"Can I do anything for you, papa?"
"There's nothing to be done for me, child. What time do we dine to-day, Bessy?" he asked, after a pause.
"I suppose at six. Mrs. North has not given orders to the contrary."
"Very well. I'll have my luncheon in here, child."
"To be sure. Dear papa, you are not looking well," she added, advancing to him.
"No? Looks don't matter much, Bessy, when folk get to be as old as I am. A thought comes over me at odd moments--that it is good to grow ugly, and yellow, and wrinkled. It makes us wish to become young and fair and pleasant to the sight again: and we can only do that through immortality. Through immortality, child."
Mr. North lifted his hand, the fingers of which had always now a trembling sort of movement in them, to his shrivelled face, as he repeated the concluding words, passing it twice over the weak, scanty brown hair that time and care had left him. Bessy kissed him fondly, and quitted the room with a sigh, one sad thought running through her mind.
"How sadly papa is breaking!"
Mrs. North swept down the broad gravel-walk leading from the entrance, until she came to a path on the left, which led to the covered portion of the grounds: where the trees in places grew so thick and close that shade might be had at midday. This part of the grounds was near the dark portion of the Dallory highway, already mentioned (where Jelly had surprised her mistress and Oliver Rane in the moonlight the past night), only the boundary hedges being between them. It was a sweet spot, affording retirement from the world and shelter from the fierce rays of the sun. Madam was fond of frequenting this spot: and all the more so because sundry loop-holes gave her the opportunity of peering out beyond. She could see all who passed to and from the Hall, without being herself seen. One high enclosed wall was especially liked by her; concealed within its shade, quietly resting on one of its rustic seats, she could hear as well as see. Before she had quite gained this walk, however, her son Sidney crossed her path. A young man of twenty now, undersized, insufferably vain, fast, and conceited. His face might be called a pretty face: his auburn curls were arranged after the models in a hairdresser's window; his very blue unmeaning eyes had no true look in them. Sidney North as like neither father nor mother: like no one but his own contemptible self; madam looked upon him as next door to an angel; he was her well-beloved. There can be no blindness equal to that of a doting mother.
"My dear, I thought you had gone with them to the station," she said.
"Didn't ask me to go; Dick and Arthur made room for themselves, not for me," responded Sidney, taking his pipe from his mouth to speak, and his voice was as consequential as his mother's.
A frown crossed madam's face. Dick and Arthur were rather in the habit of putting Sidney in the shade, and she hated them for it. Arthur was her own son, but she had never regarded him with any sort of affection.
"I'm going back this afternoon, mamma."
"This afternoon! No, my boy; I can't part with you to-day."
"Must," laconically responded Sidney, puffing away at his pipe. And madam had come to learn that it was of no use saying he was to stay if he wanted to go. "How much tin can you let me have?"
"How much do you want?"
"As much as you can give me."
His demands for money seemed to be as insatiable as madam knew her husband found hers. The fact was beginning to give her some concern. Only two weeks ago she had despatched him all she could afford: and now here he was, asking again. A slight frown crossed her brow.
"Sidney, you spend too much."
"Must do as others do," responded Sidney.
"But, my sweet boy, I can't let you have it. You don't know the trouble it causes."
"Trouble!--with those rich North Works to draw upon!" cried Sidney. "The governor must be putting by mines of wealth."
"I don't think he is, Sidney. He always pleads poverty; says we drain him. I suppose it's true."
"Flam! All old paters cry that. Look at Dick--the loads of gold he must be netting. He gets his equal share, they say; goes thirds with the other two."
"Who says it?"
"A fellow told me so yesterday. It's an awful shame that Dick should be a millionaire, and I obliged to beg for every paltry coin I want! There's not so many years between us."
"Dick has his footing at the works, you see," observed madam. "Let him! I wouldn't have you degrade yourself to it for the world. He's fit for nothing but work; has been brought up to it; and we can spend."
"Just so," complacently returned the young man. "And you must shell out liberally for me this afternoon, mamma."
Without further ceremony of adieu or apology, Mr. Sidney North sauntered away. Madam proceeded to her favourite shaded walk, where she kept her eyes looking out on all sides for intruders, friends or enemies. On this occasion she had the satisfaction of being gratified.
Her arms folded over the black lace shawl she wore, its hood gathered on her head, altogether very much after the fashion of a Spanish mantilla, and her train with its crape and jet falling in stately folds behind her, madam had been pacing this retreat for the best part of an hour, when she caught sight, through the interstices of the leaves, of two ladies slowly approaching. The one she recognized at once as Mrs. Cumberland; the other she did not recognize at all. "What a lovely face!" was her involuntary thought.
A young, fair, lovely face. The face of Ellen Adair.
CHAPTER VIII.
MADAM'S LISTENING CLOSET
Many years before, when the Reverend George Cumberland held his chaplaincy in Madras, there were two friends also there with whom he was intimate--Major Bohun and Mr. Adair. The latter held a civil appointment under Government. At that time, Mr. Adair was not married. Later, this gentleman went to Australia: Mr. and Mrs. Cumberland also went there. Mr. Adair had married in the course of time. His wife died, leaving one little child, a daughter: who was, despatched to England for her education. Upon its completion, William Adair wrote and begged Mrs. Cumberland to receive her: he thought it probable that he should be returning home; and if so, it would not be worth while for Ellen to go out to him. Mrs. Cumberland consented, and the young lady became an inmate of her house at Dallory Ham. Very liberal terms were offered by Mr. Adair: but this was a matter entirely between himself and Mrs. Cumberland.
Holding herself, as she did, so aloof from her neighbours, there was little wonder in madam's having remained unconscious of the fact that some months ago, nearly twelve now, a young lady had come to reside with Mrs. Cumberland. Part of the time Mrs. Cumberland had been away. Madam had also been away: and when at home her communication with Dallory and Dallory Ham consisted solely in being whirled through its roads in a carriage: no one indoors spoke unnecessarily in her hearing of any gossip connected with those despised places; and to church she rarely went, for she did not get up in time. And so the sweet girl, who had for some time now been making Arthur Bohun's heart's existence, had never yet been seen or heard of by his mother.
For Mrs. Cumberland to be seen abroad so early was something marvellous; indeed, she was rarely seen abroad at all. On this morning she came out of her room between eleven and twelve o'clock, dressed for a walk; and bade Ellen Adair prepare to accompany her. Ellen obeyed, silently wondering. The truth was, Mrs. Cumberland had picked up a very unpleasant doubt the previous day, and would give the whole world to lay it to rest. It was connected with her son. His assurances had partly pacified her, but not quite: and she determined to have a private word with Mr. North. Ellen, walking by her side along the road, supposed they were going in to Dallory. Mrs. Cumberland kept close to the hedge for the sake of the shade: as she brushed the bench in passing, where she had sat the past night, a slight shudder seized her frame. Ellen did not observe it; she was revelling in the beauty of the sweet