dim. Providing for certain charges and a list of small legacies it left

Tony owner of the Northrop property. His nearest kinsman shook hands with him.

"It is a burdened inheritance, Tony, and perhaps the heaviest obligation attached to it is that of walking in its departed owner's steps," he said. "There are not many men fit to take his place, but you have our confidence, and, I think, the good will of everybody on the estate."

There was a little murmur, and a gray-haired farmer, who was a legatee, also shook Tony's hand.

"I've lived under your uncle, and his father too," he said. "They were gentlemen of the right kind, both of them, and this would have been a sadder day for Northrop if we hadn't a man we trusted to step into Godfrey Palliser's shoes!"

Tony did not know what he answered, but his voice broke, and he stood leaning silently on a chair back while the company filed out and left him with the lawyer. The latter was, however, a little puzzled by his attitude, for he had seen other men betray at least a trace of content under similar circumstances, while there was apparently only care in Tony's face.

"I would not ask your attention just now, only that the affair is somewhat urgent, and I must go back to town this evening," he said. "As you know, the electrical manufacturing company have been desirous of purchasing a site for a factory at Dane Cop, and I expect the manager to-morrow. The price he is willing to pay is, I think, a fair one; and as they will get their power from the river there will be little smoke or other nuisance, while the establishing of this industry cannot fail to improve the value of the adjacent land. I have their proposals with me, and I fancy we could see the suggested site for the dam and factory from the window."

Tony went with him and looked out on the dripping valley which lay colorless under the rain and driving cloud. The swollen river which had spread across the low meadows flowed through the midst of it, and all the prospect was gray and dreary.

"Of course we need the money, but I do not feel greatly tempted," he said. "Rows of workmen's dwellings are scarcely an ornament to an estate, and there are other drawbacks to the introduction of a manufacturing community. I am not sure that it would not rather be my duty to make up for what we should lose through letting them find another site by personal economy."

The lawyer nodded. "Your point of view is commendable, but as the company seem quite willing to agree to any reasonable stipulations as to the type of workmen's dwellings, and would do what they could to render the factory pleasant to the eye, I should urge you to make the bargain," he said. "I wonder if you know that your uncle had for a long while decided that Dane Cop should go to Bernard Appleby. It has but little agricultural value, and is almost cut off from the estate by Sir George's property, but he realized that with its abundant water power it would, now the local taxation in the cities is growing so burdensome, sooner or later command attention as a manufacturing site. It is somewhat curious that this offer should come just when it has passed out of Appleby's hands."

Tony made a little abrupt movement. "This is the only time I have heard of it," he said. "Well, if you are convinced it would be a wise thing you may sell."

The lawyer looked at him curiously, and wondered what had so swiftly changed his views. "You have until to-morrow afternoon to consider it in," he said. "In any case, I should not commit myself until you have approved of all conditions and stipulations."

"If you consider them reasonable you can sell, but I would have the purchase money invested separately, and whatever dividend or interest I derive from it kept apart in the accounts. You understand?"

"It is only a question of book-keeping. You have no doubt a reason for wishing it?"

"I think you would call it a fancy," said Tony, with a curious smile. "Still, I want it done."

The lawyer went out, and for half an hour Tony sat alone with a haggard face in the gloomy room listening to the patter of the rain. It had ceased, however, when he drove Violet Wayne, who had remained at Northrop with her mother, home. Mrs. Wayne was to follow with a neighbor, and Tony and the girl were alone in the dog-cart, which went splashing down the miry road until he pulled the horse up where the river came roaring down in brown flood under a straggling wood on the side of a hill. Tony glanced at the flying vapors overhead, wet trees, and dimly gleaming water that spread among the rushes on the meadow land, while the hoarse clamor of the flood almost drowned his voice when he turned to his companion.

"That force will no longer go to waste. I told Craythorne to-day he could let the people who want to put up their mill have the land," he said. "He told me something I have not heard before. It appears that Godfrey Palliser had intended this strip of the property for Appleby. It could be converted into money without any detriment to the rest, you see."

"Hopkins always complained that Dane Cop was not worth the rent, but it will bring you in a good revenue now," said the girl. "Still, doesn't that seem a little hard upon the man who has lost it?"

Tony flicked the horse with the whip. "The land was Godfrey Palliser's, and he did what he thought was right with it."

