“Papa has just heard that Herbert Austin, who has Whiteladies, you know—our place that is to be—is much better; and he is low about it,” said Sophy. “Of course, if Herbert were to get better it would be a great disappointment for us.”

This speech elicited a shout of laughter from Dropmore and the rest, with running exclamations of “Frank, by Jove,” and “I like people who speak their minds.”

“Well,” said Sophy, “if I were to say we were all delighted, who would believe me? It is the most enchanting old house in the world, and a good property, and we have always been led to believe that he was in a consumption. I declare I don’t know what is bad enough for him, if he is going to swindle us out of it, and live.”

“Sophy, you should not talk so wildly,” said mild Mrs. Austin from her sofa. “People will think you mean what you say.”

“And I do,” said the girl. “I hate a cheat. Papa is quite low about it, and so is cousin Everard. They are down upon their luck.”

“Am I?” said Everard, who was a little out of temper, it must be allowed, but chiefly because in the presence of the Guardsmen he was very much thrown into the shade. “I don’t know about being down on my luck; but it’s not a sweet expression for a young lady to use.”

“Oh, I don’t mind about expressions that young ladies ought to use!” said Sophy. A tinge of color came on her face at the reproof, but she tossed her pretty head, and went on all the more: “Why shouldn’t girls use the same words as other people do? You men want to keep the best of everything to yourselves—nice strong expressions and all the rest.”

“By Jove!” said Lord Alf; “mind you, I don’t like a girl to swear—it ain’t the thing somehow; but for a phrase like ‘down on his luck,’ or ‘awful fun,’ or anything like that—”

“And pray why shouldn’t you like a girl to swear?” said Kate. “‘By Jove,’ for instance? I like it. It gives a great deal of point to your conversation, Lord Alf.”

“Oh, bless you, that ain’t swearing. But it don’t do. I am not very great at reasons; but, by Jove, you must draw the line somewhere. I don’t think now that a girl ought to swear.”

“Except ‘her pretty oath of yea and nay,’” said Everard, who had a little, a very little, literature.

The company in general stared at him, not having an idea what he meant; and as it is more humbling somehow to fail in a shot of this description, which goes over the head of your audience, than it is to show actual inferiority, Everard felt himself grow very red and hot, and feel very angry.

The scene was the drawing-room at the Hatch, where a party of callers were spending the afternoon, eating bread-and-butter and drinking tea, and planning new delights. After this breakdown, for so he felt it, Everard withdrew hastily to Mrs. Austin’s sofa, and began to talk to her, though he did not quite know what it was about. Mild Mrs. Austin, though she did not understand the attempts which one or two of the visitors of the house had made to flirt with her, was pleased to be talked to, and approved of Everard, who was never noisy, though often “led away,” like all the others, by the foolishness of the girls.

“I am glad you said that about this slang they talk,” said Mrs. Austin. “Perhaps coming from you it may have some weight with them. They do not mind what I say. And have you heard any more about poor Herbert? You must not think Mr. Austin is low about it, as they said. They only say such things to make people laugh.”

This charitable interpretation arose from the poor lady’s desire to do the best for her step children, whom it was one of the regrets of her faded life, now and then breathed into the ear of a confidential friend, that she did not love as she ought.

“I have only heard he is better,” said Everard; “and it is no particular virtue on my part to be heartily glad of it. I am not poor Herbert’s heir.”

He spoke louder than he had any need to speak; for Mrs. Austin, though an invalid, was not at all deaf. But I fear that he had a hankering to be heard and replied to, and called back into the chattering circle which had formed round the girls. Neither Kate nor Sophy, however, had any time at the moment to attend to Everard, whom they felt sure they could wheedle back at any time. He gave a glance toward them with the corner of his eye, and saw Kate seriously inclining her pretty pink ear to some barrack joke which the most noble Marquis of Dropmore was recounting with many interruptions of laughter; while Sophy carried on with Lord Alf and an applauding auditory that discussion where the line should be drawn, and what girls might and might not do. “I hunt whenever I can,” Sophy was saying; “and wish there was a ladies’ club at Hurlingham or somewhere; I should go in for all the prizes. And I’m sure I could drive your team every bit as well as you do. Oh, what I would give just to have the ribbons in my hand! You should see then how a drag could go.”

