A prettier place than Deoffam Hall could not well be conceived. "For its size," carping people would add. Well, it was not so large as Windsor Castle; but it was no smaller than the bishop's palace at Helstonleigh—if it has been your good fortune to see that renowned edifice. Deoffam Hall was a white, moderate-sized, modern villa, rising in the midst of charming grounds; grassy lawns smooth as velvet, winding rivulets, groves of trees affording shelter on a summer's day. On the terrace before the windows a stately peacock was fond of spreading its plumes, and in the small park—it was only a small one—the deer rubbed their antlers on the fine old trees. The deer and the peacock were the especial pets of Henry Ashley. Deoffam itself was an insignificant village; a few gentlemen's houses and a good many cottages comprised it. It was pleasantly and conveniently situated; within a walk of Helstonleigh for those who liked walking, or within a short drive. But, desirable as it was as a residence, Henry Ashley was rather addicted to grumbling at it. He would often wish himself back in his old home.

One lovely morning in early summer, when they were assembled together discussing plans for the day, he suddenly broke into one of his grumbling humours. "You bought Deoffam for me, sir," he was beginning, "but——"

"I bought it for myself and your mother," interposed Mr. Ashley.

"Of course. But to descend to me afterwards—you know what I mean. I have made up my mind, when that time shall come, to send gratitude to the winds, and sell it. Stuck out here, alone with the peacock, you and the mother gone, I should——I don't like to outrage your feelings by saying what I might do."

"There's Mary," said Mrs. Ashley.

"Mary! I expect she'll have gone into fresh quarters by that time. She has only stopped here so long out of politeness to me."

Mary lifted her eyes, a smile and a glow on her bright face. A lovely picture, she, in her delicate summer muslin dress.

"I tell every one she is devoted to me," went on Henry, in his quaint fashion. "'Very strange that handsome girl, Mary Ashley, does not get married!' cries Helstonleigh. Mary, my dear, I know your vanity is already as great as it can be, so I don't fear to increase it. 'My sister get married!' I say to them. 'Not she; she has resolved to make a noble sacrifice of herself for my sake, and live at home with me, a vestal virgin, and see to the puddings.'"

The smile left Mary's face—the glow remained. "I do wish you would not talk nonsense, Henry! As if Helstonleigh troubled itself to make remarks upon me. It is not so rude as you are."

"Just hark at her!" returned Henry. "Helstonleigh not trouble itself to make remarks! When you know the town was up in arms when you refused Sir Harry Marr, and sent him packing. Such an honour had never fallen to its luck before—that one of its fair citizens, born and bred, should have the chance of becoming a real live My Lady."

Mary was cutting a pencil at the moment, and broke the point off. "Papa," cried she, turning her hot face to his, "can't you make Henry talk sense?—if he must talk at all."

Mrs. Ashley interposed. It was quite true that Mary had had, as Henry phrased it, a chance of becoming a "real live My Lady"; and there lurked in Mrs. Ashley's heart a shadow of grievance, of disappointment, that she should have refused the honour. She spoke rather sharply, taking Henry's part, not Mary's.

"Henry is talking nothing but sense. My opinion is that you behaved quite rudely to Sir Harry. It is an offer you will not have again, Mary. Still," added Mrs. Ashley, subduing her tone a little, "it is no business of Helstonleigh's; neither do I see whence the town could have derived its knowledge."

"As if any news could be stirring, good or bad, that Helstonleigh does not ferret its way to!" returned Henry.

"My belief is that Henry went and told," retorted Mary.

"I! what next?" cried Henry. "As if I should tell of the graceless doings of my sister; it is bad enough to lie under the weighty knowledge one's self."

"And as if I should ever consent to marry Sir Harry Marr!" returned Mary, with a touch of her brother's spirit.

"Mary," said Mr. Ashley, quietly, "you seemed to slip out of that business, and of all questioning over it, as smoothly as an eel. I never came to the bottom of it. What was your objection to Sir Harry?"

