Parr_Dorothy_Fox.txt topic ['13', '324', '378', '393']
CHAPTER I.
The Fortune of War.
It was in the summer of 1856. The war being at
an end, England began to forget the excitement and
military ardour which for two years had pervaded her
every nook and corner. But at the principal seaports
the memory was still kept alive by reckless soldiers and
sailors spending their hard-earned money, and by their
less fortunate comrades wandering about pale and hag-
gard, some on crutches, some in splints, waiting to hear
the decision of pension or discharge the only two alter-
natives left for them.
At the top of one of those narrow streets of the old
town of Plymouth, leading from the Barbican, a crowd
of sailors, fish-women, apprentices {boys and girls), had
assembled to witness a fight. Through this motley crowd
a soldier-like man was almost vainly endeavouring to
push his way. He was pale and thin from recent ill-
ness, and his bandaged arm showed the cause of his
suffering.
"Good heavens!" he thought, "how sick and faint I
feel! I wish I had listened to the doctor, and not have
been in such a hurry to come out. 1 wonder if there is
any place hereabout where I could sit down for a little
while."
He walked more rapidly on towards the Guildhall,
passing a saddler's, an ironmongers, a goldsmith's, until
he came to a shop with a fat gilt lamb hanging over the
door, and having opposite it an old round clock, stretch-
ing its face into the street. Here a curious sensation
came over him, which made the lamb and the clock's
face seem to change places; and he had just sense
enough left to turn into the open door and sink into a
chair, as a voice reached him from the distance: "How
can I serve theeT' Tlien all became still and dark and
blank.
The name of the young man was Charles Verschoyle;
the shop he had entered belonged to Nathaniel Fox, cloth
and woollen draper; and the voice which inquired, "How
can I serve thee?" came from his daughter Dorothy, who,
while she was speaking, saw, to her great terror and per-
plexity, the stranger's head sink back, and a pallor, as
of death, spread itself over his face.
She gave a litde cry, and exclaimed, "Oh dear! what
can be the matter with him? And Mark away, and
Judith out! What shall I do?"
She then leaned across the counter, saying, in a louder
voice, "Friend! friend! art thou ill?" And then some-
thing she saw in the white face forced her, despite her
fear, to run forward and put out her arm to support his
falling head. Now, seeing his bandaged arm, she dis-
missed an idea which had crossed her mind that, per-
haps, he had been drinking. She said tenderly, "Poor
fellow, it is his arm that has caused this sudden faint-
ness. If I had but some water, or mother's smelling-
salts, he would most likely revive."
At this moment the inner door of the shop opened,
and a bright- faced, middle-aged woman, with a thick-
frilled white cap, appeared.
"Oh, Judith! Judith! come here. I am so glad thou
THE FORTUNE OF WAR. 9
cart returned. While thou hast been away, see, this poor
man has come into the shop; and he has fainted. Do
run and get some water."
Before Judith obeyed, she came over to have a closer
inspection of the sufferer, saying, "Are you sure, now, he's
swooning? it isn't tricks or drink"?" But, without wait-
ing for a reply, she continued, after looking at the face,
almost as white as the kerchief against which it leaned,
"God forgive the thought! and his poor broken arm tied
up to his side."
The young man heaved a deep sigh.
"Oh, do run, Judith, and get the water!" exclaimed
Dorothy, anxiously bending over him; and he, suddenly
opening his eyes, met the earnest gaze, took in the child-
ish face, wondered where he was, then leaned his head
back, and forgot it all again.
Judith returned with the water, and sprinkled it over
his face; while Dorothy chafed his hands, as she had
seen her mother do to her Aunt Abigail.
"Judith, dost thou think mother and father would
object, if we asked him to rest awhile on the sofa until
he finds strength enough to walk home?"
Judith looked dubious. Master and mistress were
away. If they had been at home she would not have
hesitated. And Mark was out too. "No," she thought,
"we had better not."
Dorothy looked grave. "Thou might ask him to stay
until Mark comes. Then he could fetch him a cab. It
is nearly five o'clock; and Mark is always here at half-
past."
Judith shook her head: she was not certain whether
it was safe.
"Mother says we are always to do good one to an-
other," persisted Dorothy; "and the text quoted last First-
lO IiOROTHV FOX.
day in Dorcas Horsenail's discourse was 'Be not forgetful
to entertain strangers; for, thereby, some have entertained
angels unawares.'"
"Well, then, I wish this was one!" exclaimed Juditli,
in perplexity, "and that he would fly away; for, as it is,
I don't know what to do with him, and that's the truth."
"Hush!" said Dorothy, with the double intention of
reproving Judith's levity, and because the stranger was
coming to himself. She shrank back; and, Judith, find-
ing she was expected to take the initiative, demanded,
"Are you better, sir?"
"Better? Oh yes!" returned the young man, with a
short gasp between each sentence. "What has been the
matter? Where am I? I am afraid 1 have been giving
some trouble."
"Indeed, no," said Dorothy, coming forward. "I am
only glad thou wert able to reach here."
"You are both very kind," he answered. "I am quite
unable to thank you." And such a soft expression came
into his dark eyes and lit up his wan face, that all
Judith's former prudence gave way, and, to Dorothy's
great satisfaction, she begged he would walk into the
parlour behind the shop, and rest on the sofa for awhile.
"Nobody will disturb you there, sir. And if you
don't feel strong enough to walk by the time our shop-
man comes, he can call ye a cab."
Thinking that she was the mistress of the house,
Captain Verschoyle thanked her, and accepting her in-
vitation and assistance (for he still felt very unsteady),
he went into the substantially furnished parlour, threw
himself on the large old-fashioned sofa, and was asleep
before Dorothy returned with the ginger cordial she had
been getting to revive him.
Very few customers were likely to come into the
THE FORTUNE OF WAR. II
shop, for Nathaniel Fox's business was principally con-
fined to wholesale and private orders. So, telling Judith
she would sit quietly until Mark returned, and she was
ready, Dorothy seated herself in the only approach to an
easy-chair one of carved oak, black, and stiff-backed.
Taking her knitting in her hand, she furtively glanced at
the sleeper, but, finding he was quite unconscious, she
let her hand drop idly in her lap, and her eyes gaze
earnestly and curiously. "He must have been very ill,"
she thought. "How beautifully white his hand is!" and
then she regarded the little pink-dimpled pair which lay
in her own lap with a critical and rather dissatisfied ex-
pression. "What long eyelashes he has!" and first one
eye and then the other is shut to see if a glimpse of her
own can be obtained. No, nothing but the tip of the
provoking little nose; and her gaze falls again on the
young man who, from his bearing, may perhaps be a
soldier wounded in the war. At this thought she gives
a little shudder, takes up her knitting, and works away
most industriously for fully ten minutes. Then the click-
click of the needles cease, and her thoughts begin to
wander. Her reverie this time is so deep that she does
not notice that the sleeper has awakened, and is in his
turn attentively inspecting her. As she sat in the old
black carved chair, in her gown of soft grey stuff, with
her rebellious hair (in spite of brushing and tight fasten-
ing up) twined into little golden rings, her fair face, al-
most infantine in its youthfulness, gave such a ridiculous
impression of primness and juvenescence that Captain
Verschoyle was reminded of nothing so much as of some
lovely child playing at being a staid woman.