Everard listened, deeply disgusted. He had not been in the least disgusted when the same sort of thing had been said to himself, but had laughed and applauded with the rest, feeling something quite irresistible in the notion of pretty Sophy’s manly longings. Her little delicate hands, her slim person, no weightier than a bird, the toss of her charming head, with its wavy, fair locks, like a flower, all soft color and movement, had put ineffable humor into the suggestion of those exploits in which she longed to emulate the heroes of the household brigade. But now, when Everard was outside the circle, he felt a totally different sentiment move him. Clouds and darkness came over his face, and I do not know what further severity might have come from his lips had not Mr. Farrel-Austin, looking still blacker than himself, come into the room, in a way which added very little to the harmony, though something to the amusement, of the party. He nodded to the visitors, snarled at the girls, and said something disagreeable to his wife, all in two minutes by the clock.

“How can you expect to be well, if you go on drinking tea for ever and ever?” he said to the only harmless member of the party. “Afternoon tea must have been invented by the devil himself to destroy women’s nerves and their constitutions.” He said this as loudly and with the same intention as had moved Everard; and he had more success, for Dropmore, Alf, and the rest turned round with their teacups in their hands, and showed their excellent teeth under their moustachios in a roar of laughter. “I had not the least idea I was so amusing,” said Mr. Farrel, sourer than ever. “Here, Everard, let me have a word with you.”

“By Jove! he is down on his luck,” said Lord Alf to Sophy in an audible aside.

“Didn’t I tell you so?” said the elegant young lady; “and when he’s low he’s always as cross as two sticks.”

“Everard,” said Mr. Farrel-Austin, “I am going over to Whiteladies on business. That old witch, Susan Austin, has outwitted us both. As it is your interest as well as mine, you had better drive over with me—unless you prefer the idiocy here to all the interests of life, as some of these fools seem to do.”

“Not I,” said Everard with much stateliness, “as you may perceive, for I am taking no part in it. I am quite at your service. But if it’s about poor Herbert, I don’t see what Miss Susan can have to do with it,” he added, casting a longing look behind.

“Bah! Herbert is neither here nor there,” said the heir-presumptive. “You don’t suppose I put any faith in that. She has spread the rumor, perhaps, to confuse us and put us off the scent. These old women,” said Mr. Farrel with deliberate virulence, “are the very devil when they put their minds to it. And you are as much interested as I am, Everard, as I have no son—and what with the absurdity and perverseness of women,” he added, setting his teeth with deliberate virulence, “don’t seem likely to have.”

I don’t know whether the company in the drawing-room heard this speech. Indeed, I do not think they could have heard it, being fully occupied by their own witty and graceful conversation. But there came in at this moment a burst of laughter which drove the two gentlemen furious in quite different ways, as they strode with all the dignity of ill-temper down stairs. Farrel-Austin did not care for the Guardsmen’s laughter in itself, nor was he critical of the manners of his daughters, but he was in a state of irritation which any trifle would have made to boil over. And Everard was in that condition of black disapproval which every word and tone increases, and to which the gayety of a laugh is the direst of offences. He would have laughed as gayly as any of them had he been seated where Lord Alf was; but being “out of it,” to use their own elegant language, he could see nothing but what was objectionable, insolent, nay, disgusting, in the sound.

What influenced Farrel-Austin to take the young man with him, however, I am unable to say. Probably it was the mere suggestion of the moment, the congenial sight of a countenance as cloudy as his own, and perhaps a feeling that as (owing to the perverseness of women) their interests were the same, Everard might help him to unravel Miss Susan’s meaning, and to ascertain what foundation in reality there was for her letter which had disturbed him so greatly; and then Everard was the friend and pet of the ladies, and Farrel felt that to convey him over as his own second and backer up, would inflict a pang upon his antagonist; which, failing victory for yourself, is always a good thing to do. As for Everard, he went in pure despite, a most comprehensible reason, hoping to punish by his dignified withdrawal the little company whose offence was that it did not appreciate his presence. Foolish yet natural motive—which will continue to influence boys and girls, and even men and women, as long as there are two sets of us in the world; and that will be as long as the world lasts, I suppose.

The two gentlemen got into the dog-cart which stood at the door, and dashed away across the Summer country in the lazy, drowsy afternoon, to Whiteladies. The wind had changed and was breathing softly from the west, and Summer had reconquered its power. Nothing was moving that could help it through all the warm and leafy country. The kine lay drowsy in the pastures, not caring even to graze, or stood about, the white ones dazzling in the sunshine, contemplating the world around in a meditative calm. The heat had stilled every sound, except that of the insects whose existence it is; and the warm grass basked, and the big white daisies on the roadside trembled with a still pleasure, drinking in the golden light into their golden hearts.

