CHAPTER I.

AT EAGLES' NEST.

In a luxurious chamber at Eagles' Nest, where the carpet was soft as moss to the tread, and the hangings were of silk, and the toilette ornaments were rich and fragile, sat Edina Raynor. Her elbow rested on the arm of the chair, her thoughtful face was bent on her hand, her eyes were taking in the general aspect of the room and its costly appurtenances.

It was autumn weather now, and Edina had come on a short visit to Eagles' Nest. She had wished to put off the visit until the following spring, but had yielded to persuasion. One or other of them at Eagles' Nest was perpetually writing to her; and at last Dr. Raynor added his word to theirs. "There is no reason why you should not go, Edina," he said. "Hatman and I get on famously together, you know; and I am better than I was." And so Edina had made the long journey; and--here she was.

Not yet had she been two days at Eagles' Nest; but in that short time she had found much to grieve her. Grieved she was, and full of anxiety. Every one of the family, from her uncle Francis and Mrs. Raynor downwards, had greatly changed. From the simple, unaffected people they had once been, they had transformed themselves into great personages with airs and assumptions. That was not the worst. That might have been left to find its own level in time: they would no doubt have returned to common sense. What pained Edina was the rate at which they lived. Carriages, horses, servants; dinners, dressing, gaiety. Where could it all end? Had the revenues of Eagles' Nest been twice what they were, the major would still have been spending more than his income. It was this that troubled Edina.

And something else troubled her. The _tone_ of their mind seemed to be changing: not so much that of Major and Mrs. Raynor, as of the children. Speaking, of course, chiefly of the elder ones. Formerly they were warm-hearted, unassuming, full of sympathy for others. Now all thought seemed to be swallowed up in self; those who wanted help, whether in word or kind, might go where they would for it: selfishness reigned supreme. A latent dread was making itself heard in Edina's heart, that they were being spoiled by sudden prosperity. As many others have been.

The first day she arrived, dinner was served at seven o'clock; a very elaborate one. Soup, fish, entrées, meats, sweets: all quite à la mode. Edina was vexed: she thought this had been done for her: but she was much more vexed when she found it was their daily style of living. To her, with the frugal notions implanted in her by her father's early straits, with her naturally simple tastes, and her conscientious judging of what was right and wrong, this profusion seemed sinful waste. And--they were all so grand! The faded cottons and washed-out muslins, had of course been discarded, but they had given place to costly gossamer fabrics and to silks that rustled in their richness. They were now just as much over-dressed as formerly they were the opposite. Alice had already put off black for her aunt Atkinson, and was in very slight mourning indeed: in lilac or white hues, with black or grey ribbons. With it all, they were acquiring a hard, indifferent tone, as though the world's changes and sorrows could never again concern them.

"All this looks new," mused Edina, referring to the appurtenances of the room. "I don't fancy Aunt Ann had anything so modern: she liked old-fashioned furniture. With all these expenses, Uncle Francis will soon be in greater embarrassment than he ever was at Spring Lawn. And it is bad for Charley. Very bad. It will give him all sorts of extravagant ideas and habits."

As if to escape her thoughts, she rose and stood at the window, looking forth on the landscape. It was very beautiful. There were hills near and far off, a wide extent of wood and snatches of gleaming water, green meadows, and a field or two of yellow corn that had ripened late. The leaves on the trees were already beginning to put on their autumn tints. On the lawn were many beds of bright flowers. Under a tree sat the major, sipping a champagne-cup, of which he was fond. Beyond, three young people were playing at croquet: Charles, Alice, and William Stane; the latter a son of Sir Philip Stane, who lived near them. Through one of the bare fields, where the corn had been already reaped and gathered, walked Mademoiselle Delrue, the French governess, and little Kate. Alfred was at school. Robert was generally with his nurse. Mademoiselle, a finished pianist, superintended Alice's music and read French with her; also took Robert for French: otherwise her duties all lay with Kate. It was, of course, well to have a resident French governess and to pay her sixty guineas a-year if they could afford it: but, altogether, one might have supposed Major Raynor had dropped into an income of five or six thousand a-year, instead of only two thousand.