The deep tones of the Guildhall clock striking six
were now heard, the chimes of St. Andrew's repeated the
hour, and Judith softly opened the door, closing it again
12 DOROTHY FOX.
as she saw Dorothy put her finger to her lip. But tlie
disturbance seemed to have roused the young man, who
opened his eyes and sat up.
"Dost thou feel better'?" asked Dorothy, anxiously.
"Oh yes; I am all right again now; but you do not
mean to say it is six o'clock 1 Why, what have I been
thinking of? I had no idea of going to sleep when I sat
down not that I am particularly clear about what hap-
pened after I reached here."
"Didst thou feel ill suddenly, or was it thy intention
to come here?"
"No; I was passing the door when I became quite
faint."
"Thy arm doubtless was the cause. I see it is band-
aged," she said with a pitiful voice.
"Oh! my wound is a mere scratch," replied Captain
Verschoyle. "I am weak from fever and ague, and
though I have been in Plymouth a month, this is the
first time I have ventured so far. The doctor advised
me against going out to-day, but I thought I was much
stronger than it seems I am. I do not know what would
have become of me if I hadn't had strength enough to
stagger in here. Fate was unusually good to send me
where I should meet with so much hospitality. I really
cannot express how very grateful I feel for your kind-
ness."
"Oh! do not speak of it," said Dorothy; "I only did
what mother would have me do. Art thou sure that
thou art sufficiently strong to walk] Mark can get thee
a cab in a few minutes."
"Thanks; I will not trouble him; the air may revive
me, for my head is a little heavy." He took out a card
and gave it to Dorothy, saying, "Will you give my
TIIK FORTUNE OF WAR. 1 3
thanks to your mother? Good-bye;" and he held out
his hand.
"FareweU," she said, giving him hers; "and I hope
if thou should ever be near and feel weary, thou wilt
not hesitate to come in and rest."
"Thank you very much." Again he looked round
the shop, but seeing no one but Mark, he turned once
more to Dorothy and said, "You will not forget to give
my adieus and thanks to your good mother," and was
gone.
"My good mother," thought she; "what does he
mean. Oh! perhaps he thought that Judith was my
mother," and she smiled as she contrasted the two.
Then she looked at the card and read, "Captain Charles
Egerton Verschoyle, 17th Lancers." Then he was a
soldier, one of the men belonging to a profession her
father and friends generally condemned. She was still
recalling all the details of this little episode when Judith
appeared, ready dressed in her shawl and bonnet.
"Why, Judith, art thou ready? I will not keep thee
a moment."
"That's right, dear; make haste or the omnibus will
be here. Mark is looking out for it to pass the church
corner."
Dorothy was soon down again, and Judith inquired,
"Was the young man all right before he left? I saw
liim go as I was putting on my things."
"Yes, but he said he had a headache; and, dost thou
know? I think he took thee for mother."
"'Twas like his impudence then, not to see you were
a young lady, and his better most like."
"Why, Juditli, how funny thou art!" laughed Dorothy;
"how could he tell anything about us? And besides
thou would'st make a very nice mother, I think."
14 DOROTHY FOX.
"Bless your dear heart," replied Judith fondly, "it's
a proud mother I'd be with such a treasure as you in
my keepin'; but marryin' ain't for the like of me, child.
The only man I ever looked with favour on, things went
bad with, and he had to go for a soldier, and whether
he's living or dead, poor boy, is more than I know now,
or perhaps ever shall."
"That was very sad!" said Dorothy, who knew Ju-
dith's love-story by heart. "The young man who was
faint was a soldier. He did not look Hke one, did hel"
"Oh, they're all good-looking enough," returned Ju-
dith; "and I'm not one for sending them all to the bot-
tomless pit wholesale, like the master does; as the sayin'
is, 'nobody's so black as they're painted;' and though
there's no soldiers at the Friends' meetin', they can't
keep the flesh and the devil out no, nor never will as
long as the members there are men and women."
Happily the omnibus arrived at this moment, or
Judith would have given a lecture in justification of her
speech, for being a strict Methodist, she could not resist
a little hit now and then at what she considered the
Quakers' spiritual pride, much as she approved of them.
The Foxes did not live at their place of business;
they had a pleasant old-fashioned country-house near
Compton Giffard, and thither the omnibus was now car-
rying Judith and Dorothy, her mother and father being
absent for a few days. Dorothy had gone in the morning
to spend the day with Judith, who attended to the
domestic duties of the Plymouth establishment. After
leaving the omnibus they turned down a lane, at the
widest part of which stood a long white gate, shaded
by two thick elm trees. This was the entrance to the
house, a rambling old-fashioned place, half of it the
original manor dwelling, and the other half added to it
THE FORTUNE OF WAR. 15
at various times, as adorning or enlarging was needed.
There was nothing at all pretentious, it only looked a
comfortable, carefully kept house. Nathaniel Fox would
have been horrified at the idea of its being thought any-
thing but a house becoming a well-to-do tradesman to
dwell in, yet more was expended on it than upon many
a country seat. Order and neatness reigned everywhere,
and the gardens had a prim old world air that set off
to advantage the gabled roof, the small, high, narrow
windows with their diamond panes, and the fantastic
chimneys, half wreathed with long sprays of ivy and
Virginian creeper.
Just now the master and mistress were attending a
quarterly meeting at Exeter. Generally Cousin Dymond
came and kept Dorothy company during these visits; but
she was ill, and Dorothy was for the first time left entirely
alone with the two maids, Judith coming out every night,
and seeing that all was going on rightly. On Thursday
or Friday her mother would return, with such a deal to
tell her when Elizabeth Sparks was going to be married,
and whether Josiah Crewdson intended coming to them
on a visit. As she sat at supper in the old nursery, now
dedicated to Judith's especial use, she speculated on the
probability of these events.
"I wish father would have given his consent to my
being one of Elizabeth's bridesmaids, but he does not
approve of their giving up the dress of Friends."
"Well, my dear," answered Judith, "I quite hold with
him there, as long as he stops short of the bonnet and
cap; but when I thought he was going to frump you up
in them coal-scuttle things, I seemed to be turned against
the dress entirely."
"Oh! Judith, I do so hope I shall not be obliged to
wear them; but the Crewdsons are so very strict. Thou
1 6 DOROTHY FOX.
knowest Josiah dresses as a Friend. I wonder if he is
coming here; father has asked him;" and Dorodiy sat
looking thoughtfully for a few minutes, then she sud-
denly demanded, "Would thou be very sorry for me to
be married, Judith?"
