Over the hearth of the drawing-room of the Dower House, in the sociable twilight that had descended on the afternoon tea-table, sat three ladies—for Lady Adela and Miss Morton had just welcomed Mrs. Bury, who, though she had her headquarters in London, generally spent her time in visits to her married daughters or expeditions abroad.

Amice had just exhibited her doll, Elmira’s last acquisition, a little chest of drawers, made of matchboxes and buttons, that Constance Morton had taught her to make, and then she had gone off to put the said Elmira and her companions to bed, after giving it as her grave opinion that Lady Northmoor was a great acquisition.

‘Do you think so?’ said Mrs. Bury, after the laugh at the sedate expression.

‘She is very kind to Amice, and I do not think she will do her any harm,’ said Lady Adela.

‘Governessing was her mÉtier,’ added Bertha, ‘so it is not likely.’

‘And how does it turn out?’

‘Oh, it might be a good deal worse. I see no reason for not living on here.’

‘And you, Birdie?’

‘No, I couldn’t! I’ve been burning to get away these seven years, and as Northmoor actually seems capable of taking my boys, my last tie is gone. I’m only afraid he’ll bore them with too much Sabbatarianism and temperance. He is just the cut of the model Sabbath-school teacher, only he vexes Addie’s soul by dashes of the Ritualist.’

‘Well,’ said Mrs. Bury, ‘the excellent Mr. Woodman is capable of improvement.’

‘But how?’ said Lady Adela. ‘Narrow ritualism without knowledge or principle is a thing to be deprecated.’

‘Is it without knowledge or principle?’

‘How should an attorney’s clerk get either?’

‘But I understand you that they are worthy people, and not obnoxious.’

‘Worthy!’ exclaimed Bertha. ‘Yes, worthy to their stiff backbones, worthy to the point of utter dulness; they haven’t got enough vulgarity even to drop their h’s or be any way entertaining. I should like them ever so much better if they ate with their knives and drank out of their saucers, but she can’t even mispronounce a French word worse than most English people.’

‘No pretension even?’

‘Oh no; if there were, one could get some fun out of it. I have heard of bearing honours meekly, but they don’t even do that, they just let them hang on them, like the stick and stock they are. If I were Addie, it would be the deadly liveliness that would drive me away.’

‘Nay,’ said Adela; ‘one grows to be content with mere negations, if they are nothing worse. I could be driven away, or at least find it an effort to remain, if Lady Northmoor were like her sister-in-law.’

‘Ah, now, that’s just what would make it tolerable to me. I could get a rise or two out of that Mrs. Morton. I did get her to be confidential and to tell me how much better the honours would have sat upon her dear husband. I believe she thinks that if he were alive he would have shared them like the Spartan kings. She wishes that “her brother, Lord Northmoor” (you should hear the tone), “were more worldly, and she begs me to impress on him the duty of doing everything for her dear Herbert, who, in the nature of things, must be the heir to the peerage.”‘

‘I am sure I hope not,’ said Lady Adela. ‘He is an insufferable boy. The people about the place can’t endure him. He is quite insolent.’

‘The animal, man, when in certain stages of development, has a peculiar tendency to be unpleasant,’ observed Bertha philosophically. ‘To my mind, Master Herbert is the most promising of the specimens.’

‘Birdie! He is much worse than his uncle.’

‘Promising, I said, not performing. Whatever promise there may have been in Northmoor must have been nipped upon the top of a high stool, but if he has sense enough to put that boy into good hands he may come to something. I like him enough myself to feel half inclined to do what I can towards licking him into shape, for the honour of the family! It is that girl Ida that riles me most.’

‘Yes,’ said Lady Adela, ‘she behaved fairly well in company, but I saw her tittering and whispering with Emily Trotman in a tone that I thought very bad for Emily.’

‘She’s spoilt; her mother worships her,’ said Bertha. ‘I had a pleasing confidence or two about how she is already admired, or, as Mrs. Morton calls it, how the gentlemen are after her; but now she shall not put up with anything but a real gentleman, and of course her uncle will do something handsome for her.’

‘Poor man! I wish him joy. Has he more belongings?’

‘Providentially, no. We have the honour of standing nearest to him, and she seems to have none at all, unless they should be attracted by the scent.’

‘That is not likely,’ said Lady Adela; ‘she was a clergy orphan, and never heard of any relations.’

‘Then you really know no harm of them, in these four or five months?’ said Mrs. Bury.

‘No; except having these relations,’ said Adela.

‘Except being just sensible enough not to afford even the pleasure of laughing at them,’ said Bertha. ‘Nay, just worthy enough’—she said it spitefully—‘not even to give the relief of a good grumble.’

‘Well, I think you may be thankful!’

‘Exactly what one doesn’t want to be!’ said Bertha. ‘I like sensations. Now Letitia is going to come down with a prediction that they are to become the blessings of our lives, so I am off!’

And as the door closed on her, Lady Adela sighed, and Mrs. Bury said—

‘Poor Birdie; is she always in that tone?’

‘Yes,’ said Lady Adela; ‘there seems to be always a bitter spot in her heart. I am glad she should try to work it out.’

‘I suppose living here with her father tended to brooding. Yet she has always done a good deal.’

‘Not up to her powers. Lord Northmoor never ceased to think her a mere girl, and obstructed her a good deal; besides, all his interest being in horses, she never could get rid of the subject, and wounds were continually coming back on us—on her.’

‘On you as well, poor Addie.’

‘He did not understand. Besides, to me these things were not the raw scene they were to her. It has been a very sad time for her. You see, there is not much natural softness in her, and she was driven into roughness and impatience when he worried her over racing details and other things. And then she was hurt at his preferring to have me with him. It has been very good and generous in her not to have been jealous of me.’

‘I think she was glad he could find comfort in you. And you have never heard of Captain Alder?’

‘Never! In justice, and for the sake of dear Arthur’s wishes, I should be glad to explain; but I wonder whether, as she is now, it would be well that they should meet.’

‘If it is so ordained, I suppose they will. What’s that?’

It was Lord and Lady Northmoor, formally announced, and as formally introduced, to Mrs. Bury.

They had come, the lady said, when they were seated, with a message from ‘Old Swan,’ to ask for a bit of my lady’s plaster for his back to ease his rheumatism at night. His daughter was only just come in from work, so they had ventured to bring the message.

‘Is any one coming for it?’

‘I said we would bring it back,’ replied Mary, ‘if you would kindly let us have it.’

‘Why, it is a mile out of your way!’

‘It is moonlight, and we do so enjoy a walk together,’ she answered.

‘Well, Adela,’ said Mrs. Bury, when they were gone with the roll of plaster, ‘I agree that they might be worse—and by a great deal!’

‘Did he speak all the time?’

‘Yes, once. But there are worse faults than silence; and she seems a bonny little woman. Honeymooning still—that moonlight walk too.’

‘I can fancy that it is a treat to escape from Mrs. Morton. She is depths below them in refinement!’

‘On the whole, I think you may be thankful, Adela.’

‘I hope I am. I believe you would soon be intimate with them; but then you always could get on with all sorts of people, and I have a shrinking from getting under the surface—if I could.’

And indeed, further intercourse, though not without shocks and casualties, made Mary Northmoor wish that Letitia Bury had been the permanent inhabitant; above all, when she undertook to come and give her counsel and support for that first tremendous undertaking—the dinner-party. Lady Kenton was equally helpful at their next; and Sir Edward gave much good advice to his lordship as to not letting himself be made the tool of the loud-voiced squire, who was anxious to be his guide, philosopher, and friend in county business—advice that made Frank’s heart sink, for thus far he felt only capable of sitting still and listening.