Part 2

The explanation came after a description of luncheon in the great hall, which had greatly impressed the writer, with its high timbered roof, oriel window, and carved gallery. Mr. Wilbraham, the tutor, had been added to the company, and was presented as a middle-aged figure, with a somewhat discontented expression of face, but a gift of ready speech which made the meal lively and interesting. He and the two ladies seemed to be on the most excellent terms, and the way in which Lady Brent deferred to the tutor, not treating him in the least as a dependent, but as a valued member of the family circle, had struck the Vicar-elect of Royd most agreeably. "This is a woman," he wrote, "with brains above the ordinary, who takes pleasure in exercising them. Though living a retired life, far from the centres of human intercourse, she takes a lively interest in what is going on in the world. Politics were discussed over the luncheon-table, and I found her views coincided remarkably with my own, and together we gave, I think, a very good account of ourselves in argument with Wilbraham, who professes to be something of a Radical, though I noticed that he ate a very good lunch, and is evidently not averse to sharing in the good things of the class he affects to deride. It was all, however, very good-humoured, and when the talk veered round to books, I found that these good people knew really more about the latest publications than I did myself. Wilbraham is a great reader. He acts as librarian, as well as tutor to Harry, and seems to have _carte blanche_ to order anything down from London that he likes. I imagine that he recommends books to Lady Brent, and she reads a great deal too--not only fiction, but biographies, books of travel, and even stiff works on such subjects as Philosophy.

"Of course I kept very quiet about my own humble productions, as I have never professed to be a scholar, and aim rather at touching the universal human mind, with stories that shall entertain but never degrade, and should not expect to be considered very highly, or perhaps even have been heard of by people of this calibre, though there are many of equal intelligence among my readers. I must confess, however, that I was gratified when Mrs. Brent, who had not taken much part in the conversation, said: 'I have read all your books, Mr. Grant, and think they are lovely. So touching!'

"This is the sort of compliment that I value. It is to the _simple_ mind that I make my appeal, and Mrs. Brent is quite evidently of a lower class of intelligence than those about her. I think I detected some deprecation in the glance that she threw at her mother-in-law immediately after she had expressed herself with this simple, and evidently _felt_ enthusiasm. Perhaps her opinions on literary subjects are not considered very highly, but Lady Brent would be far too well-bred and courteous to snub her. She said at once, very kindly: 'The Bishop told us that you were a novelist, Mr. Grant. Mr. Wilbraham was about to send for your books, but we found that my daughter-in-law had them already. I have not had time more than to dip into one of them, but I promise myself much pleasure from them when I have a little more time.' Wilbraham saved me from the necessity of finding an answer by breaking in at once: 'I don't intend to read a single one of them, either now or hereafter. Let that be plainly understood.' Everybody laughed at this, and it was said in such a way that I felt no offence. This man is evidently something of a character, and I should say had made himself felt in this household of women. The boy likes him too. I could see that by the way they addressed one another. They are more like friends than master and pupil.

"Well, I felt that I had sized up Lady Brent, Wilbraham and young Harry pretty well by the end of the meal, and the conversation that went with it. I have a knack of doing so with people I meet, and find that upon closer acquaintance I have seldom been wrong in my first impressions. Mrs. Brent puzzled me a little more. Was she entirely happy? I thought not, though there was nothing very definite to go upon. If not, it could not be the fault of any of the three other members of the household. She evidently adores her boy, for her face lights up whenever she looks at him, and he treats her with an affection and consideration that are very pleasant to see. Lady Brent treats her in much the same way, and is evidently a woman of much kindness of heart, for Mrs. Brent, as I have already said, is not up to her level, and living in constant companionship with her might be expected to grate a little on the nerves of a lady of her sort. Wilbraham would not be likely to hide any contempt that he might feel for some one of less intelligence than himself. He might not show it openly to the mother of his pupil, but I should certainly have noticed it if it had been there. But he behaved beautifully to her, and smiled when he spoke to her as if he really liked her, and found pleasure in anything that she said. And she seemed grateful, and smiled at him in return. They are in fact a very happy little party, these curiously assorted people who live so much to themselves. And yet, as I said above, the one member of it did not strike me as being entirely happy, and I could not help wondering why.

"Wilbraham enlightened me, as we smoked together after lunch, walking up and down a broad garden path under the April sunshine. 'What do you think of Mrs. Brent?' he asked me, with a side-long whimsical glance that is very characteristic of the man.

"I was a little put out by the suddenness of the question, but took advantage of it to be equally direct and to ask my question. 'Is there anything to make her unhappy?'

