Herbert began to be impressed when, on the train arriving at a little country station, a servant in mourning, with finger to his hat, inquired after his Lordship’s luggage, and another was seen presiding over a coroneted brougham.

‘I say,’ he breathed forth, when they were shut in, ‘is this yours?’

‘It is Miss Morton’s, I believe, at present. I am to arrange whether to keep it or not.’

They were driving over an open heath in its summer carpet-like state of purple heather, dwarf gorse, and bracken. Lord Northmoor looked out, with thoughtfulness in his face. By and by there was a gate, a lodge, a curtseying woman, and as they passed it, he said, ‘Now, this is Northmoor.’

‘Yours, uncle?’

‘Yes.’

‘My—!’ was all Herbert could utter. It semed to his town-bred eyes a huge space before they reached, through some rather scanty plantations, another lodge, and a park, not very extensive, but with a few fine trees, and they thundered up beneath the pillars to what was, to his idea, a palace—with servants standing about in a great hall.

His uncle would have turned one way, but a servant said, ‘Miss Morton is in the morning-room, my Lord,’ and ushered them into a room where a lady in black came forward.

‘You did not expect to find me here still,’ she said cordially; ‘but Adela is gone to her brother’s, and I thought I had better stay for the division of—of the things.’

‘Oh, certainly—I am—glad,’ he stammered, with a blush as one not quite sure of the correctness of the proceeding. ‘I wouldn’t have intruded—’

‘Bosh! I’m the intruder. Letitia Bury is gone—alas—but,’ said she, laughing, ‘Hailes is here—staying,’ she added to relieve him and to lessen the confusion that amused her, ‘and I see you have a companion. Your nephew—?’

‘Yes, Herbert, my late brother’s son. I would not have brought him if I had known.’

‘A cousin,’ she said, smiling, and shaking hands with him. ‘Boys are my delight. This is quite a new experience.’

Herbert looked up surprised, not much liking to become an experience. He had had less intercourse with ladies than many boys of humbler pretensions, for his mother had always scouted the idea of sending her children to a Sunday-school, and she was neither like his mother’s friends nor his preconceived notions. ‘There! for want of an introduction, I must introduce myself. Your cousin Bertha, or Birdie, whichever you like best.’

Frank was by no means prepared to say even Bertha, and was in agonies lest Herbert should presume on the liberty given him; but if the boy had been in the palace of Truth, he would have said, ‘You old girl, you are awfully old to call yourself Birdie!’ For Birdie had been a pet name of Rose Rollstone; and Bertha Morton, though slim and curly-headed, had a worn look about her eyes, and a countenance such as to show her five-and-thirty years, and to the eyes of fourteen was almost antediluvian; indeed, older observers might detect a worn, haggard, strained look. He was somewhat disgusted, too, at the thin rolls of bread-and-butter on the low table, whence she proceeded to hand teacups, as he thought of the substantial meals at home. When they had been conducted to their rooms, and his uncle followed to his, he broke out with his perpetual, ‘I say, uncle, is this all the grub great swells have? I’m awfully peckish!’

‘That’s early tea, my boy,’ was the answer, with a smile. ‘There’s dinner to come, and I hope you will behave yourself well, and not use such expressions.’

‘Dinner! that’s not such a bad hearing, but I suppose one must eat it like a judge?’

‘Certainly; I am afraid I am not a very good model, but don’t you do anything you don’t see me do. And, Herbert, don’t take wine every time the servants offer it.’

At which Herbert made a face.

‘Have you got any evening shoes? No! If I had only known that the lady was here! It can’t be helped to-day, only wash your face and hands well; there’s some hot water.’

‘Why, they ain’t dirty,’ said the boy, surveying them as one to whom the remains of a journey were mere trifles, then, with a sigh, ‘It’s no end of a place, but you swells have a lot of bores, and no mistake!’

Upstairs Herbert roamed about studying with great curiosity the appliances of the first bedchamber he had ever beheld beyond the degree of his mother’s ‘first floor,’ but downstairs, he was in the mood of the savage, too proud to show wonder or admiration or the sense of awe with which he was inspired by being waited on by the very marrow of Mr. Rollstone, always such grand company at home. This daunted him far more than the presence of the lady, and though his was a spirit not easily daunted, he almost blushed when that personage peremptorily resisted his endeavour to present the wrong glass for champagne, which fortunately he disliked too much at the first taste to make another attempt. Lord Northmoor, for the first time at the foot of his own table, was on thorns all the time, lest he should see his nephew commit some indiscretion, and left most of the conversation to Miss Morton and Mr. Hailes, the solicitor, a fine-looking old gentleman, who was almost fatherly to her, very civil to him, but who cast somewhat critical eyes on the cub who might have to be licked into a shape befitting the heir.