But the roads were dusty, which was the chief thing the two men thought of except their business. Everard heard for the first time of the bargain Farrel had made with the Austins of Bruges, and did not quite know what to think of it, or which side to take in the matter. A sensation of annoyance that his companion had succeeded in finding people for whom he had himself made so many vain searches, was the first feeling that moved him. But whether he liked or did not like Farrel’s bargain, he could not tell. He did not like it, because he had no desire to see Farrel-Austin reigning at Whiteladies; and he did not dislike it because, on the whole, Farrel would probably make a better Squire than an old shopkeeper from the Netherlands; and thus his mind was so divided that he could not tell what he thought. But he was very curious about Miss Susan’s prompt action in the matter, and looked forward with some amusement and interest to hear what she had done, and how she had outwitted the expectant heir.

This idea even beguiled his mind out of the dispositions of general misanthropy with which he had started. He grew eager to know all about it, and anticipated with positive enjoyment the encounter between the old lady who was the actual Squire, and his companion who was the prospective one. As they neared Whiteladies, too, another change took place in Everard. He had almost been Farrel’s partisan when they started, feeling in the mutual gloom, which his companion shared so completely, a bond of union which was very close for the moment. But Everard’s gloom dispersed in the excitement of this new object; in short, I believe the rapid movement and change of the air would of themselves have been enough to dispel it—whereas the gloom of the other deepened. And as they flew along the familiar roads, Everard felt the force of all the old ties which attached him to the old house and its inmates, and began to feel reluctant to appear before Miss Susan by the side of her enemy. “If you will go in first I’ll see to putting up the horse,” he said when they reached the house.

“There is no occasion for putting up the horse,” said Farrel, and though Everard invented various other excuses for lingering behind, they were all ineffectual. Farrel, I suppose, had the stronger will of the two, and he would not relinquish the pleasure of giving a sting to Miss Susan by exhibiting her favorite as his backer. So the young man was forced to follow him whether he would or not; but it was with a total revolution of sentiment. “I only hope she will outwit the fellow; and make an end of him clean,” Everard said to himself.

They were shown into the hall, where Miss Susan chose, for some reason of her own, to give them audience. She appeared in a minute or two in her gray gown, and with a certain air of importance, and shook hands with them.

“What, you here, Everard?” she said with a smile and a cordial greeting. “I did not look for this pleasure. But of course the business is yours as well as Mr. Farrel’s.” It was very seldom that Miss Susan condescended to add Austin to that less distinguished name.

“I happened—to be—at the Hatch,” said Everard, faltering.

“Yes, he was with my daughters; and as he was there I made him come with me, because of course he may have the greatest interest,” said Mr. Farrel, “as much interest almost as myself—”

“Just the same,” said Miss Susan briskly; “more indeed, because he is young and you are old, cousin Farrel. Sit down there, Everard, and listen; though having a second gentleman to hear what I have to say is alarming, and will make it all the harder upon me.”

Saying this, she indicated a seat to Farrel and one to Everard (he did not know if it was with intention that she placed him opposite to the gallery with which he had so many tender associations) and seated herself in the most imposing chair in the room, as in a seat of judgment. There was a considerable tremor about her as she thus, for the first time, personally announced what she had done; but this did not appear to the men who watched her, one with affectionate interest and a mixture of eagerness and amusement, the other with resolute opposition, dislike, and fear. They thought her as stately and strong as a rock, informing her adversary thus, almost with a proud indifference, of the way in which her will had vanquished his, and were not the least aware of the flutter of consciousness which sometimes seemed almost to take away her breath.

“I was much surprised, I need not say, by your letter,” said Farrel, “surprised to hear you had been at Bruges, as I know you are not given to travelling; and I do not know how to understand the intimation you send me that my arrangement with our old relative is not to stand. Pardon me, cousin Susan, but I cannot imagine why you should have interfered in the matter, or why you should prefer him to me.”

“What has my interference to do with it?” she said, speaking slowly to preserve her composure; though this very expedient of her agitation made her appear more composed. “I had business abroad,” she went on with elaborate calm, “and I have always taken a great interest in these Austins. They are excellent people—in their way; but it can scarcely be supposed that I should prefer people in their way to any other. They are not the kind of persons to step into my father’s house.”