"He laughed at that. 'I see you have your eyes open,' he said. 'I suppose it's the novelist's trick. Any questions to ask about the rest of us?'

"'You haven't answered my first one yet,' I replied, and he laughed again, and said: 'Did you ever hear of Lottie Lansdowne?'

"The name seemed vaguely familiar to me, but he said, without waiting for my reply: 'I don't suppose you ever did, but if I were you I should tell Mrs. Brent on the first opportunity that when you were young and going the round of the theatres that was the one name in the bill you never could resist.'

"'I suppose you mean that Mrs. Brent was once on the stage and that was her name,' I said. 'But I don't remember her all the same.'

"'No, I don't suppose you would,' he said again. 'As a matter of fact the poor little thing never got beyond the smallest parts, and I doubt if she ever would have done. But Brent fell in love with her, and married her, and since then she has never had a chance of trying. That's what's the matter with her, and I'm afraid it can't be helped. She's pretty, isn't she?'

"'Yes,' I said, as he seemed to expect it of me, but she hadn't struck me as being particularly pretty, though she might have been as a young girl. 'You mean that she doesn't like the quiet life down here?'

"'Yes, that's what I mean,' he said. 'I'm sorry for the poor little soul. She's like a child. Vain, I dare say, but not an ounce of harm in her. I'm telling you this because you'd be bound to find it out for yourself in any case. She'll probably tell you about her early triumphs herself when you know her better. The thing to do is to keep her pleased with herself as much as possible. There's not much to amuse her here. We never see anybody. It suits me all right, and her ladyship; and Harry is happy enough at present, with what he finds to do outside, and what he has to do in. But she's different. There's nothing much for her. She reads a lot of trashy novels----' Here he broke off suddenly and roared with laughter, twisting his body about, and behaving in a curious uncontrolled manner till he'd had his laugh out. Then he said: 'I'm not going to hide from you that I _have_ tried to read one of yours, and my opinion is that it's slush, but quite harmless slush, which perhaps makes it worse. However, _she_ likes them; so I dare say you'll find something in common with her, and it will be all to the good your coming here. That's why I've told you about her. You'll be able to help.'

"I must confess to some slight annoyance at having my work belittled in this way. However, I suppose to a man of this sort all clean healthy sentiment is 'slush,' and the absence of unwholesome interest in my works would not commend them to him, though I am thankful to say that it is no drawback to the pleasure that the people I aim at take in them. If Mrs. Brent is one of these, I shall hope indeed to be of use to her, and I think it speaks well for her, when her early life is taken into consideration, that she should find my simple tales of quiet natural life 'lovely,' as she said that she did. It has occurred to me that when I get to know her better I may possibly gain from her some information upon life behind the scenes, that I could make use of in my work. I should like to draw the picture of a pure unsullied girl, going through the life of the theatre, unspotted by it, and raising all those about her, while she herself rises to the top of her profession, and marries a good man, perhaps in the higher ranks of society, thus showing that virtue is virtue everywhere and has its reward, and doing some good in circles that I have not yet touched. However, all that is for the future. Our immediate duty--yours and mine, dearest,--is to make friends with this rather pathetic little lady, and to reconcile her to her lot, which in this beautiful place, with all the love and kindness she receives from those about her, is hardly really to be pitied.

"I told Wilbraham that I had been much struck with Lady Brent's attitude towards her, and he became serious at once and said: 'Lady Brent is a fine character. There's no getting over that. No, there's no getting over that; she's a fine character.'

"I was a little surprised at the way he said it, but he's a queer sort of fellow, though I think likable. He went on at once, as if he wanted to remove some doubt in my mind as to Lady Brent; but, as a matter of fact, I had none, and am as capable of judging her as he is, though of course he has known her longer. '_She_ sees,' he said, 'that poor little Lottie--I generally call her that to myself--can't be quite happy shut up down here. But she's right in keeping her here. You see, Brent was rather a wild sort of fellow. He got into mischief once or twice, and from what I've heard she and his father weren't sorry when his regiment was ordered off to South Africa. Well, he went, and was killed the first time he went into action, within a month. By the time the news came over his father himself was dying, and did die, as a matter of fact, without knowing of it. A pretty good shock for the poor lady, eh? Well, she had another when poor little Lottie wrote to her and said that she had been married to Brent the week before he sailed, and there was a baby coming. She went straight up to London and brought her down here, and Harry was born here. Harry is rather an important person, you know. He's the last of his line, which is an old one. This place belongs to him, and he'll have a great deal of money from his grandmother. He's Sir Harry Brent of Royd Castle. What he is on his mother's side must be made as little of as possible. She's a Brent by marriage and she has to learn to be a Brent by manners and customs, if you understand me!'