They tried to keep their host in the conversation, but without much success, though he listened as it drifted into immediate interests and affairs of the neighbourhood, and made response, as best he could, to the explanations which, like well-bred people, they from time to time directed to him. He thus learnt that Lady Adela with her little Amice had been carried off ‘by main force,’ Bertha said, ‘by her brother. But she will come back again,’ she added. ‘She is devoted to the place and her graves—and the poor people.’

‘I do not know what they would do without her,’ said Mr. Hailes.

‘No. She is lady-of-all-work and Pro-parsoness—with all her might’; then seeing, or thinking she saw, a puzzled look, she added, ‘I don’t know if you discovered, Northmoor, that our Vicar, Mr. Woodman, has no wife, and Adela has supplied the lack to the parish, having a soul for country poor, whereas they are too tame for me. I care about my neighbours, of course, after a sort, but the jolly city sparrows of the slums for me! I long to be away.’

What to say to this Lord Northmoor knew as little as did his nephew, and with some difficulty he managed to utter, ‘Are not they very uncivilised?’

‘That’s the beauty of it,’ said Bertha; ‘I’ve spotted my own special preserve of match-girls, newsboys, etc., and Mr. Hailes is going to help me to get a scrumptious little house, whence I can get to it by underground rail. Oh, you may shake your head, Mr. Hailes, but if you will not help me, I shall set my unassisted genius to work, and you’ll only suffer agonies in thinking of the muddle I may be making.’

‘What does Lady Adela say?’ asked Mr. Hailes.

‘She thinks me old enough to take care of myself, whatever you do, Mr. Hailes; besides, she knows I can come up to breathe! I long for it!’

The dinner ended by Bertha rising, and proposing to Herbert to come with her. It was not too dark, she said, to look out into the Park and see the rabbits scudding about.

‘Ah!’ said Mr. Hailes, shaking his head as they went, ‘the rabbits ought not to be so near, but there has been sad neglect since poor Mr. Morton’s death.’

It was much easier to get on in a tÊte-À-tÊte, and before long Mr. Hailes had heard some of the perplexities about Herbert, the foremost of which was how to make him presentable for ladies’ society in the evening. If Miss Morton’s presence had been anticipated, either his uncle would not have brought him, or would have fitted him out beforehand, for though he looked fit for the fields and woods in male company, evening costume had not yet dawned on his imagination. Mr. Hailes recommended sending him in the morning to the town at Colbeam, under charge of the butler, Prowse—who would rather enjoy the commission, and was quite capable of keeping up any needed authority. For the future training, the more important matter on which he was next consulted, Mr. Hailes mentioned the name of a private tutor, who was likely to be able to deal with the boy better under present circumstances than a public school could do—since at Herbert’s age, his ignorance of the classics on the one hand, and of gentlemanly habits on the other, would tell too much against him.

‘But,’ said Mr. Hailes, ‘Miss Morton will be a very good adviser to you on that head.’

‘She is very good-natured to him,’ said Frank.

‘No one living has a better heart than Miss Morton,’ said Mr. Hailes heartily; ‘a little eccentric, owing to—to circumstances. She has had her troubles, poor dear; but she has as good a heart as ever was, as you will find, my Lord, in all arrangements with her.’

Nevertheless, Lord Northmoor’s feelings towards her might be startled the next morning, when he descended to the dining-room. A screen cut off the door, and as he was coming round it, followed by his nephew, Bertha’s clear voice was heard saying, ‘Yes, he is inoffensive, but he is a stick. There’s no denying it, Mr. Hailes, he is a dreadful stick.’

Frank was too far advanced to retire, before the meaning dawned on him, partly through a little explosion of Herbert behind him, and partly from the guilty consternation and colour with which the other two turned round from the erection of plants among which they were standing.

Yet it was the shy man who spoke first in the predicament, like a timid creature driven to bay.

‘Yes, Miss Morton, I know it is too true; no one is more sensible of it than myself. I can only hope to do my best, such as it is.’

‘Oh, Northmoor, it was very horrid and unguarded in me, and I can only be sorry and beg your pardon,’ and while she laughed and held out her hand, there was a dew in her eyes.