"Would I be sorry if I heard the sun was never to
shine agen for me, darlin"?" said Judith, fondly; and
Dorothy went over and put her arms round her old
nurse's neck, saying, 'Why do people want to get mar-
ried at all? I cannot bear to think of ever leaving father
and mother and thee; but it will not be for years to come
yet, I hope."
"Ah, now!" exclaimed Judith, "I won't have ye wait
too long. Grace was but tw^enty-one, and I'm not going
to have my bantling behind her."
"Oh! but Grace is so happy."
"Well, and so will you be too. Mr. Crewdson is a
worthy, good man, they all say, and so he need be, for
it wouldn't be a saint I'd think more than a match for
my cosset."
"Thou art a foolish fond old Judith," said Dorothy,
laughing; "as mother says, thy vanity will spoil me. I
ought to be very thankful to be chosen by one so re-
spected and highly approved of; but sometimes I think,
and wish oh! I cannot tell thee what, for I do not
know myself but there goes nine o'clock, so we must
go down for reading." And they descended into the
dining-room, and the two maids came in. Dorothy read
the appointed chapters and an explanation, dismissed
them, and went to her room, attended by Judith, who
persisted in considering her as helpless as when she was
under her special care. Dorothy Fox at nineteen was
both older and younger than most girls of her age. When
she was only ten, Grace, her half sister, had married, and
THE FORTUNE OF WAR. 1 7
she had no brothers or sisters of her own. She was her
mother's constant companion, and the only society she
saw was composed of people much older than herself,
whose conversation was principally confined to the pro-
ceedings of the Friends. For some years past a great
revolution in their ideas had set in, causing much divi-
sion among them. The younger members were begin-
ning to object strongly to the peculiar dress and mode
of speech; and while they fondly approved of the faith
in which they had been nurtured, they made a stand
against being so entirely shut out from amusements in
which they considered they might join without harm to
themselves, or scandal to the profession they made.
Dorothy's father had seen with pain his eldest daughter
and her husband become leaders in the new school. This
made him doubly anxious that Dorothy should unite
herself to a man who had been brought up like herself
to hold firmly to every principle of the Society of Friends,
and look with displeasure upon any innovation. And all
these good qualities he found in Josiah Crewdson, the
son of an old friend of his. For many years an alliance
between the young people had been the sincere desire of
the two fathers. Old Stephen Crewdson had died about
two summers before, but not until he had made known
his wishes to his son, and counselled him to carry them
out. A few months back Nathaniel had, with Josiah's
knowledge, spoken to Dorothy, and she had promised
him that if it were possible she would not place any
obstacle to the fulfilment of his desire. She had not
seen Josiah since she was a child; but she had heard a
great deal about him, so perhaps she should like him.
Of course, as father wished it, she would try, and then,
except when some special event, such as his forthcoming
Dorothy Fox. 2
1$ DOROTHY FOX.
visit, called it up, the thing almost seemed to die out of
her memory.
Her mother was the only person who raised any ob-
I'ection. She had recently seen Josiah at York, and it
did not seem to her that he possessed many qualities to
Avin a young girl's heart particularly such a girl as
Dorothy, who, in spite of all the repression of her edu-
cation, possessed an extra share of idealism and romance,
mixed with much strength of will and purpose. Patience
knew her daughter's character well enough to feel that
love was a necessity to its perfection. Then again she
could not help saying to herself, "Surely such a face
might win any heart."
Few persons who casually met the young Quaker
passed her without turning again to look at her sweet
beauty; but to those who could watch her, look into her
earnest brown eyes, shaded by their long dark lashes
to those who loved her and whom she loved, Dorothy's
face was the dearest, most winning face in all the world.
She was full of gaiety, admiring all that was beautiful,
and delighting in sweet sounds and gay colours, in which
she longed to deck herself Her life hitherto had been,
though happy and contented, quiet to excess. Since she
had stayed a few days at Fryston with her sister, she
had felt much more curiosity about the world beyond
her own home. She was not quite certain she felt so
thankful, as her father daily expressed himself, that the
world was unknown to him and his family. She would
have liked rather to see a little more of it; but perhaps
all this was wrong. So she checked the natural desire
one minute only to renew her wandering into some fresh
subject the next, until she was lost in dreams of a world
fashioned after her own young imagination a sweet
garden of Eden all roses and rose-coloured.
"like the prince and prince:^s in the fairy tales." 19
CHAPTER II.
" Like the Prince ami Princess in the Fairy Tales."
As Captain Verschoyle walked througli the busy
streets, after leaving Nathaniel Fox's shop, he felt that
though the cool summer air fanned his hot head, it sent
a shiver through the rest of his body. Still he thought
it would be better to walk for a little distance than to
ride at once; so he proceeded at a tolerably brisk pace
until he came to the little toll-gate, from which he could
see the hospital, though how to get to it did not exactly
occur to him.
"Why, sir!" replied the toll-man, in answer to his in-
quiry, "you've come a brave bit out of your way. You
should have gone up Eldad-hill, and round by No-place;
but there your leg ain't in a sling, though your arm
may be, so ten minutes one way or t'other won't make
much odds. You go straight on till you come to a little
gate, and then through the path, on to the posts, through
they, and up a lane, past the Rectory, and up another
lane, and there you be with the gates right before you.
You can't miss it, if you mind what I've told you."
The consequence of this direction was that the young
man did not find the gates right before him until the
heavy dews were falling thick and wetting the grass he
was obliged to walk through. The old doctor shook his
head at him, and advised him to get off to bed as soon
as possible. Captain Verschoyle stoutly held to it that
he should be all right by the morning, and able to go
out the next day when it had been decided he should
have his discharge. Yet the next discharging day to
that went by and found him still an inmate of the hospital
suffering from another feverish attack, which, tliough
slight, had kept him from joining his mother and sister
20 DOROTHY FOX.
at Exeter, and going with them to Shilston Hall, as he
had previously arranged to do. This fresh illness had
upset all his plans, and now it would be quite another
week before he could leave the hospital. No wonder,
then, he was sitting rather ruefully when his man brought
him this letter:
"My dear Charlie,
"It is some days since we heard from you, and I
cannot help thinking you are worse than you say. You
do not know how I long to see you, nor how disap-
pointed I was to find you were not at Exeter to meet us.
As we have old Marshall with us, I have begged mamma
to let her go with me to see you, and she has consented.
So I am coming, and you may expect me to-morrow.
You dear old thing! I hope you are not really worse,
and that you will be glad to see your loving sister,
"Audrey."
"Bless her heart!" exclaimed Captain Verschoyle;
"glad to see her, I should think I should be, for I began
to feel as if my coming home couldn't make much differ-
ence to any one."
"Here, Hallett!" to his servant, "I expect a lady to
see me; go down to the gates and watch for a cab driv-
ing up, and when they ask for me, tell Miss Verschoyle
you are my servant waiting to show her the way to my
quarters; but first, just see all straight here."