"Objection, papa?" she faltered, with a crimsoned face. "I—I did not care for him."

"Oh, that was it, was it?" returned Mr. Ashley.

"Is it always to go on so, my dear?" asked her mother.

Poor Mary was in sad confusion, scarcely knowing whether to burst into anger or into tears. "What do you mean, mamma? How 'go on'?"

"This rejection of every one. You have had three good offers——"

"Not counting the venture of Cyril Dare," put in Henry.

"And you say 'No' to all," concluded Mrs. Ashley. "I fear you must be very fastidious."

"And she's growing into an old maid, and——"

"Be quiet, Henry. Can't you leave me in peace?"

"My dear, it is true," cried Henry, who was in one of his teasing moods. "Of course I have not kept count of your age since you were eighteen—it wouldn't be polite to do so; but my private conviction is that you are four-and-twenty this blessed summer."

"If I were four-and-thirty," answered Mary, "I wouldn't marry Sir Harry Marr. I am not obliged to marry, I suppose, am I?"

"My dear, no one said you were," said Henry, flinging a rose at her, which he took from his button-hole. "But don't you see that this brings round my argument, that you have resolved to make yourself a noble sisterly sacrifice, and stop at home with me? Don't you take to cats yet, though!"

Mary thought she was getting the worst of it, and left the room. Soon afterwards Mrs. Ashley was called out by a servant.

"Did you receive a note from William this morning, sir?" asked Henry.

"Yes," replied Mr. Ashley, taking it from his pocket. "He mentions in it that there is a report in the town that Herbert Dare is dead."

"Herbert Dare! I wonder if it's true?"

"It is to be hoped not. I fear he was not very fit to die. I am going into Helstonleigh, and shall probably hear more."

"Oh! are you going in to-day, sir? Despatch William back, will you?"

"I don't know, Henry. They may be busy at the manufactory. If so, I am sure he will not leave it."

"What a blessing if that manufactory were up in the clouds!" was Henry's rejoinder. "When I want William particularly, it is sure to be—that manufactory!"

"It is well William does not think as you do," remarked Mr. Ashley.

"Well, sir, he must certainly think Samuel Lynn a nonentity, or he would not stick himself so closely to business. You never applied yourself in such a way."

"Yes, I did. But you must please to remember, Master Henry, that the cases are not on a parallel. I was head and chief of all, accountable to none. Had I chosen to take a twelvemonth's holiday, and let the business go, it would have been my own affair exclusively. Whether the business went right, or whether it went wrong, I was accountable to none. William is not in that position."

"I know he is often in the position of not being to be had when he is wanted," was Henry's reply, as he listlessly turned over some books that lay on the table.

"Will you go into town with me?"

"I could not stand it to-day. My hip is giving me twinges."

"Is it? I had better bring back Parry."

"No. I won't have him, unless I find there's actual need. The mother knows what to do with me. I don't suppose it will come to anything; and I have been so much better of late."

"Yes, you have. Although you quarrel with Deoffam, it is the change to it—the air of the place—that has renewed your health, you ungrateful boy!"

Mr. Ashley's eyes were bent lovingly on Henry's as he said it. Henry seized his father's hands, his half-mocking tone exchanged for one of earnestness.

"Not ungrateful, sir—far from it. I know the value of my dear father: that a kinder or a better one son could not possess. I shall grumble on to my life's end. It is my amusement. But the grumbling is from my lips only: not from my fractious spirit, as it was in days gone by."

"I have remarked that: remarked it with deep thankfulness. You have acquired a victory over that fractious spirit."

"For which the chief thanks are due to William Halliburton. Sir, it is so. But for him, most probably I should have gone, a discontented wretch, to the—let me be poetical for once—silent tomb: never seeking out either the light or the love that may be found in this world."

Mr. Ashley glanced at his son. He saw that he was contending with emotion, although he had reassumed his bantering tone.

"Henry, what light—what love?"

