else are in the finest possible order. I am so pleased that I thought of giving a dinner to the tenants; it could be no annoyance to you, and it would be a nice little act of attention, after being absent so long."
The duchess quite agreed with the project. It would be a compliment to them, and a pleasure to herself, she said.
The duke smiled to think what an amiable wife he had.
"To all your tenants, papa?" said Lady Estelle, in her graceful, languid way.
"Yes, all of them – rich and poor; but then there are no poor."
She smiled.
"I shall see Mark Brace," she said. "I was just telling mamma that I felt some interest in that child we saw. I should like to know how she has turned out."
The duke's face lighted up.
"That pretty little girl," he said; "the one over whom there was a mystery. I had forgotten her, and the story too. I should like to see her. What wonderful hair she had. I must tell Mark Brace to bring her over."
"Mark Brace is a sensible man," the duchess hastened to observe; "I am sure he will understand. She was a vain child then – she will be even vainer now. No one knows what nonsensical ideas will fill her mind if she thinks she has been invited here; you might do her a great harm by such indiscretion. Tell him to bring her over if he likes; but tell him at the same time, it will be as well for him not to mention it – he is sensible enough to understand."
"I see – you are quite right, my dear – it shall be just as you say."
And Lady Estelle hastened to add:
"You are wise, mamma. I feel some curiosity over her. I have a vague recollection of a brilliant, beautiful child, who seemed very much out of place in that quiet farm-house. But it is so long ago."
Looking at his daughter, the duke hardly realized how long it was – she did not look one year older; perhaps the delicate state of her health had preserved her face from all marks of time. The calm, high-bred features were unruffled as ever; there was not one line on the fair brow, nor round the calm, serene lips; the fair hair was abundant and shining as ever; the light of the proud, brilliant eyes was undimmed. Time, indeed, seemed to have stood still for Lady Estelle Hereford. It might be that she had escaped the wear and tear of emotion, so had had nothing to mar the calm serenity of her life or her features. She went back to her post at the window, and stood once more looking out over the trees. She remained silent, dreamy, abstracted, while the duke and duchess discussed their affairs, their tenants, friends, and neighbors.
"Estelle," said the duke, at length, "are you going to drive to-day?"
"No, papa, I think not; I do not care to go."
The duke and duchess exchanged glances.
"My dear Estelle," said the duke, gravely, "I wish that you did feel interested in going out or in anything else. We were in great hopes, your mother and I, that when you returned you would show a little more animation, a little more interest in the world around you – more capacity for enjoyment. Could you not throw off that languor, and be bright, animated, and happy?"
She smiled, and if that smile concealed any pain, no one knew it.
"I am happy, papa," she said; "but my languor is, I suppose, part of myself – I should not know how to throw it off. I suppose the right thing to do when you propose a walk or a drive, on this lovely May morning, would be to blush – to glow and dimple. I am really sorry that I am so fashioned by nature as to find anything of the kind impossible."
The duke rose from his seat and went to his daughter. He placed his arm round the stately figure.
"Do you think that I am scolding you, Estelle?" he said. "I shall never do that. Nor could I be more proud of you than I am. It is only for your own sake that I speak to you, and because I long to see you happy. I should like to see you married, Estelle, and to hold my grandchildren in my arms before I die."
She started, the calm face grew a shade paler, then she clasped her arms round his neck.
"I am so happy with you and mamma," she replied, "I do not want any other love."
The next minute she had quitted the room.
The duchess looked at her husband with a smile.
"It is useless," she said. "Estelle is like no other woman in the world. I do not think she is capable of love; I do not think the man is born who could win from her a kindly smile, a warm word, or a loving look. She loves us; no one else. I have watched her year after year, and feel sure of it."
"It is strange, too," said the duke, "for the Herefords are not a cold-hearted race. And do you really think that she will never marry?"
"I feel sure of it. I do not think she will ever like any one well enough. There is variety in all creation. We must not be surprised to find it in ladies."
The day fixed for the tenants' dinner came round, and among the others Mark Brace arrived at the Castle in a state of great glory. There had been great excitement at Brackenside when the invitation reached there, and Mark, with considerable difficulty, had mastered it.
"You are to dine at the Castle," said Doris, with that quickness which seemed to take everything in at one glance. "Then, for once in your life, you must have a suit of clothes that pretend to fit you. Yours always look as though you had found them by accident, and had met with considerable difficulty in the way of putting them on."
Mark laughed, but Patty took up the cudgels for her husband.
"I am sure your father always looks nice, Doris."
"Why, mother, how can you judge?"
"It is not the coat that makes the man," said Patty.
Doris laughed.
"You are all brimful of good sentiments, but you are quite wrong; broadcloth makes its way where fustian is trampled under foot. I know all about the genuine stamp, a man's being a man for all that; but it is great nonsense. You believe me, father, there is much in having good clothes – the habit makes the monk."
They looked at her in wonder, as they generally did when she talked above them.
"Have some good clothes," Doris continued. "You have no idea how much the other tenants will respect you if you are well dressed and show a good gold chain."
Mark laughed. The cynicism of Doris always amused him.
Here he saw some glimmer of sense in what she said; so Mark went to Quainton, an adjacent town, and ordered a suit of the finest broadcloth. Great was the excitement when it came home, and the honest farmer stood arrayed in all his glory. He looked very delighted, but stiff and uncomfortable; his arms seemed longer than ever, his hands redder and more awkward; still he tried to do honor to his new estate by carrying it off boldly. To his wife he confided that he should not always like being a gentleman, to be dressed so tightly; and Mark's wife flung her loving arms round his neck.
"You are a gentleman," she said; "one of nature's very own."
The whole family stood by the gate to see Mark drive off. Doris had placed a white rose in his buttonhole; his wife and daughter watched him with pride and exultation in their hearts, while Doris thought to herself that, after all, even a broadcloth suit could not make what she called a gentleman.
"I
