-hunting, and the necessity of taking care of herself, and she had heard those side-whispers of society which can not escape the ears even of children—those insinuations of evil underneath and selfishness always rampant. She would not have been surprised had she found that Ally and Anne had schemes of their own, or their mother some deep-laid plan which nobody suspected. And when she found that there was nothing of the sort—so far, at least, as her keen inspection could find out—Mab was far more puzzled than if she had made any number of discoveries. There was but one particular in which she felt that there might be an opening into the unknown, and that was Walter—not, however, in the way in which she had been prepared for delinquency. He paid no attention to herself, neither did any of the others make the faintest effort to put them in each other’s way. There was certainly no fortune-hunting in the case. But Mab felt that Walter’s absences were not for nothing. She was astonished in her premature wisdom that no one took any note of them or seemed to mind. Perhaps there was a little pique in her soul. She had been interested in Walter, but he had shown no interest in her. She could not but think he would be much better employed making himself agreeable to the heiress whom fortune had thrown in his way than in involving himself in some clandestine love-making, which she felt sure was the case—some entanglement probably in the village, to which he seemed always to be going. What could be more silly? Mab had a strong practical tendency, perhaps drawn from the father who had made his own way so effectively. She felt vexed with Walter for this throwing away of his chances. Looking at the subject with perfect impartiality, she could not but feel that a young man coming into an encumbered property—or, at least, what was just the same as an encumbered property—to neglect the fortune which, for anything he knew, lay ready to his hand, was a mingled weakness and absurdity of the most obvious description. She did not enter into the question whether she herself would be disposed to assent or not. That was her own business, and not his. But that he should be so blind as not to try! And in the meantime she observed them all with wonder, and looked at their grave faces when they put themselves thus in sympathy with old Sir Walter’s burial with a little cynical disposition to laugh, which it took her some trouble to restrain.

It was amusing—it might even be said ridiculous—when Lady Penton, the little ceremonial being over and an hour or so of quiet having elapsed, drew up all the blinds again solemnly with her own hands, going from window to window.

“They will have got back to Penton by this time,” she said, in a tone perceptibly more cheerful. “You can tell Mary to take the children out for their walk; by this time it will be all over. And the affairs of life must go on, whatever happens,” she added, with a little sigh.

The sigh was for the trouble over, the cheerfulness for the life to come. They were both quite simple and true. She herself took a little walk afterward, still with much gravity, round the garden, in which Mab, in her character as a philosophical observer, took pains to accompany her.

“But you never knew Sir Walter Penton, did you?” she asked.

“Yes, I knew him, but not well. We went there a few times when we were newly married. After the death of the sons they rather turned against Edward. It was a pity, but I never blamed them.”

“Why should they have turned against him? it was not his fault.”

“My dear,” said the gentle woman, quietly, “you are not old enough to understand.”

Mab looked at her with those keen little eyes, which twinkled and sparkled with curiosity, and which to the little girl’s own apprehension were able to look through and through all those simple people. But even Mab was daunted by this gentle and undoubting superiority of experience.

Lady Penton resumed quietly, speaking more to herself than to her companion, “I hope she will not feel it now—not too much to listen. I hope she may not prove more proud than ever.”

She shook her head as she went slowly along, and Mab could not divine what she was thinking. They went together to the bench under the poplar-tree, where the weathercock which was over the Penton stables caught the red gold of the westering sun, and blazed so that it looked like a sun itself, stretching brazen rays over the dark and leafless woods.

“Do you think she could be happy living anywhere else?” Lady Penton said at last.

“She—who? Do you mean Aunt Gerald? Oh, yes, to be sure, when she knows it isn’t hers. And my uncle hates it.”

“Your uncle!” Lady Penton repeated. And then she said, after a time, “I don’t think she could be happy in any other house.”

But what was meant by this, or whether the new mistress of Penton was glad that her predecessor should suffer, or if these words were said in sympathy, was what little Mab could not understand. She had to betake herself to an investigation of the sentiments of the others. It began a new chapter in her investigations when at last Sir Edward and his son appeared in their sables, both very grave and preoccupied. The father went into the house with his wife; the son joined the youthful group about the door. But no one could be more unwilling to communicate than Walter proved himself. He stood like a hound held in and pulling at the leash—like a horse straining against the curb. (“If you were to give him his head how he would go!” Mab said to herself.) But he did not break loose as she expected him to do. Impatient as he was, he stood still, with now and then a glance at the western sky. The sunset was a long time accomplishing itself. Was that what he was so impatient for?