"The light and the love that a man may take into his own spirit. He—William—told me, years ago, that I might make even my life a pleasant and a useful one; and measureless was the ridicule I gave him for it. But I have found that he was right. When William came to the house one night, a humble errand-boy, sent by Samuel Lynn with a note—do you remember it, sir?—and offered to help me, dunce that I was, with my Latin exercise—a help I graciously condescended to accept—we little thought what a blessing had entered the dwelling."

"We little thought what a brave, honest, indomitable spirit was enshrined in the humble errand-boy," continued Mr. Ashley.

"He has got on as he deserved. He will be a worthy successor to you, sir: a second Thomas Ashley; a far better one than I should ever have been, had I possessed the rudest health. There's only one thing more for William to gain, and then I expect he will be at rest."

"What's that?"

"Oh, it's no concern of mine, sir. If folks can't manage for themselves, they need not come to me to help them."

Mr. Ashley looked keenly at his son. Henry passed to another topic.

"Do send him here, sir, when you get in; or else drive him back with you."

"I shall see," said Mr. Ashley. "Do you know where your mother went to?"

"After some domestic catastrophe, I expect. Martha came to the door, with a face as green as the peacock's tail, and beckoned her out. The best dinner-service come to grief, perhaps."

Mr. Ashley rang, and ordered the pony-carriage to be got ready: one bought chiefly for Henry, that he might drive into town. Before he started, he came across Mary, who stood at one of the corridor windows upstairs, and had evidently been crying.

"What is your grief, Mary?"

She turned to the sheltering arm open to her, and tried to choke the tears down, which were again rising. "I wish you and mamma would not keep so angry at my refusing Sir Harry Marr."

"Who told you I was angry, Mary?"

"Oh, papa, I fancied so this morning. Mamma is angry about it, and it pains me. It is as though you wanted me gone."

"My dear child! Gone! For our comfort I should wish you might never go, Mary. But for your own, it may be different."

"I do not wish to go," she sobbed. "I want to stay at home always. It was not my fault, papa, if I could not like Sir Harry."

"You should never, with my consent, marry any one you did not like, Mary; not if it were the greatest match in the three kingdoms. Why this distress, my dear? Mamma's vexation will blow over. She hoped—as Henry tells us—to see you converted into a 'real live My Lady.' 'My daughter, Lady Marr!' It will blow over, child."

Mary cried in silence. "And you will not let me be driven away, papa? You will keep me at home always?"

Mr. Ashley shook his head. "Always is a long day, Mary. Some one may be coming, less distasteful than Sir Harry Marr, who will induce you to leave it."

"No, never!" cried she, somewhat more vehemently than the case seemed to warrant. "Should any one be asking you for me, you can tell them 'No,' at once; do not trouble to bring the news to me."

"Any one, Mary?"

"Yes, papa, no matter who. Do not drive me away from you."

He stooped and kissed her. She stood at the window still, in a dreamy attitude, and watched the carriage drive off with Mr. Ashley. Presently Henry passed.

"Has the master gone, do you know, Mary?"

"Five minutes ago."

"I hope and trust he'll send back William."

It was striking half-past two when Mr. Ashley entered the manufactory. Samuel Lynn was in his own room, sorting gloves; William was in the counting house, seated at his desk. His, now; formerly Mr. Ashley's; the very desk from which the cheque had disappeared; but William took a more active part in the general management than Mr. Ashley had ever done. He rose, shook hands with the master, and placed a chair for him. The "master" still he was called; indeed, he actually was so; William, "Mr. Halliburton."

A short time given to business details, and then Mr. Ashley referred to the report of Herbert Dare's death. Poor Herbert Dare had never returned from abroad, and it was to be feared he had been getting lower and lower in the scale of society. Under happier auspices, and with different training, Herbert might have made a happier and a better man. Helstonleigh did not know how he lived abroad, or why he stayed there. Possibly the free and easy continental life had become necessary to him. Homburg, Baden-Baden, Wiesbaden, wherever there were gaming-tables, there might be found Herbert Dare. That he must find a living at them in some way seemed pretty evident. It was a great pity.

