Constance Morton was leaning on the rail that divided the gardens at Northmoor from the park, which was still rough and heathery. Of all the Morton family, perhaps she was the one who had the most profited by the three years that had passed since her uncle’s accession to the title. She had been at a good boarding-house, attending the High School in Colbeam, and spending Saturday and Sunday at Northmoor. It had been a happy life, she liked her studies, made friends with her companions, and enjoyed to the very utmost all that Northmoor gave her, in country beauty and liberty, in the kindness of her uncle and aunt, and in the religious training that they were able to give her, satisfying longings of her soul, so that she loved them with all her heart, and felt Northmoor her true home. The holiday time at Westhaven was always a trial. Mrs. Morton had tried Brighton and London, but neither place agreed with Ida: and she found herself a much greater personage in her own world than elsewhere, and besides could not always find tenants for her house. So there she lived at her ease, called by many of her neighbours the Honourable Mrs. Morton, and finding listeners to her alternate accounts of the grandeur of Northmoor, and murmurs at the meanness of its master in only allowing her £300 a year, besides educating her children, and clothing two of them.

Ida considered herself to be quite sufficiently educated, and so she was for the society in which she was, or thought herself, a star, chiefly consisting of the families of the shipowners, coalowners, and the like. She was pretty, with a hectic prettiness of bright eyes and cheeks, and had a following of the young men of the place; and though she always tried to enforce that to receive attentions from a smart young mate, a clerk in an office, a doctor’s assistant, or the like, was a great condescension on her part, she enjoyed them all the more. Learning new songs for their benefit, together with extensive novel reading, were her chief employments, and it was the greater pity because her health was not strong. She dreamt much in a languid way, and had imagination enough to work these tales into her visions of life. Her temper suffered, and Constance found the atmosphere less and less congenial as she grew older and more accustomed to a different life.

She was a gentle, ladylike girl, with her brown hair still on her shoulders, as on that summer Saturday she stood looking along the path, but with her ears listening for sounds from the house, and an anxious expression on her young face. Presently she started at the sound of a gun, which caused a mighty cawing among the rooks in the trees on the slopes, and a circling of the black creatures in the sky. A whistling then was heard, and her brother Herbert came in sight in a few minutes more, a fine tall youth of sixteen, with quite the air and carriage of a gentleman. He had a gun on his shoulder, and carried by the claws the body of a rook with white wings.

‘Oh, Herbert,’ cried Constance in dismay, ‘did you shoot that by mistake?’

‘No; Stanhope would not believe there was such a crittur, and betted half a sov that it was a cram.’

‘But how could you? Our uncle and aunt thought so much of that poor dear Whitewing, and Best was told to take care of it. They will be so vexed.’

‘Nonsense! He’ll come to more honour stuffed than ever he would flying and howling up there. When I’ve shown him to Stanhope, I shall make that old fellow at Colbeam come down handsomely for him. What a row those birds kick up! I’ll send my other barrel among them.’

‘Oh no, don’t, Bertie. Uncle Frank has one of his dreadful headaches to-day.’

‘Seems to me he is made of headaches.’

‘Yes, Aunt Mary is very anxious. Oh, I would have done anything that you had not vexed them now and killed this poor dear pretty thing!’ said Constance, stroking down the glossy feathers of the still warm victim, and laying them against her cheek, almost tearfully.

‘Well, you are not going to tell them. Perhaps they won’t miss it. I would not have done it if Stanhope had not been such a beast,’ said Herbert.

‘I shall not tell them, of course,’ said Constance; ‘but, if I were you, I should not be happy till they knew.’

‘Oh, that’s only girl’s way! I can’t have the old Stick upset now, for I’m in horrid want of tin.’

‘Oh, Bertie, was it true then?’

‘What, you don’t mean that they have heard?’

‘That you were out at those Colbeam races!’

‘To be sure I was, with Stanhope and Hailes and a lot more. We all went except the little kids and Sisson, who is in regular training for as great a muff as the governor there. Who told him?’

‘Mr. Hailes, who is very much concerned about his grandson.’

‘Old sneak; I wonder how he ferreted it out. Is there no end of a jaw coming, Con?’

‘I don’t know. Uncle Frank seemed quite knocked down and wretched over it. He said something about feeling hopeless, and the old blood coming out to be your ruin.’

‘Of course it’s the old blood! How did he miss it, and turn into the intolerable old dry fogey that he is, without a notion of anything fit for a gentleman?’

‘Now, Herbert—’

‘Oh yes. You should just hear what the other fellows say about him. Their mothers and their sisters say there is not so stupid a place in the county, he hasn’t a word to say for himself, and they would just as soon go to Portland at once as to a party here.’

‘Then it is a great shame! I am sure Aunt Mary works hard to make it pleasant for them!’