"I almost fancy he would not have left it to you if you had only had a little more faith in your friend."

Tony turned his head away. "You mean if I had defended Bernard when Godfrey sent for me? Still, I would like you to believe that if he had left the land to Bernard it would have pleased me."

"Of course! Could you have urged nothing in his favor, Tony?"

"No," said Tony, and Violet noticed how his fingers tightened on the reins. "Nothing whatever. I don't want to remember that night. What took place then hurt me."

"Have you ever heard from Appleby?"

"Once. He was then in Texas."

"You answered him?"

"No," said Tony slowly, "I did not. The whole affair was too painful to me. I thought it would be better if I heard no more of him."

Violet said nothing, but she turned and looked back at the flooded meadows and dripping hillside that should have been Appleby's, and a vague feeling of displeasure against Tony for his unbelief came upon her. She knew that everybody would agree with his attitude, but she could not compel herself to admit that it was warranted. When she turned again she saw that he was looking at her curiously.

"Godfrey Palliser told me another thing that night I have not mentioned yet," he said. "It was his wish that what he seems to have known would happen should not keep us waiting. Now, I feel the responsibility thrust upon me, and know that he was right when he foresaw that you would help me to bear it as he had done. I want you, Violet--more than I can tell you."

Tony's appeal was perfectly genuine. Godfrey Palliser could ask no more questions, Appleby's silence could be depended upon, and the cautious inquiries he had made through a London agency respecting Lucy Davidson had elicited the fact that she had taken to the stage and then apparently sailed for Australia. He had, he admitted, done wrong, but he resolved that he would henceforward live honorably, and, if it were permitted him, make Appleby some convenient reparation. Violet, who noticed the wistfulness in his eyes, responded to the little thrill in his voice, and but for what had passed a few minutes earlier might perhaps have promised to disregard conventionalities and hasten the wedding. As it was, however, she felt a curious constraint upon her, and a hesitation she could not account for.

"No," she said quietly. "We must wait, Tony."

"Why?" said the man. "It was his wish that we should not."

His companion looked at him, and there was something he failed to attach a meaning to in her eyes. "I can't tell you," she said slowly. "Still, you must not urge me, Tony. I feel that no good can come of it if we fail to show respect to him."

"But--" said the man; and Violet laid her hand upon his arm.

"Tony," she said, "be patient. I can't make what I feel quite plain, but we must wait."

"Well," said Tony with a sigh, "I will try to do without you until your mother thinks a fitting time has come."

"Then, if nothing very dreadful happens in the meanwhile, I will be ready."

Tony flicked the horse until it endeavored to break into a gallop, and then viciously tightened his grip on the reins.

"You put it curiously," he said. "What could happen?"

"I don't know," said the girl. "Perhaps what took place so unexpectedly a few days ago has shaken me, for I feel vaguely apprehensive just now. I know of no reason why this should be, but we are all a prey to fancies now and then."

Tony looked down on her compassionately. "The last few days at Northrop have been too much for you--and I was a selfish brute for not sending you home," he said.

Violet made no answer, and there was silence between them while the dog- cart splashed on down the muddy road.

It was some weeks later when one afternoon Violet Wayne, who had undertaken the embroidery of an altar cloth, entered Northrop church. It was little and old and shadowy, but the colored lights of the high west window drove a track of brilliancy through its quiet duskiness. Nobody knew the exact history of Northrop church, but it had evidently once been larger than it was then, for the spacious chancel with its carved stalls and rood screen bore no proportion to the contracted nave. Violet entered it softly, with eyes still partly dazzled by the contrast with the sunlit meadows she had crossed, and then stopped in faint astonishment as she saw a girl of her own age standing in evident admiration before an effigy on a tomb. It had been hewn in marble by an unknown sculptor centuries ago, but there was a rude grandeur in his conception, and the chivalric spirit of bygone ages seemed living in the stone.

The girl who stood before it started visibly when Violet walked up the aisle. She was slight and spare, with vivacious blue eyes and fluffy brown hair.

"I am afraid I startled you," said Violet.

"Yes," said the stranger, "you did. I was too intent on the sculpture to hear you coming. It's--just lovely. I wonder whether you could tell me who he was, or what it means, if you live round here."