"How did you hear that he was dead?" inquired Mr. Ashley.

"From Richard Winthorne," replied William. "I met him yesterday evening in Guild Street, and he told me a report had come over that Herbert Dare had died of fever."

As William spoke, a gentleman entered the room, and interrupted them; a Captain Chambers. "Have you heard that Herbert Dare's dead?" was his first greeting.

"Is it certain?" asked Mr. Ashley.

"I don't know. Report says it is certain; but report is not always to be believed. How that family has gone down!" continued Captain Chambers. "Anthony first; now Herbert; and Cyril will be next. He will go out of the world in some discreditable way. A wretched scamp! Shocking habits! Old Dare, too, unless I am mistaken, is on his last legs."

"Is he ill?" inquired Mr. Ashley.

"No; no worse than usual; but I never saw a man so broken. I alluded to the legs of prosperity. Talk about reports, though," and Captain Chambers suddenly wheeled round on William, "there's one going the round of the town to-day about you."

"What's that?" asked William. "Not that I am dead, I suppose, or on my last legs?"

"Something better. That you are going to marry Sophy Glenn."

William looked all amazement, an amused smile stealing over his lips. "Well, I never!" uttered he, using a phrase just then in vogue in Helstonleigh. "What has put that into the town's head?"

"You should best know that," said Captain Chambers. "Did you not, for one thing, beau Miss Sophy to a concert last night? Come, Master William! guilty or not guilty?"

"Guilty of the beauing," answered William. "I called on the Glenns yesterday evening, and found them starting for the concert; so I accompanied them. I did give my arm to Sophy."

"And whispered the sweet words, 'Will you be my charming wife?'"

"No, that I did not," said William, laughing. "And I dare say I shall never whisper them to any woman yet born: if it will give Helstonleigh satisfaction to know so much."

"You might go farther and fare worse, than in taking Sophy Glenn, I can tell you that, Master William," returned Captain Chambers. "Remember, she is the lucky one of three sisters, and had the benignant godmother. Sophy Glenn counts five thousand pounds to her fortune."

When Captain Chambers took his departure, Mr. Ashley looked at William. "I have heard Henry joke you about the Glenn girls—nice little girls they are too! Is there anything in it, William?"

"Sir! How can you ask such a thing?"

"I think, with Chambers, that a man might do worse than marry Sophy Glenn."

"So do I, sir. But I shall not be the man."

"Well, I think it is time you contemplated something of the sort. You will soon be thirty years of age."

"Yes, sir, but I do not intend to marry."

"Why not?" asked Mr. Ashley.

"Because—I fear my wishes would lead me to soar too high. That is, I—I—mean——" He stopped; and seemed to be falling into inextricable confusion. A notable thing for the self-possessed William Halliburton.

"Do you mean that you have an attachment in some quarter?" resumed Mr. Ashley.

William's face turned fiery red. "I cannot deny it, sir," he answered, after considerable hesitation.

"And that she is above your reach?"

"Yes."

"In what manner? In position?—or by any insurmountable obstacle? I suppose she is not some one else's wife?"

William smiled. "Oh, no. In position."

"Shall I give you my opinion, William, without knowing the case in detail?"

William was standing at one corner of the mantel-piece, his arm leaning on its narrow shelf. He did not lift his eyes. "Yes, sir, if you please."

"Then I think there is scarcely any marriageable girl in the county, to whom you might not aspire, and in time win."

"Oh, Mr. Ashley!"

"Is it the daughter of the lord-lieutenant?"

William laughed.

"Is it the bishop's daughter?"

William shook his head. "She seems to be quite as far removed from me."

"Come, I must know. Who is it?"

"It is impossible that I can tell you, sir."

"I must know. I don't think I have ever asked you in vain, since the time when, a boy, you confessed your thoughts about the found shilling. Secrets from me! I will know, William!"