"Yes, sir;" and the man left, and his master drew a
chair to the window where he might be able to catch a
momentary glimpse of his visitors before they entered the
building. Everything looked very much brighter than it
had done an hour before. It was so pleasant to know
somebody was coming who would make him feel he was
"like the prince and princess in the fairy tales." 2 I
at home again. Why, except that good motherly shop-
keeper and her pretty daughter, no woman had spoken
to him since his return; and then he smiled to himself
to think how, through the dreams resulting from the
drugged sleep and subsequent wanderings of the fever, he
had been haunted by the quaint grey figure. "I suppose,"
he thought, "the brain is acted upon by its last vivid
impression. Well! I'm glad mine was such a pleasant
one, for the child was very pretty, not a bit like the
mother. Past two o'clock. I hope nothing has prevented
Audrey coming, I should be so disappointed." But be-
fore he had time for more reflection he heard a rustle, a
sound of voices, the door was thrown open, and his
sister had her arms round his neck.
"Oh, how good it is to feel you are safe back once
more!" she exclaimed after a few moments; then giving
him another great hug, "I did not know I loved you so
much, Charlie, until I thought we might never meet again.
Now, let me have a good look at you. Well, you are thin
and pale, of course, but you are just as good-looking as
ever."
Captain Verschoyle laughed. "You are just the
same, Audrey, thinking of good looks at once. I verily
believe if I was going to execution you would be anxious
that my personal appearance should be all you desire."
"Of course I should. Why, what have we to trade
upon but our family and good looks'? And now tell me
al30ut my own appearance: I'm dying to hear. I have
not fallen off^'
"You peacock!" exclaimed her brother, "you know
you are as handsome as ever. How is it you are not
married?"
"Ah, the universal question!" she replied. "Because
because because I am not; but don't look so grave,
22 DOROTHV FOX.
for I am seriously thinking of it, and am busy weaving a
snare into which my bird will most certainly fall. Why, I
am eight-and-twenty, Charles, an awful age for a spinster.
You cannot imagine my feelings every time I see Aunt
Spencer, and hear her invariable, "Audrey, my dear, ex-
cuse my saying it, but it's quite time you were married."
And then people are beginning to appeal to my memory
in the most inconvenient manner, saying, 'You must re-
member that, Miss Verschoyle; it isn't more than ten
years ago since it happened.' Why do we ever grow old,
Charlie? It does not matter for men, but for women, oh
dear, dear! However, mamma has a splendid scheme
on hand, a millionaire for me, and an heiress for you;
and I'm %\xx^ youUl succeed, for nothing wins a woman's
heart like a warrior bold, pale and wounded."
"Well, I'm glad you have settled my fate for me,"
said Captain Verschoyle, "for I'm thoroughly home-sick,
and want to settle down. So as long as I have no trouble
in the matter, I'm prepared to go in and win; that is, if
she's anything decent, hasn't a hump, or a squint, and
isn't forty."
"Oh no, she's very nice," replied Audrey, "and is
young and foolish. The latter may be a recommendation.
And now to tell you all about mamma. First and fore-
most, she sent you her dearest love and a kiss, then she
desired you would have camphor put among your clothes
for fear of bringing home infection; next, that nothing
but her wretched health and weak nerves prevented her
coming to see you; and lastly, she begs you will have
your hair cut at once, or it may fall off and leave you
prematurely bald."
Captain Verschoyle smiled, saying, "Ah, I see you go
on as usual! How is the old lady?"
'Why, a great deal better than she would be if she
"LIKE THE I'RINCE AND PRINCESS IN THE FAIRY TALES.'' 23
heard her beloved son inquire after her by that opprobri-
ous title. Yes, we squabble, and I am rude, and peni-
tent, just as I used to be, and get caressed and appealed
to in public and scolded and snubbed in private. But it
really is more my fault than hers. I did not want to go
to Shilston Hall, but to come on here to you. However,
mamma said she could not afford it, though it would not
have cost much. I detest Shilston, and the Brocklehursts
are such a set every one of them possessed of an entire
and peculiar meanness, and each trying for the old lady's
money by setting her against the rest of the competitors.
One of the most powerful arguments in my favour was,
that I had had a tilt with her, and I told mamma a day's
absence was the only chance I had left. That reminds
me I must call Marshall in and decide about the train to
return by."
"Return," echoed Captain Verschoyle. "Why must
you go back"? I cannot get away from here for four
days , and if we could spend them together it would be
quite a holiday; and this is such a pretty place. Hallett
could get lodgings for you and Marshall close by, and I
can get out all day. What do you say? Would you
mind staying?"
"Mind it!" said Audrey, "why, I should like it of all
things, but how can we manage it? Shall we call Mar-
shall in and hear her ideas? I left her in the next room."
So she opened the door and admitted Marshall, a small
thin woman, who had been Audrey's maid since she was
a child, and therefore knew Captain Verschoyle well
enough to shake his hand and heartily hope, he was gain-
ing strength. After the due inquiries had been made,
Audrey told her the plan they had in view.
"Now, Mrs. M., give me the benefit of your wise head,
and tell me what's the best thinr to do."
24 DOROTHY FOX.
"Well, Miss, what have you made up your mind to
do?" said Marshall.
"Why, to stay, of course," replied her mistress, "only
mamma is sure to object, you know; so how can we
managed"
"Well, Miss, thinking if Captain Charles was very ill
you might remain, Tm prepared with your bag for one
night; after that I suppose I must go back to Shilston
for some more things, though I know her ladyship will
be terribly put out with me."
"I have it," exclaimed Captain Verschoyle. "I will
send Hallett off by the next train, telling mamma I won't
let you go and that she must let you stay, or I shall
never get well; that I will take care of you, see you are
comfortably lodged, and pay all the expenses."
This plan meeting with universal approbation, Hallett
was called to receive his orders; and during the two
hours he had to spare before starting he was desired to
take Mrs. Marshall and seek lodgings in the village close
by. Captain Verschoyle went to see what arrangements
he could make for giving them some refreshments, and
Audrey was left to herself
She took a survey of the room, opened a book or
two lying on the table, and then stood at the window
looking at the picturesque Dutch sort of view of the
neighbouring town. Was it because in this scantily-
furnished room there was nothing to arrest attention,
that Audrey Verschoyle looked such a striking object?
No. Had you seen her surrounded by luxury and
magnificence, it would have been the same. She pos-
sessed a something that, no matter where she was or in
what company, you singled her out, and wondered who
she could be. Not that she was particularly beautiful.