There was very little accent in her speech, but it was quick and Violet knew that most Englishwomen would not have expressed themselves so frankly to a stranger. Still, it was evident that the girl had artistic tastes, for the effigy had often stirred her own appreciation. It portrayed a mailed knight, not recumbent, but kneeling on one knee, with hands clenched on the hilt of a sword. A dinted helm lay beside him, and though it and his mail had suffered from iconoclastic zeal or time, the face was perfect, and almost living in its intensity of expression. It was not, however, devotional, but grim and resolute, and it had seemed to Violet that there was a great purpose in those sightless eyes.

"I am afraid I can't," she said. "He is supposed to have been one of the Pallisers, but it is not certain that he is even buried here, and nobody knows what he did. The sculpture may be purely allegorical. Still, the face is very suggestive."

The blue-eyed girl looked at it fixedly. "Yes," she said. "One would call it Fidelity. We have nothing of the kind in our country, and that is partly why it appeals to me. Yet I once met a man who looked just like that."

"In America!" and Violet Wayne was vexed with herself next moment because she smiled.

The stranger straightened herself a trifle, but there was rather appreciation than anger in her eyes.

"Well," she said, "I am proud of my country, but he was an Englishman, and it was in Cuba--in the rebellion."

She turned and looked curiously at her companion, in a fashion that almost suggested that she recognized the finely moulded figure, grave gray eyes, and gleaming hair, while Violet made a slight deprecatory gesture.

"I can show you another memorial which is almost as beautiful," she said. "In this case, however, what it stands for is at least authentic. A famous artist designed it."

The girl turned and gazed backwards along the shafts of light that pierced the dusky nave until her eyes caught the gleam of the gilded Gloria high up the dimness, above the west window. Then they rested with awed admiration on the face of a great winged angel stooping with outstretched hand. She drew in her breath with a little sigh of appreciation which warmed Violet's heart to her, and then glancing down from the flaming picture read: "To the glory of God, and in memory of Walthew Palliser, killed in the execution of his duty in West Africa."

"Yes," she said, "it's beautiful. But they should be together. The great compassionate angel over the effigy. It makes you feel the words, 'Well done!'"

Violet smiled gravely, "I think I understand, and one could fancy that they were spoken. The man to whom they raised that window went, unarmed, sick of fever, and knowing the risk he ran, to make peace with a rebellious tribe, because it was evident that it would provoke hostilities if he took troops with him. He found a stockade on the way, and, though his bearers tried to hinder him, went forward alone to parley. He was shot almost to pieces with ragged cast iron."

"He was splendid," said the stranger. "And his name was Walthew--it is a curious one. I must thank you for telling me the story."

She would apparently have said more, but that a girl in light dress and big white hat came in through a little door behind the organ, and laughed as she approached them.

"So you have been making friends with Nettie, Violet! I was going to bring her over one of these days," she said. "Netting Harding of Glenwood on the Hudson--Violet Wayne! Nettie is staying with me, and as she is enthusiastic over antiquities I was bringing her here when Mrs. Vicar buttonholed me. They are short of funds for the Darsley sewing guild again. Will you come over to-morrow afternoon? Tea on the lawn."

Violet promised and took her departure, while when the other two went out into the sunshine again Nettie Harding's companion glanced at her.

"How did Violet Wayne strike you,--which I think is how you would put it?" she said.

Nettie appeared reflective. "I think I should like her. The curious thing is that a friend of mine pictured her to me almost exactly, though he did not tell me who she was. Still, at first I fancied she meant me to feel my inferiority."

"That is a thing Violet Wayne would never do," said her companion. "I don't know where she got that repose of hers--but it's part of her, and she doesn't put it on. Who was the man who spoke about her?"

"He didn't speak of her--he only told me about somebody who must have been like her," said Nettie Harding, who considered it advisable not to answer the question. "The Pallisers are evidently big people here. Is Walthew a usual name in the family? Miss Wayne seemed to know a good deal about them."

The other girl laughed. "I believe there were several Walthews, and Violet is, perhaps, proud of the connection," she said. "They are an old family, and she is going to marry one of them."