William did not answer. The upper part of his face was concealed by his hand; but Mr. Ashley marked the sweet smile that played around his mouth.

"Come, I will help you. Is it the charming Dobbs?"

Amused, he took his hand from his face. "Well, sir—no."

"It cannot be Charlotte East; because she is married."

William seemed as impervious as ever. The master suddenly laid his hand upon his shoulder, and confronted him face to face.

"Is it Mary Ashley?"

The burning flush of scarlet that dyed his face, even to the very roots of his hair, told Mr. Ashley the truth, far more effectually than words could have done. There ensued a pause. Mr. Ashley was the first to break it.

"How long have you loved her?"

"For years. That has been the wild dream of my aspirations: one that I knew would never be realized," he answered, suffering his eyes to meet for a moment Mr. Ashley's.

"Have you spoken to her of it?"

"Never."

"Or led her to believe you loved her?"

"No, sir. Unless my looks and tones may have betrayed me. I fear they have; but it was not intentionally done."

"Honest in this, as in all else," thought Mr. Ashley. "What am I to say to you?" he asked aloud.

"I do not know," sighed William. "I expect, of course, sir, that you will forbid me Deoffam Hall: but I can still meet Henry at the house in town. I hope you will forgive me!" he added in an impassioned tone. "I could not help loving her. Before I knew what my new feelings meant, love had come. Such love! Had I been in a position to marry her, I would have made her life one dream of happiness! When I awoke to it all——"

"What awoke you?" was the interruption.

"I think it was Cyril Dare's asking for her. I debated with myself then, whether I ought to give up going to your house; but I came to the conclusion that, so long as I was able to hide my feelings from her, I need not banish myself. My judgment was wrong, I know; but the temptation to see her occasionally was great, and I did not resist it."

"And so you continued to go, feeding the flame?"

"Yes. Feeding it passionately and hopelessly; never forgetting that the pain of separation must come!"

"Did you hear of Sir Harry Marr's offer?"

"Yes, I heard of it."

William swept his hand across his face as he spoke. It wore a wrung expression. Mr. Ashley changed his tone.

"William, I cannot decide this matter, one way or the other. You must ask Mary to do that!"

"Sir!"

"If Mary chooses to favour you more than she does other suitors, I will not forbid her doing it. Only this very day she begged me, with tears, to keep all such troublesome customers away from her; to refuse them of my own accord. But it strikes me that you may as well have an answer from herself!"

William, his whole soul in his eyes, was gazing at Mr. Ashley. He could not tell whether he might believe what he heard; whether he was awake or dreaming.

"Did I deliver you a message from Henry?"

"No, sir," was the abstracted response.

"He wants you to go over to him. I said I would send you if you were not busy. He is not very well to-day."

"But—Mr. Ashley—did you mean what you said?"

"Should I have said it had I not meant it?" was the quiet answer. "Have you a difficulty in believing it?"

The ingenuous light rose to William's eyes, as he raised them to his master's. "I have no money," he whispered. "I cannot settle a farthing upon her."

"You have something better than money, William—worth. And I can make settlements. Go and hear what Mary says. You will catch the half-past three o'clock coach, if you make haste."

William went out, believing still that he must be in a trance. His deeply buried dream of the long past years: was it about, indeed, to become reality?

But in the midst of it he could not help casting a thought to a less pleasing subject—the Dares. Herbert was young to die; he was, no doubt, unprepared to die; and William sincerely hoped that the report would prove untrue. The Dares were going down sadly in the social scale; Cyril especially. He was just what Captain Chambers had called him—a scamp. After leaving Mr. Ashley's, he had entered his father's office; as a temporary thing, it was said; but he had never left it for anything else. A great deal of his time was passed in public-houses. George, whose commission never came, had gone out, some two or three years ago, to Sydney. His sister Julia and her husband had settled there, and they had found an opening for George. William walked on, thinking of the Dares' position and of his own.