“I suppose there was a wonderful crowd of people, Wat?”

“Yes, there were a great many people.”

“Everybody—that was anybody—”

“Everybody, whether they were anybody or not.”

“And were there a great many flowers? and did our wreath look nice? was it as big as the others?”

“There were heaps of flowers; ours didn’t show one way or another. How could you expect it among such a lot?”

“But you were the chief mourners, Wat!”

“Yes, we were the chief mourners. I wish you wouldn’t ask me so many questions. Just because we were the chief mourners I saw next to nothing.”

“Did Cousin Alicia go?”

“How do you suppose she could go—to have all those people staring?”

“But did you see her?—did you see anybody? Did father say—”

“Oh, don’t bother me,” Walter cried. “Don’t you see I have enough to think of without that!”

“What has he to think of, I wonder?” said Mab to herself, gazing at him with her keen eyes. But the girls were silent, half respectful of the mysterious unknown things which he might now have to think of, half subdued by the presence of the looker-on, before whom they could not let it be supposed that Wat was less than perfect. And presently, after moving about a little, saying scarcely anything, he disappeared in-doors. Was it to the book-room, to look over his Greek? or was it to steal out by the other door and hurry once more to the village? It was there Mab felt sure that he always went. To the village—meaning doubtless to some girl there, of whose existence nobody knew.

Sir Edward took his wife in-doors, solemnly leading her by the hand, and when they got to the book-room he put a chair for her solemnly. Already his old breeding—too fine for the uses of every day at the Hook—began to come back to him.

“I have not been successful,” he said, “It will not do.”

“It will not do? She won’t take it from you, Edward?”

“There is no reason why she shouldn’t take it from me; but she will not hear of it. I have done all I could, my dear. There is nothing more possible. We can go in when we like; they will put no obstacles in our way.”

“Go in when we like—and how are we to furnish Penton?” she cried.

“And keep it up,” he said, with a groan; “there are literally acres of glass—and to see the gardeners going away in the evening it is like a factory. But we can not help it. I have done my best. By the bye,” he added, in something of his old aggrieved tone, “they have behaved what I suppose will be called very handsomely in another way. I told you my uncle’s fancy about Walter—they have given him ten thousand pounds.”

“What?” she said, almost with a scream.

“Walter—he took my uncle’s fancy; didn’t I tell you? He is to have ten thousand pounds. It’s a good sum, but nothing to them; they are very rich; what with all the savings of the estate, and the money in the funds, and the lands elsewhere that are out of the entail, Alicia’s very rich. They can afford it; but all the same, it’s a nice sum.”

“Ten thousand pounds,” she repeated to herself. She had not remarked the rest. A sort of consternation of pleasure overwhelmed her. “It is very good of them, Edward, oh, very good. Why, Walter will be independent. Ten thousand pounds! Oh, dear me, what a good that would have done us—how much we should have thought of it! Ten thousand pounds! And what does he say?”

“Nothing, so far as I remarked. I was not thinking of him,” said Sir Edward, with a little impatience. He had so much to think of in respect to the family at large and all the cares of the new life, that he was a little annoyed to have Walter thrust into the front at such a moment. “Of course it is a great thing for him,” he said. “It would have been a great thing for us at this moment to have command of a sum of money. My uncle might have thought of that. He might have thought that to change our style of living as we shall be obliged to do, to set up an establishment on a totally different scale, to alter everything, a little ready money would have been a great help; whereas Walter has no use for it, no need of it, a boy of twenty. But there is no limit to the fantastic notions of old men with money to leave.”

“You forget,” said his wife, “that old Sir Walter intended everything to be different—that he never meant us to set up an establishment or live in Penton at all.”

“Ah, the question is, did he mean that—wasn’t it merely a plan of Alicia’s? Oh, no, I’ve heard nothing more. But I can’t help thinking my uncle would really have preferred having a family to continue the old name after him, instead of letting it all run into the Russell family, as I suppose it must have done. That reminds me, I have a message for that little Russell girl. Russell Penton will come for her or send for her to-morrow. He made all sorts of pretty speeches about our kindness in taking her in.”