Indeed, many laughed when they heard her good looks
"like the prince and princess in the fairy tales." 25
brought forward as a reason for the attention she re-
ceived, notwithstanding her wonderful eyes, and tall,
graceful figure. After you had talked to her, however,
you were generally fascinated. She seemed to speak and
move exactly as you desired to satisfy your admiration,
and make you constantly think she was the most elegant
woman you had ever seen. But one thing struck every
one: that she must always have been a woman, never a
girl with thoughtless winning ways, never a child with
gleeful boisterous mirth. Yes, Audrey was always a
thorough-bred, self-possessed woman, who studied every
art by which she could make herself fascinating, who
valued without overrating each attraction she commanded,
and who could give her rivals all credit for the charms
they possessed, inasmuch as she exactly estimated her
own power to compete with them. Her sprightly wit
made her a delightful companion, and after she had
been amusing you through a long conversation, her tact
would cause you to leave feeling that she had been
equally interested and was as sorry to part from you as
you were to go from her. Notwithstanding all this,
many a man and woman who had been perfectly fasci-
nated by Audrey Verschoyle sighed when she left them
sighed to think what a sacrifice of happiness these
perfections had cost her felt sure that times often came
when she wearily longed for the great happiness without
which all women's lives must be crownless some one
to love. Not to love her alone, for many a heart had
been offered to her, but some one to whose love her own
heart could respond. She used to say, "Love, you know,
is a luxury for the rich and poor only; we who stand on
middle ground must be content to live without it." And
apparently she had contrived to live without it happily
enough. She had had her disappointments elder sons
26 DOROTHY FOX.
who had seemed secured had suddenly seceded to some
country hoyden or beauty fresh from the school-room;
rich bachelors who, on the very eve of triumph, had
taken fright and flight and so kept their liberty; wealthy
old men whom death had snatched from their would-be
bride. Still Audrey carried all off with a high hand,
openly expressing her disappointment and chagrin, al-
ways laughingly saying, "People should marry for what
they value most, and I value nothing so much as fine
houses, and carriages, and clothes, money and position;
and as fate has ordained that these good things shall
not be my portion during my single state, why I must
try and get them by my own exertions, and I shall
appreciate them so thoroughly that I am certain to make
an excellent wife to whoever is good enough to bestow
any or all upon me."
Perhaps there was some excuse for Miss Verschoyle's
love of money, for ever since she could remember, it
had been the thing lamented and longed for at home.
Colonel Verschoyle was a younger son of a very good
family. He had been brought up in luxury, so that
extravagance was habit to him. He spent every farthing
of his rather liberal allowance on himself. He went into
the best society, mixed with people who either had large
incomes, or lived as if they had them, went wherever it
was the fashion to go, did whatever it was the fashion to
do, and one season, it being the fashion to fall in love,
fell in love with Lady Laura Granville. He proposed to
her and was accepted. Lady Laura had always been
allowed to have her own way, and she would not be
ruled in the choice of a husband. She had no idea of
the value of money, and as she saw Colonel Verschoyle
could supply all his own wants, she thought he would
be able to give her all she had been accustomed to. Her
"like tiik prince an^d princess in the fairy tales." 27
father the more readily yielded to her wishes, from the
fact that a failure on the turf had ruined him and made
it highly desirable that he should speedily break up his
establishment and retire abroad. After their marriage,
notwithstanding they both talked a great deal of the
economy they intended practising, each felt it very hard
to make any the least personal sacrifice. Colonel Vers-
choyle did not find domestic happiness a sufficient com-
pensation for the horses he had to give up, or the club
he could no longer afford to belong to; and Lady Laura,
in her turn, yawned and felt weary at the end of a quiet
tete-a-tete evening, on which she had been obliged to
send a refusal to some dinner party or ball, because
another new dress could not be afforded. As time went
on the birth of a son and daughter increased their ex-
penses; and the struggle to compete and keep up an
appearance due to the set in which they mixed became
more apparent and irksome, leading to constant bicker-
ings between the husband and wife. Charles had seen
little of this, being at school during his boyhood, and
then going at once into the army; but Audrey had felt
it bitterly, had seen with the keenness of a child's in-
tuitive sense of fairness how selfish her father often was,
and how deceitful her mother proved to be. Regarding
the want of money as the cause of all this evil, she de-
termined at a very early age, that when she entered into
the world, wealth should be her chief object.
"I have mamma's experience before me," she used to
say; "hers was a love-match, and it proves that love
without money catmot give happiness; but money without
love, though it may not give happiness, can give many
things which enable you to bear your life very con-
tentedly."
Colonel Verschoyle had l)een dead ten years, and
2 5 DOROTHY FOX. '
Lady Laura's income as a widow was tolerably good, or
would have been, had she been contented to live quietly
without straining to give the world an impression that
she possessed double the sum she had. The fact that
Audrey was still unmarried was a sore disappointment
to her mother, and every year her mortification increased.
She detested girls who had the slightest pretensions to
beauty, and if she could insidiously depreciate any one
whom she regarded as her daughter's rival, she never
missed an opportunity of doing so. This weakness in
turn annoyed and amused Audrey, who with all her fail-
ings had not a trace of meanness. She delighted in a
thrust-and-parry encounter with any girl whose object in
life she considered to be the same as her own; and as
long as they were together, often tipped her arrows with
a little covert lady-like venom. But let them part, and
her rival was quite safe from Audrey; and woe betide
the man who, presuming on the too frequent foible of a
woman, presented her with a dish of flattery at her ad-
versary's expense, or, while paying her a string of compli-
ments, depreciated the absent one's recognized advantages.
Lady Laura was as selfish with her children as she
had been with her husband. Audrey might positively
refuse to go somewhere, or to do something on which
Lady Laura had set her heart, but, as she said, "she
had always in the end to give in to mamma;" for when
argument and threats failed, Lady Laura had her delicate
health and shattered nerves to fall back upon; and they
were the result, according to herself, of a life devoted
to her ungrateful daughter. Her great love was centred
in Charles; she seemed to look upon the two from per-
fectly distinct points. Her son had been given her to
love; her daughter had been given her to marry. True,
even her love for him could not overcome her rooted
"like the prince and princess in the fairy tales." 29
dread of infection: gladly would she have gone to him,
but the very name of hospital conjured up horrid visions
of fever and small-pox; and though she had, after much
pleading and entreaty, allowed Audrey to go to see her
brother, she was terrified she might catch some of those
horrid complaints during her visit; and, as she put it, "a
serious illness at Audrey's age would blight her prospects
for ever, ruin her complexion and her hair, and make
her look quite plain and old; and then, perhaps, she'd
become a district visitor or a sister of mercy, for there
was no knowing what peculiar things girls would con-
sider their vocation when all their good looks had
vanished." So she began to heartily regret she had let
Audrey go, and to half wish she had gone herself and
seen after her dear boy. Miss Brocklehurst comforted
her by saying that Audrey had considerably raised her-
self in her opinion, and if she considered it right to stay
with her brother, instead of returning for the bazaar and
flower-show, she would see that she was not a loser in
the end. This declaration from a lady who, as com-
pensation for all the caprices and disagreeable humours
she saw fit to inflict on her relations, had announced her
intention of leaving fifty thousand pounds to the one who
treated her best, filled Lady Laura with joy. In her
imagination Audrey was already an heiress, spending her
income under her mother's sole direction and manage-
ment. Lady Laura was thus in a frame of mind that
made Hallett's task a very easy one. He accordingly left
under the impression that Marshall was the most wrong-
sighted and prejudiced of her sex, and that "it's no
good trying to please women, for anybody who'd call
master's mother a dragon of a temper well! he wished
they'd had a taste of two or three of the tempers he had
had to put up with in his day."