A shout and a laugh from the croquet lawn caused Edina to look towards the players. The game was at an end. At the same moment Alice saw Edina. She threw down her mallet, and ran upstairs.

"Why don't you come out, Edina? It is a lovely afternoon."

"I came up for my work, dear, and stayed thinking," replied Edina, drawing Alice to her side and keeping her arm round her.

"What were you thinking about?"

"Of many things. Chiefly about you and Charley. You both seem so changed."

"Do we?"

"And not for the better."

Alice laughed. She was nearly eighteen now, and very pretty. Her head was lifted with a conscious air: she played with one of the lilac bows on her white dress.

"I know what you mean, Edina: you heard mamma telling me this morning that I was growing vain."

"No, I did not hear her." But Edina said no more just then.

"Is Mr. Stane often here?" she asked, presently.

"Oh--yes--pretty often," replied Alice with a vivid blush. "He and Charles are good friends. And--and he lives near us, you know."

The blush and the hesitation seemed to hint at a story Edina had not yet glanced at. She had but been wondering whether this young Stane was a desirable companion for Charles: one likely to encourage him in idleness and extravagance, or to turn his ideas towards better things.

"Mr. Stane is older than Charley, Alice."

"Several years older. He is a barrister, and lives at his chambers in the Temple. Just now he is down here a great deal on account of his father's illness."

"Are they rich people?"

"No, I think not. Not very rich. Of course Sir Philip has plenty of money, and he has retired from practice. He used to be a lawyer in the City of London, and was knighted for something or other."

"Is William Stane the only son?"

"He is the second son. The eldest has the law business in the City; and there are two others. One is in the army."

"I like his look," mused Edina, gazing down at the young man, who was now talking to Major Raynor. "And--I think I like his manners. His countenance has pride in it, though."

Pride it certainly had: but it was a pleasant countenance for all that. William Stane was about middle height, with a somewhat rugged, honest, intelligent face, and an earnest manner. His eyes and hair were dark.

"Won't you come down, Edina?"

Edina turned at the appeal, and took up some work that lay on the table. "I was getting short of pocket-handkerchiefs," she said, in reference to it, "so I bought half-a-dozen new ones before I left home, and am now hemming them."

Alice shrugged her pretty shoulders. "Let one of the maids hem them for you, Edina. The idea of your troubling yourself with plain work!"

"The idea of my _not_ troubling myself!" returned Edina. "Was life made only for play, Alice, think you? At Spring Lawn hemming handkerchiefs was looked upon as a pastime, compared with the heavier work there was to do."

"Oh, but those days have all passed," said Alice, somewhat resentfully, not at all pleased at having them recalled.

"Yes; and you have all changed with them. By the way, Alice, I was thinking what a beautiful room this is. Is not the furniture new?"

"All of it," replied Alice. "It was quite dingy when we came here; and papa and mamma thought that, as it was to be the state-room for visitors, they would have it done up properly."

Edina sighed. "It is very nice; very; too good for me. I am not used to such a room."

She sat down near Major Raynor under the weeping elm, and went on with her work. Charles, Alice, and young Stane began another game of the everlasting croquet. The major looked on and sipped his champagne-cup, the very image of intense satisfaction. Though he must have known that he was living at a most unjustifiable rate, and that it must again bring upon him the old enemy, debt, he looked as free from thought and care as any one can look in this world. Ay, and felt so, too. Not long yet had he been at this delightful place, Eagles' Nest; the time might be counted by weeks; but he had already flourished upon it. He had been stout enough before, but he was stouter now. The lost bonds or vouchers for the supposed accumulated savings left by Mrs. Atkinson, were depended upon by the major as a certain resource for any little extra expenses not justified by his present means. The bonds had not turned up yet, but he never doubted their coming to light some fine day. Hope, that most precious of our gifts, deceitful though it sometimes proves, was always buoyantly active in Major Raynor.