XVII -- TONY IS PAINFULLY ASTONISHED

THE cool shadows were creeping across the velvet grass next afternoon when Nettie Harding lay languidly content in a canvas chair on the Low Wood lawn. Behind her rose a long, low, red-roofed dwelling, whose gray walls showed only here and there through their green mantle of creeper, but in front, beyond the moss-covered terrace wall, wheatfield, coppice, and meadow flooded with golden sunlight melted through gradations of color into the blue distance. It was very hot, and the musical tinkle of a mower that rose from the valley emphasized the drowsy stillness. Opposite her, on the other side of the little table whereon stood dainty china and brass kettle, sat her hostess's daughter, Hester Earle, and she smiled a little as she glanced at Nettie.

"You are evidently not pining for New York!" she said.

Nettie Harding laughed as she looked about her with appreciative eyes. "This is quite good enough for me, and we don't live in New York," she said. "Nobody who can help it does, and it's quite a question how to take out of it the men who have to work there. Our place is on the Hudson, and it's beautiful, though I admit it is different from this. We haven't had the time to smooth down everything and round the corners off in our country, though when we are as old as you are we'll have considerably more to show the world."

Hester Earle nodded tranquilly. She was typically English, and occasionally amused at Nettie, with whom she had made friends in London. Her father was chairman of a financial corporation that dealt in American securities, and having had business with Cyrus Harding, thought it advisable to show his daughter what attention he could.

"You were enthusiastic over Northrop church and the Palliser memorials yesterday," she said.

"Yes," said Nettie, "I was, but I should like to see the kind of men to whom they put them up. From what you said there are still some of them living in this part of your country?"

"There is one at Northrop just now, and it is rather more than likely that you will see him this afternoon if he suspects that Violet Wayne is coming here. I think I hear her now."

There was a beat of hoofs and rattle of wheels behind the trees that shrouded the lawn, and five minutes later Violet and Tony Palliser crossed the strip of turf. Miss Earle lighted the spirit lamp, and for a space they talked of nothing in particular, while the pale blue flame burnt unwaveringly in the hot, still air. Then when the dainty cups were passed round Violet Wayne said--

"I think you told me yesterday the effigy reminded you of somebody you had seen, Miss Harding."

"Yes," said Nettie, "it did. I don't mean that the face was like his, because that would be too absurd, but it was the expression--the strength and weariness in it--that impressed me. The man I am thinking of looked just like that when he kept watch one long night through."

"How do you know he did?" asked Hester.

"Because I was there. I sat by a little lattice and watched him, knowing that my safety depended upon his vigilance."

"That was why Miss Harding was anxious to see you, Tony," said Hester Earle. "I almost fancy she is disappointed now."

Tony, who sat with half-closed eyes, teacup in hand, in his chair, looked up and smiled languidly. "I think it is just a little rough on me that I should be expected to emulate the fortitude an unknown sculptor hewed into a marble face hundreds of years ago," he said. "I wonder if Miss Harding would tell us about the man she is thinking of."

Nettie glanced at Violet Wayne, and fancied that she showed signs of interest. Besides Miss Harding was not averse to discoursing to an attentive audience.

"Well," she said, "I'll try. It was in Cuba, and he was an Englishman. A little while before the night I am going to speak about he and his American partner captured a Spanish gun."

"Then I don't see why you should have expected me to resemble him," said Tony plaintively. "As everybody knows I should never have done such a thing! Will you tell us about the engagement?"

Nettie flashed a keen glance at him, and Violet Wayne, who saw it, felt a slight thrill of impatience, but not with the girl. It was, she fancied, evident that Nettie Harding agreed with Tony.

"It was in a hot barranco among the hills, and the Spaniards had turned the gun on the Sin Verguenza, and were sweeping them away, when he and the American lowered themselves down the rock side by creepers right into the middle of the loyalist troops. They hurled the gun over a precipice into the barranco, and when it had gone the rest of the Sin Verguenza drove the troops off with rifle fire. It was their colonel told me this. I did not see it."

"Would you mind telling us who the Sin Verguenza were?" said Tony.

"The men without shame--that's what it means in Spanish--an insurgent legion. They took the town in which my father and I were staying--a handful of ragged men, with two companies of drilled troops against them--and I lost my father in the crowd of fugitives. Then I hid in a church, and some drunken brigands were chasing me through the dark streets when I met the Englishman, who took care of me. The Sin Verguenza were breaking into the houses, and I was alone, horribly frightened and helpless, in that Cuban town. He was one of their officers, and he took me to the house they had made their headquarters."

"You went with him?" asked Hester Earle.

"Yes," said Nettie slowly, while a faint flush crept into her face, "I