30 DOROTHY FOX. *
Before an hour had elapsed Captain Verschoyle had
joined his sister, and Marshall had returned to announce
that they had found some rooms which would suit them
in Paradise Row, close by; and if they liked, that the
landlady would see about getting them a substantial tea
at once.
"Oh! that would be much nicer, Charles, than having
anything here; and as it will be quite early, we can take
a stroll or drive together after."
Captain Verschoyle being no longer under strict sur-
veillance as an invalid, soon made the necessary arrange-
ments for going out. Hallett received his orders and
departed for Shilston, laden with messages and instructions
from Marshall, and two notes from his master, one to
Lady Laura and the other to her hostess and cousin Miss
Brocklehurst. Marshall hurried away to give all neces-
sary instructions about the tea, and the brother and sister
leisurely followed, pleasantly chatting together.
Audrey laughed incredulously at her brother's desire
for home and quiet. "Why, my dear Charlie, your state
is really a most dangerous one. It would take very little
to make you fall romantically in love with some charming
creature (who of course would not have a penny), and to
imagine you could spend the rest of your life lapped in
the delights of domestic felicity and the luxuries which
eight hundred pounds a-year would give you. Mamma's
heiress will prove an interposition of Providence she is
just the girl for you to meet in a country house in your
present frame of mind she is so pale and fragile looking.
Then, from having had every other want supplied, love is
sure to be the one wish of her life; she will adore you,
and you will gracefully consent to be worshipped; she
will beg you to accept her fortune, calling it a cipher
compared with the treasure you have given her in your
"like the prince and princess in the fairy tales. 3 1
love. And you will accept her fifty thousand pounds,
and while pressing her to your heart, lament she is not
penniless that you might show her your disinterested love
is for herself alone."
"Most dramatically drawn " laughed Captain Vers-
choyle, "and not altogether an unpleasing picture, for
even now I should require little short of an angel to re-
concile me to love in a cottage on a limited income;
so may your foreshadowings, prove true, sister of mine.
Oh! here is Marshall. I suppose we have reached our
destination."
They turned into an open gate, and followed Marshall
into the house and up the stairs to an old-fashioned bow-
windowed drawing-room, the ornaments of which seemed
collected from every quarter of the globe. There were
dangerous weapons of savage life, dainty carvings and
grotesque josses, curious shells, gaudy feather flowers,
cases of stuffed tropical birds, and rare China bowls and
vases all contrasting oddly with the well-worn carpet
and somewhat over substantially made furniture. The
table was set out for tea with whatever could be pro-
cured for an impromptu meal. Altogether the room
looked quaint and homely, and quite different from any-
thing Audrey had ever seen.
"I hope, Miss," said the smiling, good-natured looking
landlady, "you'll try and make yourself comfortable, and
ask for everything you want, and tell me all you don't
like, and then we shall soon know each other's ways."
"Thank you," said Audrey; then throwing herself into
a chair, she exclaimed, "For four days, farewell to all my
greatness! I intend forgetting the world and everybody it
contains but you, Charlie, and we'll try and be like the
prince and princess in the fairy tales, 'as happy as the
days are long.'"
32 DOROTHY FOX.
CHAPTER III.
At King's-Heart.
In quiet lives simple occurrences become great events;
and so it was that Dorothy Fox dwelt more than most
girls might have done on the adventure of the day be-
fore. Naturally she desired to know if the handsome
young soldier had quite recovered; and this led to won-
dering where he lived, and whether she should ever see
him again. Then the wounded arm spun a web entirely
on its own account, telling its tale of Russians and Zouaves;
echoing the names Alma, Inkerman, Sebastopol; names
that recalled deeds, the fame of which could not be shut
out even from the ears of the peace-loving Quaker. Not-
withstanding all she had heard against fighting, a halo
would throw itself over a wounded hero, and when she
sat down to write her diurnal letter to her mother, it
seemed a task to give a plain unvarnished statement of
such an interesting circumstance. She determined, there-
fore, to tell her only the facts that a young man had
come into the shop, and had fainted, but that by Judith's
care he recovered, and, after resting, was able to walk
home. The details she would give to her mother when
she returned. And as the return was to be on the fol-
lowing day, Dorothy employed herself in scanning the
flower-beds, re-arranging the pots in the various stands,
and redusting the already speckless furniture.
All was ready by the next evening, and six o'clock
saw Dorothy standing in the garden, waiting to catch
sound of the wheels which would tell her that oldRowe,
with his white horse fly, was bringing the expected
travellers slowly home. The sun had nearly lost its
power, and twilight would soon gather slowly over the
fair prospect. Already the distant hills were preparing
AT KIXG'S-HEART. 3o
to enshroud themselves in their bkie misty coverings.
Everything seemed hushed and peaceful, and the har-
mony between the low, ivy-covered house, the trim gar-
den with its yew hed.,e screening the view of the high
road, and the young girl in her grey, old-world dress,
was complete. You might have fancied you had gone
back to the days succeeding those when the first Charles
held his court at a house close by, and had come to this
very place to visit its loyal owner, "who, in memory of
the spot on which the king had stood, planted a yew
tree, which he cut in fashion of a heart, and to this day
King's-heart is the name the house goes by."
Wheels! And this time, instead of going on, they
come nearer and nearer, only stopping in front of the
gate, which Dorothy quickly opens, feeling a desire to
throw her arms round her mother's neck and kiss her
twenty times. But her father, she knows, would not ap-
prove of any such display of affection, so she stands
quietly, with beaming eyes of love, waiting for them to
descend. Then they exchange a quiet, sober, but warm
greeting, and go into the house, quite ready to enjoy
the substantial supper which Dorothy has provided for
them.
When supper is over, the conversation flows more
readily, although the two great points of interest Eliza-
beth Spark's wedding, and Josiah Crewdson's visit
have to be deferred until Dorothy is alone with her
mother. In the mean time she answers the questions
relating to the household and the garden, tells them who
she saw at meeting on First-day, and who gave the dis-
course; and is in her turn informed of all that happened
at Exeter during the stay her father and mother made
there. Then they show her the presents they have
brought home, and finding among them one for Judith,
Dorothy Fox. 3
34 DOROTHY FOX.
Dorothy runs off to look for her old nurse, who is wait-
ing to see master and mistress, to give an account of all
the proceedings of the Plymouth establishment during
their absence.
Patience's eyes followed her daughter's retreating
figure, and turning to her husband, she said
"I have seen no one to compare with our child in
sweetness since we have been away. I hope I am not
too greatly set upon her, Nathaniel."