It was on this very subject of the lost bonds that Edina began to speak. The conversation was led up to. She had scarcely sat down, when a servant came from the house and approached his master, saying that "Tubbs" had come again, and particularly wished his little account settled, if quite convenient to the major, as he had a payment to make up.

"But it's not convenient," was the major's reply. "Tell Tubbs to come again next week."

"Is it any matter of a few shillings or so?" asked Edina, looking up, really thinking it might be so, and that the major did not care to trouble himself to go indoors for the money. "I have my purse in my pocket, Uncle Francis, and----"

"Bless you, my dear, it's a matter of fifteen or twenty pounds," interrupted the major, complacently watching his servant, who was carrying away the message. "For new harness and saddles and things. Tubbs is a saddler in the village, and we thought we would give him a turn. Your aunt Ann employed the tradespeople of the neighbourhood, and we think it right to do the same."

"Perhaps he wants his money, Uncle Francis?"

"No doubt of it, my dear. I'll pay him when I can. But as to ready-money, I seem to be shorter of it than ever. All the spare cash that came to me at your aunt Ann's death has run away in a wonderful manner. Sometimes I set myself to consider what it can have gone in; but I might as well try to count the leaves on that walnut-tree."

"I am very sorry," said Edina. "And you are living at so much expense!"

"Oh, it will be all right when the bonds turn up," cried the major, cheerfully. "Street says, you know, there must be at least fifteen or twenty thousand pounds somewhere."

"But he is not sure that there are any bonds to turn up, Uncle Francis. He does not _know_ that the money exists still. Aunt Ann may have speculated and lost it."

"Now, my dear, is that likely?" cried the major. "Ann was never a speculating woman. And, if she had lost the money in any way, she would have been sure to say so. Street tells me she gave him all sorts of injunctions during the last year for the proper keeping-up of this estate, involving no end of cost; she wouldn't have done that if there hadn't been a substantial accumulation to draw upon."

"And do you keep it up well, uncle?"

"Why, how can I, Edina? I've no means to do it with."

"But are the revenues of the estate not sufficient to keep it up?"

"Well, they would be; but then you see I have so many expenses upon me."

Edina did quite two inches of her hemming before speaking again. The course they had embarked upon at Eagles' Nest seemed to be a wrong one altogether: but she felt that it was not her place to take her uncle to task.

"I'm sure I hope the money will be found, Uncle Francis."

"So do I, my dear, and soon too. It shall be better for you when it is. Why Ann should have left my brother Hugh and you unmentioned in her will, I cannot tell; but it was very unjust of her, and I will make it up to you, Edina, in a small way. Frank is to have three thousand pounds when the money turns up, and you shall have the same."

Edina smiled. She thought the promise very safe and very hopeless: though she knew the good-hearted speaker meant what he said.

"Thank you all the same, Uncle Francis, but I do not want any of the money; and I am sure you will have ways and means for every shilling of it, however much it may prove to be. How long does Frank mean to remain abroad?"

"Well, I conclude he is waiting for the money to turn up," said the major.

"Is it wise of him to stay so long, do you think?"

"I'm sure I don't know. When he receives the money he will return to London and settle down."

And so they chatted on. Mrs. Raynor, who had been lying down with a headache, came out and joined them. The afternoon wore on, and croquet came to an end. Mr. Stane approached to say good-bye.

"Won't you stay dinner?" asked the major.

"I should like to very much indeed, but I must go home," replied the young man: and once more, as Edina watched the sincere face and heard the earnest tone, she decided that she liked him. "My father particularly desired me to be at home to dinner: he was feeling less well again."

"Then you must stay with us next time," spoke the hospitable major. And Mr. Stane shook hands all round, leaving Alice to the last, and being somewhat longer over it with her than he need have been.

His departure was the signal for a general break-up. Major and Mrs. Raynor went indoors, Charles strolled across the lawn with William Stane. Edina retained her place and went on with her work. Charles soon came back again, and sat down by her.

"What a pity you don't play croquet, Edina! The last game was a good one."

"If I had all my time on my hands as you have, Charley, and nothing to do with it, I might perhaps take up croquet. I can't tell."