“Dear me, it was not worth talking about. It was Ally’s idea. One little thing more in our house—what does it matter? She is a nice little thing; she gives no trouble,” said Lady Penton, to whom little Mab was of no importance at all.

Sir Edward dismissed the subject with a wave of his hand. It was of still less importance to him than it was to his wife. He said, “They are going abroad I believe very soon. Those people to whom money is no object always fly abroad to get quit of every annoyance. When shall you and I be able to run off, Annie, for a rest? Never, I fear.”

“Well, Edward,” she said, quietly, “if we were able in one way we shouldn’t be in another. We couldn’t leave the children, you know. I shouldn’t wonder if the Russell Pentons would willingly change with us—their money against our children. They have the worst of it after all; so much to leave and nobody belonging to them to leave it to. So we must not grumble.”

This view of the case did not appear to give Sir Edward much comfort. He seated himself at his table and drew his writing things toward him. It was only to begin once more those inevitable calculations which had a charm yet, did not make anything easier.

“If you have got anything to do,” he said, “I’ll not keep you longer.” He added, as she went toward the door, “Don’t make any fuss about Walter. He ought to understand that this makes no difference;” and again, turning round, calling her, “Annie, don’t forget to tell the little Russell girl.”

She went out into the garden, where the girls were still wandering about in the restlessness of spent excitement. It did not occur to her to keep back her news because of “the little Russell girl.” They all came round her, Mab keeping behind a little, yet following the others. The day was very mild, and Lady Penton had a shawl round her shoulders, but no covering on her head.

“Your father is rather disappointed,” she said. “Your cousin Alicia will not accept what we offered. I am sorry, but we must just make up our minds to it.”

“Make up our minds to Penton!” cried Anne.

“Oh, my dear, so far as that is concerned! but you know how difficult it will be. However, there is something else that will please you very much. You know old Sir Walter at the last took a great fancy to our Wat, and wanted to leave him something. Well, your cousin Alicia felt she ought to carry out her father’s wishes, and she has settled on him a fortune—ten thousand pounds.”

“Ten thousand pounds!” said the girls, in one breath.

“It makes him quite independent. It is a great thing for him at his age; I hope it will not lead him into temptation. And it is very good of your cousin Alicia. She had no need to do it unless she pleased, for it was only a fancy, a dying fancy, which Sir Walter, perhaps, had he got better, might not—We must always be grateful to her, whatever else may happen. Few people, though they might be very civil, would show kindness to that extent.” Lady Penton paused thoughtfully. Cousin Alicia had not been on the whole very civil, and she felt as if the thanks she was according were not enthusiastic enough. “It is a wonderful thing,” she added, warming herself up, “an absolute gift of ten thousand pounds. I don’t think I ever heard of anything like it. It is a splendid gift.”

“And Wat never said a word! I wonder, mother, if he knows.”

“Yes, he knows. I dare say he was overwhelmed by it. He would not know what to say. Where is he? I should like to wish him joy.”

“I know where he is. He has gone to the village to tell her,” said little Mab to herself, and she looked the other way in case Lady Penton might have read it in her eyes. But Lady Penton, in her innocence, never would have divined what those eyes meant. And presently she earned the war, so to speak, into the enemy’s country by turning next to her visitor.

“My dear,” she said, “there is a message for you, too. Mr. Russell Penton is to send for you, or perhaps come for you, to-morrow.”

“To-morrow!” cried Mab, taken by surprise. While she was thus keeping back her sheaf of imaginary arrows, here was one which caught herself as it were in the very middle of her shield. “Oh!” she cried again, “and must I go?”

Now she had been no inconsiderable embarrassment to the family at this crisis of its affairs, but the moment she uttered this little plaintive cry all their soft hearts turned to Mab with a bound of tenderness and gratitude, and great compunction for ever having found her in their way. They did not know that part of her reluctance to leave them was in consequence of the investigations which she had entered upon, and was by no means willing to break off.

“My dear,” said Lady Penton, “we have been so out of our ordinary while you have been with us, that I am sure it is very, very sweet of you to care to stay. And we should all like very much to keep you a little longer. I hope Mr. Russell Penton may come for you himself to-morrow, and then perhaps he will consent to let you stay.”