‘Oh yes, good soul, she does, she can’t help it; but when people have stuck in the mud all their lives, they can’t know any better, and it is abominably hard on a fellow who does, to be under a man who has been an office cad all his life, and doesn’t know what is expected of a gentleman! Screwing us all up like beggars—’

‘Herbert, for shame! for shame! As if he was obliged to do anything at all for us!’

‘Oh, isn’t he? A pretty row my mother would kick up about his ears if he did not, when I must come after him at this place, too!’

‘I think you are very ungrateful,’ said Constance, with tears, ‘when they are so good to us.’

‘Oh, they are as kind as they know how, but they don’t know. That’s the thing, or old Frank would be ashamed to give me such a dirty little allowance. He has only himself to thank if I have to come upon him for more. Found out about the Blackbird colt, has he? What a bore! And tin I must have out of him by hook or by crook if he cuts up ever so rough. I must send off this bird first by the post to confute Stanhope and make him eat dirt, and then see what’s to be done.’

‘Indeed, Bertie, I don’t think you will see him to-night. His head is dreadful, and Aunt Mary has sent for Mr. Trotman.’

‘Whew! You have not got anything worth having, I suppose, Conny?’

‘Only fifteen shillings. I meant it for— But you shall have it, dear Bertie, if it will only save worrying them.’

‘Fifteen bob! Fifteen farthings you might as well offer. No, no, you soft little monkey, I must see what is to be made of him or her ladyship, one or the other, to-day or to-morrow. If they know I have been at the place it is half the battle. Consequence was! Provided they don’t smell out this unlucky piebald! I wish Stanhope hadn’t been such a beast!’

At that moment, too late to avoid her, Lady Northmoor, pale and anxious, came up the path and was upon them. ‘Your uncle is asleep,’ she began, but then, starting, ‘Oh, Conny. Poor Whitewing. Did you find him?’

Constance hung her head and did not speak. Then her aunt saw how it was.

‘Herbert! you must have shot him by mistake; your uncle will be so grieved.’

Herbert was not base enough to let this pass. He muttered, ‘A fellow would not take my word for it, so I had to show him.’

She looked at him very sadly. ‘Oh, Herbert, I did not think you would have made that a reason for vexing your uncle!’

The boy was more than half sorry under those gentle eyes. He muttered something about ‘didn’t think he would care.’

She shook her head, instead of saying that she knew this was not the truth; and unable to bear the sting, he flung away from her, carrying the rook with him, and kicking the pebbles, trying to be angry instead of sorry. And just then came a summons to Lady Northmoor to see the doctor.

Yet Herbert Morton was a better boy than he seemed at that moment; his errors were chiefly caused by understanding noblesse oblige in a different way from his uncle. Moreover, it would have been better for him if his tutor had lived beyond the neighbourhood of Northmoor, where he heard, losing nothing in the telling, the remarks of the other pupils’ mothers upon his uncle and aunt; more especially as it was not generally the highest order of boy that was to be found there. If he had heard what the fathers said, he would have learnt that, though shy and devoid of small talk, and of the art of putting guests together, Lord Northmoor was trusted and esteemed. He might perhaps be too easily talked down; he could not argue, and often gave way to the noisy Squire; but he was certain in due time to see the rights of a question, and he attended thoroughly to the numerous tasks of an active and useful county man, taking all the drudgery that others shirked. While, if by severe stress he were driven to public speaking, he could acquit himself far better than any one had expected. The Bishop and the Chairman of the Quarter Sessions alike set him down on their committees, not only for his rank, but for his industry and steadiness of work. Nor had any one breathed any imputation upon the possession of what used to be known as gentility, before that good word was degraded, to mean something more like what Mrs. Morton aspired to. Lord and Lady Northmoor might not be lively, nor a great accession to society, but the anticipations of either amusement or annoyance from vulgarity or arrogance were entirely disappointed. No one could call them underbred, or anything but an ingrain gentleman and lady, while there were a few who could uphold Lady Northmoor as thoroughly kind, sweet, sensible, and helpful to her utmost in all that was good.

All this, however, was achieved not only unconsciously but with severe labour by a man whose powers could only act slowly, and who was not to the manner born. Conscientiousness is a costly thing, and Strafford’s watchword is not to be adopted for nothing. The balance of duties, the perplexities of managing an impoverished and involved estate, the disappointment of being unable to carry out the responsibilities of a landlord towards neglected cottagers, the incapacity of doing what would have been desirable for the Church, and the worry and harass that his sister-in-law did not spare, all told as his office work had never done, and in spite of quiet, happy hours with his Mary, and her devoted and efficient aid whenever it was possible, a course of disabling neuralgic headaches had set in, and a general derangement of health, which had become alarming, and called for immediate remedy.