"I said that I thought I did, and that Lady Brent was quite right in wishing to keep her in this atmosphere. But I said that I quite saw that the more friends she had the better. I should do my best to make friends with her, and I was sure that my wife would, who was extremely kind-hearted.

"'Ah, that's right,' he said, with a great air of satisfaction, and just then Harry came out and we went off together to the village and the vicarage."

Here followed the account of the Vicarage, and of the church, but Mrs. Grant knew there was more to come later about Mrs. Brent, and hurried on till she got to it.

Dinner in the great hall was described, with allusions to the perfection of the service and the livery of the servants. The conversation was much the same as over the luncheon table, and Mrs. Brent took more part in it. There was something different about her air. She was beautifully dressed and her "commonness" seemed to have dropped from her. She was, indeed, rather stately, in the manner of her mother-in-law, whom it struck Grant that she was anxious to copy. After dinner they sat in the long drawing-room, and Wilbraham played the piano, which he did rather well. Soon after Harry had gone to bed, Lady Brent went out of the room to get some silks for her embroidery. Mrs. Brent had offered to get these for her, but she wouldn't let her. Grant was sitting near to Mrs. Brent, and while Wilbraham played softly at the other end of the room he talked to her.

"I said with a smile: 'I think your name used to be very well known in other scenes than this when I was a young man, Mrs. Brent.'

"My dear, I was never more surprised than by the way she took it. She flushed and drew up her head and looked at me straight, and said: 'Pray what do you mean by that, Mr. Grant?'

"I felt like a fool. Of course if Wilbraham hadn't said what he had I should never have thought of addressing her upon the subject. Being what she is now I should have expected that she would not have wanted her origin alluded to. But I have told you exactly what he did say, and certainly I never meant anything but kindness to her. Still, I saw that she might think I was simply taking a liberty, and made what recovery I could. 'I know that you were a great ornament of the stage before you were married,' I said. 'Please forgive me if I ought not to have alluded to it, but you said that you had read my books, and you will know that I take all life for my province; and when one practises one art with all earnestness and sincerity, it is interesting to talk to some one who has made a great success with another.'

"I think this was well said, wasn't it, dear? I'm afraid it was going rather beyond the truth, as, from what Wilbraham had told me, I doubt if she was much more than a chorus girl, and that only for a very short time. But my conscience doesn't prick me for having drawn the long bow a little. I had to disabuse her mind of the idea that I was taking a liberty with her, and I wanted to please her in the way that Wilbraham had indicated.

"She ceased, I think, to take offence, but she said, rather primly, with her eyes on her needlework, which she had taken up again: 'I prefer to forget that I was ever on the stage, Mr. Grant. It was for a very short time, and I simply went to and from my home to the theatre, always attended by a maid--or nearly always, and sometimes by my mother. When I married I left the stage altogether, and have never been in a theatre since. I don't know how you knew that I had ever belonged to it.'

"She gave me a quick little glance, and I divined somehow that it would give her pleasure to believe that she was remembered. I won't tell you what I said, but while I steered clear of an actual untruth, I did manage to convey the impression that I had recognized her, and I hope I may be forgiven for it. She said hurriedly: 'Well, we won't talk about it any more, for I have nearly forgotten it all, and wish to forget it altogether. And please don't tell Lady Brent that you know who I was. We don't want Harry to know it at all--ever. She's quite right there. Here she comes. You do like Harry, don't you, Mr. Grant? He's such a dear boy. and all the people about here love him.'

"'What, talking about Harry?' said Lady Brent, as she joined us. 'We all talk a great deal about Harry, Mr. Grant. I don't think there is a boy in the world on whom greater hopes are set. We have made him happy between us so far, but I am glad you are coming here with your young people, to bring a little more life into this quiet place. Young people want young life about them. It is the only thing that has been lacking for him. And it is all too short a time before he will have to go out into the world.'

"This all gave me a great deal to think about. I hope I have given you such an account of everything that passed, and the important parts of what was said to make you see it as I do. Consider this kind good lady, gifted more than most, rich, titled, intellectual, calculated to shine in society, yet content to live a quiet life out of the world for the sake of the bright boy upon whom so many hopes depend. She has gone through much trouble, with her only son and her husband reft from her within a few weeks of one another. She cannot have welcomed the wife whom her son had chosen, but she lives in constant companionship with her, and treats her with every consideration. My heart warms towards her. We are indeed fortunate in having such a chatelaine as Lady Brent in the place in which we are to spend our lives and do our work. Of her kindness and thoughtfulness towards myself I have not time to write, as it is getting very late, and I must to bed. But when you come here you will find her everything that you can wish, and I shall be surprised if you do not make a real friend of her, a friend who will last, and on whom you can in all things depend."