"I know what that tone means, Edina. You want to find fault with me for idleness."

"I could find fault with you for a good many things, Charles. The idleness is not the worst of it."

"What is the worst?" asked Charles, amused.

"You have so changed in these few weeks that I ask myself whether you can be the same single-minded, simple-hearted young people who lived at Spring Lawn. I speak of you and Alice, Charley."

"Circumstances have changed," returned Charles. "Alice"--for the girl at that moment came up to them--"Edina's saying we have so changed since leaving Bath that she wonders whether we are ourselves or not. How have we changed, pray, Edina?"

"Your minds and manners are changing," coolly spoke Edina, beginning to turn down the hem on the other side of the handkerchief. "Do you know what sort of people you put me in mind of now?"

"No. What?"

"Of nouveaux riches."

"For shame, Edina!"

"You do. And I think the world must judge you as I judge. You are haughty, purse-proud, indifferent."

"Go on," said Charley. "I like to hear the worst."

Edina did go on. "_You_ are the worst, Charles. You seem to think the world was made for you alone. When that poor man came yesterday, a cottager, asking for some favour or assistance, or complaining of some hardship--I did not quite catch the words--you just flung him off as though he were not of the same species of created being as yourself. Have you a bad heart, Charles?"

Charles laughed. "I think I have a very good heart--as hearts go. The man is troublesome. His name's Beck. He has been here three times, and wants I don't know what done to his wretched cottage; says Mrs. Atkinson promised it. My father can't afford to listen to these complaints, Edina: and if he did it for one, he must do it for all. The fact is, Aunt Ann did so much for the wretches that she spoilt them."

"But you might have spoken kindly to the man. Civilly, at any rate."

"Oh, bother!" cried Charley: who was much of a boy still in manner. "Only think of all those years of poverty, Edina: we ought to enjoy ourselves now. Why, we had to look at a shilling before we spent it. And did not often get one to spend."

"But, Charley, you think _only_ of enjoyment. Nothing is thought of at Eagles' Nest but the pleasure and gratification of the present hour, day by day, as the days come round."

"Well, I shall have enough work to do by-and-by, Edina. I go to Oxford after the long vacation."

"And you go without any preparation for it," said Edina.

"Preparation! Why, I am well up in classics," cried Charley, staring at Edina.

"I was not thinking of classics. You have had no experience, Charles; you are like a child in the ways of the world."

"I tell you, Edina, I am a very fair scholar. What else do you want at Oxford? You don't want experience there."

"Well for you, Charley, if it shall prove so," was Edina's answer, as she folded her work to go indoors; for the evening was drawing on, and the air felt chilly. Changed they all were, more than she could express. They saw with one set of eyes, she with another.

"What a tiresome thing Edina is getting!" exclaimed Alice to her brother, as Edina disappeared.

"A regular croaker."

"A confirmed old maid."

The only one who could not be said to have much changed, was Mrs. Raynor. She was gentle, meek, simple-mannered as ever: but even she was drawn into the vortex of visiting and gaiety, of show and expense, of parade and ceremony that had set in. She seemed to have no leisure to give to anything else. This day was the only quiet day Eagles' Nest had during Edina's visit. Mrs. Raynor, with her yielding will, could not help herself altogether. But Edina was grieved to see that she neglected the religious training of her young children. Even the hearing of their evening prayers was given over to the governess.

"Mademoiselle Delrue is a Protestant," said Mrs. Raynor; when, on this same evening, Edina ventured to speak a word upon the subject, as Kate and Robert said good-night and left the drawing-room.

"I know she is," said Edina. "But none but a mother should, in these vital matters, train her children. You always used to do it, Mary."

"If you only knew how fully my time and thoughts are occupied!" returned Mrs. Raynor, in a tone of great deprecation. "We live in a whirl here: and it is rather too much for me. And, to tell you the truth, Edina, I sometimes wonder whether the old life, with all its straitened means, was not the happier; whether we have in all respects improved matters, in coming to Eagles' Nest."