‘Truths do not need pardon,’ he said, as he gave a cousinly grasp, ‘and I think you will try kindly to excuse my deficiencies and disadvantages.’

There was a certain dignity in his tone, and Bertha said heartily—

‘Thank you. It is all right in essentials, and chatter is of very little consequence. Now come and have some breakfast.’

They got on together far better after that, and began to feel like relations, before Herbert was sent off with Mr. Prowse to Colbeam. Indeed, throughout the transactions that followed, Bertha showed herself far less devoted to her own interests than to what might be called the honour of the family. Her father’s will had been made in haste, after the death of his little grandson, and was as concise as possible, her influence having told upon it. Knowing that the new heir would have nothing to begin with, and aware that if he inherited merely the title, house, and land, he would be in great straits, the old Lord had bequeathed to him nearly what would have been left to the grandson, a fair proportion of the money in the funds and bank, and all the furniture and appurtenances of Northmoor House, excepting such articles as Bertha and Lady Adela might select, each up to a certain value.

Lady Adela’s had been few, and already chosen, and Bertha’s were manifestly only matters of personal belonging, and not up altogether to the amount named; so as to avoid stripping the place, which, at the best, was only splendid in utterly unaccustomed eyes. Horses and carriages had to be bought of her, and it was she who told him what was absolutely necessary, and fixed the price as low as she could, so as not to make them a gift. And he was not so ignorant in this matter as she had expected—for the old habits of his boyhood served him, he could ride well, and his scruples at Miss Morton’s estimate proved that he knew a horse when he saw it—as she said. She would, perhaps, have liked him better if he had been a dissipated horsey man like his father. He would have given her sensations—and on his side, considering the reputation of the family, he was surprised at her eager, almost passionate desire to be rid of the valuable horses and equipages as soon as possible.

When, in the afternoon, she went out of doors to refresh herself with a solitary ramble in the Park after her morning of business, she heard an altercation, and presently encountered a keeper, dragging after him a trespasser, in whom, to her amazement, she recognised Herbert Morton, at the same moment as he exclaimed: ‘Cousin Bertha! Miss— Look at this impudent fellow, though I told him I was Lord Northmoor’s own nephew.’

‘And I told him, ma’am,’ said the keeper, touching his hat, ‘that if he was ten nephews I wouldn’t have him throwing stones at my pheasants, nor his Lordship wouldn’t neither, and then he sauced me, and I said I would see what his Lordship said to that.’

‘You must excuse him this time, Best,’ said Miss Morton; ‘he is a town-bred boy, and knows no better, and you had better not worry his Lordship about it.’

‘Very well, Miss Morton, if it is your pleasure, but them pheasants are my province, and I must do my dooty.’

‘Of course, quite right, Best,’ she answered; ‘but my cousin here did not understand, and you must make allowance for him.’

Best touched his hat again, and went off with an undercurrent of growl.

‘Oh, Herbert, this is a pity!’ Miss Morton exclaimed.

‘Cheeky chap!’ said Herbert sulkily. ‘What business had he to meddle with me? A great big wild bird gets up with no end of a row, and I did nothing but shy a stone, and out comes this fellow at me in a regular wax, and didn’t care half a farthing when I told him who I was. I fancy he did not believe me.’

‘I don’t wonder,’ said Bertha; ‘you have yet to learn that in the eyes of any gentleman, nothing is much more sacred than a pheasant.’

‘I never meant to hurt the thing, only one just chucks a stone,’ muttered Herbert, abashed, but still defensive and offended. ‘I thought my uncle would teach the rascal how to speak to me.’

‘I’ll tell you what, Herbert, if you take that line with good old servants, who are only doing their duty, you won’t have a happy time of it here. I suppose you wish to take your place as a gentleman. Well, the greatest sign of a gentleman is to be courteous and well-behaved to all about him.’

‘He wasn’t courteous or well-behaved to me.’

‘No, because you did not show yourself such a gentleman as he has been used to. If you acted like a tramp or a poacher, no wonder he thought you one’; then, after a pause, ‘You will find that much of your pleasure in sport depends on the keepers, and that it would be a great disadvantage to be on bad terms with them, so I strongly advise you, on every account, to treat them with civility, and put out of your head that there is any dignity in being rude.’

Herbert liked Miss Morton, and had been impressed as well as kindly treated by her, and though he sulked now, there was an after-effect.