suppose so, but she was so awfully quiet there was no knowing.’
‘Poor thing!’ observed Lady Kenton, in a tone of commiseration.
‘I think Morton told me that she was a clergy-orphan,’ said Mr. Burford, ‘and considered her as rather above him, for his father was a ruined farmer and horse-breeder, and I only took him into my office out of respect for his mother, though I never had a better bargain in my life. Of course, however, this unlucky engagement cannot stand.’
‘Indeed!’ said the Baronet drily. ‘Would you have him begin his career with an act of baseness?’
‘No—no, Sir Edward, I did not mean—’ said Mr. Burford, rather abashed; ‘but the lady might be worked on to resign her pretensions, since persistence might not be for the happiness of either party; and he really ought to marry a lady of fortune, say his cousin, Miss Morton, for I understand that the Northmoor property was never considerable. The late Mr. Morton was very extravagant, and there are heavy burthens on the estate, by the settlement on his widow, Lady Adela, and on the late Lord’s daughter. Miss Lang tells me likewise that Miss Marshall is full of doubts and scruples, and is almost persuaded that it is incumbent on her to drop the engagement at any cost to herself. She is very conscientious!’
‘Poor thing!’ sighed more than one voice.
‘It is a serious question,’ continued the solicitor, ‘and I own that I think it would be better for both if she were induced to release him.’
‘Has she no relations of her own?’
‘None that I ever heard of. She has always spent her holidays at Miss Lang’s.’
‘Well, Mr. Burford,’ exclaimed Freda, ‘I think you are frightfully cruel to my poor little Creep-mouse.’
‘Nay, Freda,’ said her mother; ‘all that Mr. Burford is considering is whether it would be for the happiness or welfare of either to be raised to a position for which she is not prepared.’
‘I thought you were on her side, mother.’
‘There are no sides, Freda,’ said her father reprovingly. ‘The whole must rest with the persons chiefly concerned, and no one ought to interfere or influence them in either direction.’ Having thus rebuked Mr. Burford quite as much as his daughter, he added, ‘Where is Lord Northmoor now?’
‘He wrote to me from Northmoor after the funeral, Sir Edward, saying that he would return on Saturday. Of course, though three months’ notice would be due, I should not expect it, as I told him at first; but he assures me that he will not leave me till my arrangements for supplying his place are complete, and he will assist me as usual.’
‘It is very proper of him,’ said Sir Edward.
‘It will be awkward in some ways,’ said Mr. Burford. ‘Yet I do not know what I could otherwise have done, he had become so necessary to me.’
‘Stick or no stick,’ was the family comment of the Kentons, ‘there must be something in the man, if only his head is not turned.’
‘Which,’ observed Sir Edward, ‘is not possible to a stick with a real head, but only too easy to a sham one.’
CHAPTER IV
HONOURS WANING
‘And who is the man?’ So asked a lady in deep mourning of another still more becraped, as they sat together in the darkened room of a Northmoor house on the day before the funeral.
The speaker had her bonnet by her side, and showed a kindly, clever, middle-aged face. She was Mrs. Bury, a widow, niece of the late Lord; the other was his daughter, Bertha Morton, a few years younger. She was not tearful, but had dark rings round her eyes, and looked haggard and worn.
‘The man? I never heard of him till this terrible loss of poor little Mikey.’
‘Then did he put in a claim?’
‘Oh no, but Hailes knew about him, and so, indeed, did my father. It seems that three generations ago there was a son who followed the instincts of our race further than usual, and married a jockey’s daughter, or something of that sort. He was set up in a horse-breeding farm and cut the connection; but it seems that there was always a sort of communication of family events, so that Hailes knew exactly where to look for an heir.’
‘Not a jockey!’
‘Oh no, nothing so diverting. That would be fun!’ Bertha said, with a laugh that had no merriment in it. ‘He is a clerk—an attorney’s clerk! What do you think of that, Lettice?’
‘Better than the jockey.’
‘Oh, very respectable, they say’—with a sound of disgust.
‘Is he young?’
‘No; caught early, something might be done with him, but there’s not that hope. He is not much less than forty. Fancy a creature that has pettifogged, as an underling too, all his life.’
‘Married?’
‘Thank goodness, no, and all the mammas in London and in the country will be running after him. Not that he will be any great catch, for of course he has nothing—and the poor place will be brought to a low ebb.’
‘And what do you mean to do, Birdie?’
‘Get out of sight of it all as fast as possible! Forget that horses ever existed except as means of locomotion,’ and Bertha got up and walked towards the window as if restless with pain, then came back.
‘I shall get rid of all I can—and come to live as near as I can to Whitechapel, and slum! I’m free now.’ Then looking at her cousin’s sorrowful, wistful face, ‘Work, work, work, that’s all that’s good for me. Soberly, Lettice, this is my plan,’ she added, sitting down again. ‘I know how it all is left. This new man is to have enough to go on upon, so as not to be too beggarly and bring the title into contempt. He is only coming for to-morrow, having to wind up his business; but I shall stay on till he comes back, and settle what to do with the things here. Adela and I have our choice of them, and don’t want to leave the place too bare. Then I shall sell the London house, and all the rest of the encumbrances, and set up for myself.’
‘Not with Adela?’
‘Oh no; Adela means to stick by the old place, and I couldn’t do that for a constancy—oh no,’ with a shudder.
‘Does she?’ in some wonder.
‘Her own people don’t want her. The Arlingtons are with her now, but I fancy she would rather be sitting with us—or alone best of all, poor dear. You see, she is a mixture of the angel that is too much for some people. How she got it I don’t know, not among us, I should think, though she came to us straight out of the schoolroom, or I fancy she would never have come at all. But oh, Lettice, if you could have seen her how patient she has been throughout with my father, reading him all about every race, just because she thought it was less gall and wormwood to her than to me, and going out to the stables to satisfy him about his dear Night Hawk, and all the rest of it. When she was away for that fortnight over poor little Michael, I found to the full what she had been, and then after that, back she comes again, as white as a sheet, but all she ever was to my father, and more wonderful than all, setting