“Ah, you feel that!” said Farrel, with an expression of relief.

“Of course I must feel that,” said Miss Susan, with that fervor of truth which is the most able and successful means of giving credence to a lie; “but what has my preference to do with it? I don’t know if they told you, poor old people, that the son they were mourning had left a young widow?—a very important fact.”

“Yes, I know it. But what of that?”

“What of that? You ask me so, you a married man with children of your own! It is very unpleasant for a lady to speak of such matters, especially before a young man like Everard; but of course I cannot shrink from performing my promise. This young widow, who is quite overwhelmed by her loss, is—in short, there is a baby expected. There now, you know the whole.”

It was honestly unpleasant to Miss Susan, though she was a very mature, and indeed, old woman, to speak to the men of this, so much had the bloom of maidenhood, that indefinable fragrance of youthfulness which some unwedded people carry to the utmost extremity of old age, lingered in her. Her cheek colored, her eyes fell; nature came in again to lend an appearance of perfect verity to all she said, and, so complicated are our human emotions, that, at the moment, it was in reality this shy hesitation, so natural yet so absurd at her years, and not any consciousness of her guilt, which was uppermost in her mind. She cast down her eyes for the moment, and a sudden color came to her face; then she looked up again, facing Farrel, who in the trouble of his mind, repeating the words after her, had risen from his seat.

“Yes,” she said, “of course you will perceive that in these circumstances they cannot compromise themselves, but must wait the event. It may be a girl, of course,” Miss Susan added, steadily, “as likely as not; and in that case I suppose your bargain stands. We must all”—and here her feelings got the better of her, and she drew along shivering breath of excitement—“await the event.”

With this she turned to Everard, making a hasty movement of her hands and head as if glad to throw off an unpleasing subject. “It is some time since I have seen you,” she said. “I am surprised that you should have taken so much interest in this news as to come expressly to hear it: when you had no other motive—”

How glad she was to get rid of a little of her pent-up feelings by this assault.

“I had another motive,” said the young man, taken by surprise, and somewhat aggrieved as well; “I heard Herbert was better—getting well. I heartily hope it is true.”

“You heartily hope it is true? Yes, yes, I believe you do, Everard, I believe you do!” said Miss Susan, melting all of a sudden. She put up her handkerchief to her eyes to dry the tears which belonged to her excitement as much as the irritation. “As for getting well, there are no miracles nowadays, and I don’t hope it, though Augustine does, and my poor little Reine does, God help her. No, no, I cannot hope for that; but better he certainly is—for the moment. They have been able to get him out again, and the doctor says—Stop, I have Reine’s letter in my pocket; I will read you what the doctor says.”

All this time Farrel-Austin, now bolt upright on the chair which he had resumed after receiving the thunderbolt, sat glooming with his eyes fixed on air, and his mind transfixed with this tremendous arrow. He gnawed his under lip, out of which the blood had gone, and clenched his hands furtively, with a secret wish to attack some one, but a consciousness that he could do nothing, which was terrible to him. He never for a moment doubted the truth of the intimation he had just received, but took it as gospel, doubting Miss Susan no more than he doubted the law, or any other absolutely certain thing. A righteous person has thus an immense advantage over all false and frivolous people in doing wrong as well as in other things. The man never doubted her. He did not care much for a lie himself, and would perhaps have shrunk from few deceits to secure Whiteladies for himself; but he no more suspected her than he suspected Heaven itself. He sat like one stunned, and gnawed his lip and devoured his heart in sharp disappointment, mortification, and pain. He did not know what to say or do in this sudden downfall from the security in which he had boasted himself, but sat hearing dully what the other two said, without caring to make out what it was. As for Miss Susan, she watched him narrowly, holding her breath, though she did nothing to betray her scrutiny. She had expected doubt, questioning, cross-examination; and he said nothing. In her guilty consciousness she could not realize that this man whom she despised and disliked could have faith in her, and watched him stealthily, wondering when he would break out into accusations and blasphemies. She was almost as wretched as he was, sitting there so calmly opposite to him, making conversation for Everard, and wondering, Was it possible he could believe her? Would he go off at once to find out? Would her accomplices stand fast? Her heart beat wildly in her sober bosom, when, feeling herself for the first time in the power of another, she sat and asked herself what was going to happen, and what Farrel-Austin could mean?