"No, Patience, no," replied her husband, whose voice
seemed always softer when he addressed his wife; "I be-
lieve thou hast towards her only the love of a fond mo-
ther though," he added, smiling, "certainly one of thy
greatest failings is letting thy love make thee somewhat
blind to people's shortcomings."
Patience gave an involuntary sigh, which, seeing her
husband had noticed, she explained by saying, "I feel
such a shrinking when the thought that I may perhaps
soon lose her comes across me."
"Thou must not call giving her to Josiah Crewdson
losing her. Patience," replied Nathaniel, with a tinge of
reproach in his look as well as in his voice. "I only
earnestly trust I may live to see her united to a man
who, I believe, is worthy of her, and of being a champion
in this cause of upholding our principles against those
who, while they are Friends in name, are foes to the so-
ciety they should defend and honour. I have more
pleasure in looking forward to giving Dorothy to Josiah
Crewdson, than I had to giving Grace to John Hanbury."
"Dear Grace!" said Patience: "I wish that she and
John saw things more as thou would have them do; but
I feel sure Grace never allows that in which her con-
science condemns her."
"Ah! the devil can make a conscience very elastic,
AT king's- HEART. 35
Patience. Once let him get the smallest entrance into
the heart, and he will soon fill it and the mind with a
love of his snares and besetments."
"I hope Dorothy may like Josiah," said Patience, pur-
suing the subject which was uppermost in her mind.
"Of course, she will like him," returned Nathaniel,
growing impatient. "Why should she notl An excel-
lent young man, whom we have all known from his
childhood. I trust that my daughter has been too well
brought up not to be greatly guided in her choice of a
husband by the knowledge that he has the approbation
of her father." Then seeing a troubled expression on
Patience's face, he patted her hand, saying, "Be very
sure, love will come, wife, love will come."
"I trust so, for without it marriage must be a dreary
bondage of mind and body. Two people may honour,
obey, and respect each other, but if love is not present
to make them one oh! husband, can you not say, 'I
pity them'?"
Before Nathaniel could reply, Dorothy returned,
asking if Judith might come in and see them. Permis-
sion being given, the old servant was soon interesting
them in accounts of the orders Mark had taken, and
how many times he had been away to Tavistock, Totnes,
and other places.
After this Nathaniel went out to speak to the gardener,
and then Judith entered upon gossip of a more domestic
character, until, having exhausted her stock, she sud-
denly exclaimed, "Did ye tell the mistress about the
young soldier, dear, and his fainting off dead in the
shop, just, as luck would have it, when Pd run out to
tell Mary Dawe about Friday's cleaning; such a woman
as she is with her tongue, which once set clacking, and
Pd like to see the one who'd get in a word on the bladg
36 DOROTHY FOX.
of a knife. However, I was soon back, or I don't know
what the poor child would have done."
"Ah! thou did mention something of the sort, Dorothy,
but how did it happen, and what brought him to the
shop?"
Hereupon Judith and Dorothy related the whole cir-
cumstance. "And, mother," said Dorothy, "Judith is
quite offended with him because he took her for thee,
and when he left desired his thanks and his card to be
given to her."
"Hush, now!" exclaimed Judith; "it is too bad to
bring that up against him. The truth is, his poor head
was so dazed he couldn't tell cockles from corn."
"I almost wish thou hadst heard where he lived,"
remarked Patience, "that Mark might have inquired
whether he reached home in safety. These sudden at-
tacks of faintness are \cry alarming. What was his
name?"
"Captain Charles Egerton Verschoyle is on the card,"
answered Dorothy.
"Oh! then he was not a working man," replied her
mother.
"Working man!" echoed Judith, "indeed he had the
bearing of a lord, and the step of a drum-major as he
walked down the street. 'Twas his looks made me
wonder what I'd best do with him."
"I am glad thou let thy kind heart decide for thee,
Judith," said her mistress; "the day must never come
when any one, gentle or simple, in want or need, turns
from Nathaniel Fox's door. Remember the spirit of true
charity has dwelt in that house for many generations^
But here comes thy father. It is time for reading, so call
Lydia and Anne, and get the books, Dorothy."
The maids came in, and the family, after sitting silent
AT king's-heart. 37
for a short time, listened attentively while Nathaniel Fox
read the evening portion to them. To have merely
looked in upon such a scene Avould have sent a peaceful
feeling over a troubled, world-weary life.
Although it was not quite dark the lamp was lighted
and placed before the reader, thus making him the most
striking object, and throwing out his face and figure.
Nathaniel Fox was a tall well-made man of nearly sixty
years. His face was grave and almost stern in its ex-
pression. His disposition was naturally genial and cheer-
ful, and he enjoyed a joke, or quick repartee, more than
he would have cared to own. His family had belonged
to the Society of Friends for many generations. His
father had commenced life as a woollen-draper, and by
his frugal habits and patient industry had so increased his
business that he amassed a considerable fortune, which
was inherited by his only son. Nathaniel had been sent
to York school and kept there until he was fifteen, at
which age he was considered to be duly educated and
ready to learn the business. He never left home, setded
early in life, and succeeded to a larger income than, with
his quiet habits, he had any means or desire of spending.
As time rolled on, his little peculiarities naturally became
enlarged, his opinion that his own views were right became
confirmed, and his toleration to those who differed from
him got narrowed. Of the world he was literally ignorant,
although by his warnings and exhortations against its
snares and follies one might have fancied he had run the
gauntlet of every temptation. So it was that this simple
pure-minded man, to whom the truth was a law he never
knowingly broke, took the most one-sided view of things
which, if he could have seen them in their true light, he
would have upheld and enjoyed. No rigid fanatic ever
stood by a dictum more staunchly than did Nathaniel
38 DOROTHY FOX.
Fox advocate every principle enjoined by the Society of
Friends. The diminishing of the height of his collar, or
the narrowing of the brim of his hat by one fraction of an
inch would have been considered, by this worthy man, a
grave offence. He never seemed to consider that though
people might in most cases indulge in "plainness of speech
and behaviour," without much personal inconvenience,
plainness of dress entailed great trouble and expense. If
Nathaniel wanted a hat or coat, he could not obtain such
articles to his satisfaction in Plymouth; he had to apply
to some maker for the brotherhood residing in Exeter or
London. A new bonnet for Patience cost more trouble
to obtain than any lady of fashion went through to secure
the newest style from Paris. Still nothing would have
induced Nathaniel to adopt any other dress than that
which he had been brought up to consider as the only
proper one for a consistent Friend. Certainly he had so
far departed from the practice of his forefathers as not
to insist upon mounting a cocked hat with the brim
fastened up to the crown with cord; neither did he con-
sider it incumbent upon him to confme himself entirely
to drab. But his neck was ever enveloped in the whitest
of cravats, tied with exquisite neatness, and his drab
breeches and gaiters, as well as his black swallow-tailed
straight-collared coat, were made of the finest West of
England cloth.