When Mrs. Grant had at last finished this voluminous letter, she summoned Miss Minster to her, and read her many passages from it. Miss Minster was the lady who looked after the education of Jane and Pobbles, and had somewhat of a hard task in doing so, though she fulfilled it without showing outward signs of stress. She was of about the same age as Mrs. Grant--that is in the early thirties, and they had been friends together at school. They were friends now, and Mrs. Grant trusted Miss Minster's judgment in some things more even than she trusted her husband's.

"Somehow, I don't see Lady Brent," said Mrs. Grant, when she had read out all that had been written about her. "She seems to have made a great impression upon David, but it looks to me as if it was the impression she wanted to make."

"If any other man but David had written all that," said Miss Minster, "I should have said that there was something behind it all. I should have said that Lady Brent had some dark reason for keeping herself and the rest of them shut up there, and that this Mr. Wilbraham, who doesn't seem to behave like a tutor at all, was in the conspiracy. As it is, I think his pen has run away with him, and they are all very ordinary people, and there's nothing behind it at all."

"Well, my idea is just the opposite," said Mrs. Grant. "If David had sniffed a story he would have put it in. He doesn't think there is anything behind it. I do. Perhaps Mrs. Brent wasn't married, and this young Sir Harry isn't the rightful heir. That would be a good reason for Lady Brent to lie low. Perhaps Mr. Wilbraham knows about it, which would be the reason for his not behaving like an ordinary tutor; though, as for that, I don't think there's much in it, and he behaves like an ordinary tutor according to David's account just as much as you behave like an ordinary governess."

"A good point as far as it goes," said Miss Minster, "and a joyous life it would be for you if I did behave like an ordinary governess. But you're worse than David in making up twopence coloured stories. I don't think we need worry ourselves about the Brents till we get down there. Then we shall be able to judge for ourselves. No man ever knows what a woman is really like the first time he sees her. Whatever Lady Brent and Mrs. Brent are like, you may depend upon it that we shan't find them in the least as David has described them. Now read what he says about the Vicarage again, and see if we can make anything of that, beyond that it is embowered in massy trees."

*CHAPTER III*

*THE CHILD*

When young Sir Harry had made that laughing appeal to the figure framed in the square of orange light above him, and turned away into the shadows, he had already forgotten that there had been a witness to his escapade.

It was no escapade to him, but a serious quest, about which played all the warm palpitations and eager emotions of high romance. To-night, if ever, with the earth moving towards the soft riot of spring, with the air still and brooding as if summer were already here, though sharp and clean, scoured by the wind and washed to gentleness again by the showers of April, with the moonlight so strong that in the shadows of the trees there was no darkness, but diffused and quivering light hardly less bright than the light of day, and to the eyes of the spirit infinitely more discerning--surely to-night he might hope to see the fairies dancing in their rings, and the little men stealing in and out among the tree-branches!

He longed passionately to see the fairies. The beauty of the earth meant so much to him. All through his childhood his love for it had grown and grown till it had become almost a pain to him. For though it meant so much he did not know what it meant. It had always seemed to be leading him up to something, some great discovery, or some great joy--at least some great emotion--which would give it just that meaning that would tune his soul to it and entrench him safely behind some knowledge, hidden from mortal eyes, where he could survey life as it was, perfect and blissful, and withal secret. The fairies, if he could only look upon them once, would give him the secret. Surely they would not withhold themselves from him on such a night as this.

He pictured himself lying on the warm beech-mast in the shadows of some great tree that stood sentinel over a stretch of moonlit lawn, watching the delicate gossamer figures at their revels, their iridescent wings softly gleaming, their petalled skirts flying, their tiny limbs twinkling; and perhaps he would hear the high tenuous chime of their laughter as they gave themselves up to their delicious merriment. He would lie very still, hardly breathing. The mortal grossness which he felt to be in him should not cast its shadow over their bright evanescent spirit. He would keep, oh, so still, and just watch, and grow happier and happier, and at last--know. The grossness would be purged from him. When the moon drooped and the fairy dancers melted away, he would have seen behind the veil. After that he would never suffer again from the perplexing thought that there was some great thing hidden from him, that just when beauty gripped his soul and seemed to have something to tell him, and he stood ready to receive the message, there was only silence and a sense of loss, which made him sad. Nature would speak to him, as she had always seemed to be speaking to him, but now he would understand, and answer, and life would be more beautiful than it had ever been before.