said Helbeck. "Certainly. I will see that something is found for you."
But his voice had no cordiality, and Laura at once thought him ungracious.
"Oh, pray don't give yourself any trouble," she said, flushing, "I can walk to the village."
Helbeck paused.
"If you could wait till to-morrow," he said after a moment, "I could promise you the pony. Unfortunately he is busy this afternoon."
"Oh, do wait, Laura!" cried Augustina. "There is so much unpacking to do."
"Very well," said the girl unwillingly.
As she turned away from him Helbeck's look followed her. She was in a dress of black serge, which followed the delicate girlish frame with perfect simplicity, and was relieved at the neck and wrists with the plainest of white collars and cuffs. But there was something so brilliant in the hair, so fawnlike in the carriage of the head, that she seemed to Helbeck to be all elegance; had he been asked to describe her, he would have said she was in grande toilette. Little as he spoke to her, he found himself perpetually conscious of her. Her evident—childishly evident—dislike of her new surroundings half amused, half embarrassed him. He did not know what topic to start with her; soon, perhaps, he might have a difficulty in keeping the peace! It was all very absurd.
After luncheon they gathered in the hall for a while, Father Bowles talking eagerly with Helbeck and Augustina about "orphans" and "new buildings." Laura stood apart awhile—then went for her hat.
When she reappeared, in walking dress—with Fricka at her heels—Helbeck opened the heavy outer door for her.
"May I have Bruno?" she said.
Helbeck turned and whistled.
"You are not afraid?" he said, smiling, and looking at Fricka.
"Oh, dear no! I spent an hour this morning introducing them."
At that moment Bruno came bounding up. He looked from his master to Laura in her hat, and seemed to hesitate. Then, as she descended the steps, he sprang after her. Laura began to run; the two dogs leapt about her; her light voice, checking or caressing, came back to Helbeck on the spring wind. He watched her and her companions so long as they were in sight—the golden hair among the trees, the dancing steps of the girl, the answering frolic of the dogs.
Then he turned back to his sister, his grave mouth twitching.
"How thankful she is to get rid of us!"
He laughed out. The priest laughed, too, more softly.
"It was the first time, I presume, that Miss Fountain had ever been within a Catholic church?" he said to Augustina.
Augustina flushed.
"Of course it is the first time. Oh! Alan, you can't think how strange it is to her."
She looked rather piteously at her brother.
"So I perceive," he said. "You told me something, but I had not realised——"
"You see, Alan—" cried Augustina, watching her brother's face—"it was with the greatest difficulty that her mother got Stephen to consent even to her being baptized. He opposed it for a long time."
Father Bowles murmured something under his breath.
Helbeck paused for a moment, then said:
"What was her mother like?"
"Everyone at Cambridge used to say she was 'a sweet woman'—but—but Stephen—well, you know, Alan, Stephen always had his way! I always wonder she managed to persuade him about the baptism."
She coloured still more deeply as she spoke, and her nervous infirmity became more pronounced. Alas! it was not only with the first wife that Stephen had had his way! Her own marriage had begun to seem to her a mere sinful connection. Poor soul—poor Augustina!
Her brother must have divined something of what was passing in her mind, for he looked down upon her with a peculiar gentleness.
"People are perhaps more ready to talk of that responsibility than to take it," he said kindly. "But, Augustina—" his voice changed—"how pretty she is!—You hardly prepared me——"
Father Bowles modestly cast down his eyes. These were not questions that concerned him. But Helbeck went on, speaking with decision, and looking at his sister:
"I confess—her great attractiveness makes me a little anxious—about the connection with the Masons. Have you ever seen any of them, Augustina?"
No—Augustina had seen none of them. She believed Stephen had particularly disliked the mother, the widow of his cousin, who now owned the farm jointly with her son.
"Well, no," said Helbeck dryly, "I don't suppose he and she would have had much in common."
"Isn't she a dreadful Protestant—Alan?"
"Oh, she's just a specimen of the ordinary English Bible-worship run mad," he said, carelessly. "She is a strange woman, very well known about here. And there's a foolish parson living near them, up in the hills, who makes her worse. But it's the son I'm thinking of."
"Why, Alan—isn't he respectable?"
"Not particularly. He's a splendid athletic fellow—doing his best to make himself a blackguard, I'm afraid. I've come across him once or twice, as it happens. He's not a desirable cousin for Miss Fountain—that I can vouch for! And unluckily," he smiled, "Miss Fountain won't hear any good of this house at Browhead Farm."
Even Augustina drew herself up proudly.
"My dear Alan, what does it matter what that sort of people think?"
He shook his head.
"It's a queer business. They were mixed up with young Williams."
Augustina started.
"Mrs. Mason was a great friend of his mother, who died. They hate me like poison. However——"
The priest interposed.
"Mrs. Mason is a very violent, a most unseemly woman," he said, in his mincing voice. "And the father—the old man—who is now dead, was concerned in the rioting near the bridge——"
"When Alan was struck? Mrs. Denton told me! How abominable!"
Augustina raised her hands in mingled reprobation and distress.
Helbeck looked annoyed.
"That doesn't matter one brass farthing," he said, in some haste. "Father Bowles was much worse treated than I on that occasion. But you see the whole thing is unlucky—it makes it difficult to give Miss Fountain the hints one would like to give her."
He threw himself down beside his sister, talking to her in low tones. Father Bowles took up the local paper.
Presently Augustina broke out—with another wringing of the hands.
"Don't