Nathaniel had been married twice, his first wife hav-
ing died soon after the birth of their daughter Grace,
who, having mixed greatly with her mother's family, had
formed opinions and ideas which differed considerably
from those held by her father.
Patience, his second wife, was the daughter of a
wealthy tea-merchant of York. Her education had been
more liberal than that of her husband, over whom she
A REUNION. 39
exercised a more decided sway than slie ever named or
he ever knew. They were very opposite in character
and disposition, but their love to each other was devoted
and unmistakable. From her mother, Dorothy inherited
her fair face and delicate features. Patience had been
a beauty, and those who knew her, thought she had lost
but little of her charms. She was the friend of all around
her, rejoicing in their happiness and prosperity, comfort-
ing them in sorrow and adversity, and giving to them in
her own life a perfect example of each womanly grace
and virtue.
CHAPTER IV.
A Reunion.
The four days in Plymouth had slipped quickly
away. To-morrow the brother and sister were to return
to Shilston Hall and join Lady Laura, who was anxiously
expecting her son. This was therefore Audrey's last day
of freedom. They had made the most of the time, and
it had passed away so speedily and happily, and left so
many pleasant memories, that Audrey declared that if
she could marry for love she would spend her honey-
moon in Plymouth. Not that they had done much sight-
seeing in a place where the lover of fair nature has but
one complaint, an emharras de r (chesses. Captain
Verschoyle, in after days, often spoke to her of that week
at Plymouth, where she was as gay as a happy girl, and
as artless and naive as a thoughtless child. She would
talk to the old boatmen, and listen with delight to their
yarns, and would enter into conversation with any man,
woman, or child who chanced to come in her way, and
be as triumphantly pleased with the evident admiration
she excited in some rough old salt or military pensioner,
40 DOROTHY FOX.
as if they had been eligible partis, with rank and wealth
to lay at the feet of their charmer.
"Audrey," said Charles to her after one of these happy
excursions, "I have often heard that you were charming,
but if people only saw you just now, they would say you
were irresistible."
Whereupon she made him a sweeping curtsey, de-
claring that she believed it, for it was the first compliment
he had ever paid her in his life. "But," she went on,
"I have often thought that I might have been really
nice, if I had not been brought up to show the right
side, and feel the wrong side, of everything. The last
few days have made me rather inclined to envy those
whom ambition does not tempt to any other than a
simple life of domestic contentment. It must be very
pleasant to feel you have a companion for your whole
life, one whom you love so well that you are truly con-
tent to take and be taken 'for better and for worse.' Ah,
I see you are elevating your eyebrows, sir, and no won-
der, when you are listening to such treason from the lips
of your mentor. But pray don't inform against me. I
promise to leave all my romance behind me here. And
now, how shall we employ this last dayl"
"I thought we should drive round Plymouth, and
then I could make the inquiries I want to make at the
Custom-house. I am rather anxious about those boxes;
they are filled with curiosities and relics that I set much
value upon."
Accordingly they set off, and soon found them-
selves going over the bridge and through the toll-gate,
whose keeper had given Captain Verschoyle his round-
about direction. The sight of the man reminded him of
that evening's adventure, and he began to relate the cir-
cumstances to his sister. Audrey was quite interested in
A REUNION. '41
his description of the bright-looking, motherly shop-
keeper, and her daughter, and asked him to give her a
minute detail of all that happened.
"And the girl was very pretty 1" said she, answering
her brother with a question.
"Well," replied Captain Verschoyle, "I hardly know;
her prim quaintness struck me so much more than any-
thing else. Her tout ensemble certainly made a charming
picture, but how much was due to her good looks I
really cannot say. You know she was totally unlike any-
thing I ever saw before."
"How I should like to see her!" exclaimed Audrey.
"Could you not call, and say you were much better, and
felt you could not leave Plymouth without again thank-
ing them for their kindness*?"
"Oh, I don't know," said her brother, "it's hardly
worth while, and she might not strike you at all in the
same way; minus crinoline and colours, you might think
her dowdy and old-fashioned."
"No, I should not," answered Audrey; "and if I did
it would make no difference. My curiosity would be
satisfied, so do go, Charlie. I really think you should,
for they were very good to you."
"Yes, they were indeed," replied Captain Verschoyle.
"Suppose I were to take a bunch of flowers to the
girl. I saw some on the table, I remember; and you
being with me, it would seem all right. I want them to
think that I have come to thank them, not from any
other motive."
Upon this the coachman was told to stop at any
shop where he saw flowers for sale. They had not left
the Union Road before Audrey had selected a rather
large bouquet formed of roses and lilies.
42 DOROTHY FOX.
"I wish we could have got something better," said
Captain Verschoyle.
"Yes, I wish so too; but it will please them. Marshall
would call it lovely those sort of people always favour
quantity rather than quality."
They had soon passed St. Andrew's Church and the
Post-office, Audrey commenting on the smart shops and
the gaily-dressed pedestrians, and admiring the pretty
smiling girls, with their dark eyes and bright fresh com-
plexions. The old Guildhall came in sight, and opposite
it the fat gilt lamb dangling over the name of Nathaniel
Fox, "woollen draper and manufacturer." Here they
drew up and descended, and entering the shop, inquired
if Mrs. Fox were at home.
"Yes," replied Mark, thinking the question applied
to her return from Exeter.
"Could I see her?" said Captain Verschoyle.
"And Miss Fox?" put in Audrey.
"They're not here," answered Mark; "they're at
King's-heart, where they keep house:" then seeing that
Miss Verschoyle looked rather disappointed, he con-
tinued, "But if thou came to see them thou wilt go on
there surely, or they'll be main disappointed. Now thou
art on the road, 'tis but a step."
"Yes; let us go, Charles," said Audrey; and then
seeing her brother hesitate, she addressed Mark, asking
him if it was far, and begging him to repeat the name
of the place.
"Perhaps you would explain it to the coachman," she
continued, "for we are strangers here, and know nothing
of the roads."
Mark's explanation was very brief, for the man knew
the house, and was soon driving up to it, CXptain Vers-
choyle feeling very much inclined to turn back. But he
A REUNION. 4,3
was overruled by Audrey's curiosity; and as they had
nothing else to do, and the country began to look very
pretty, he soon felt more at ease.
At the top of the lane they got out of the fly, the
man telling them to walk on until they came to a white
gate, where they could either ring or walk in. The high
hedge and the trees formed such a complete screen from
the road that it was impossible to catch a glimpse of the
house; and as they stood admiring the prospect Lydia
answered their summons. She said Mrs. Fox was at
home, and bade them follow her. Somehow, before they
had gone half way up the path. Captain Verschoyle
heartily wished himself anywhere else. Audrey tried to
whisper that they had certainly made a mistake, and tliey
were both reflecting what they had better do, when
Lydia opened a door, and announced Captain and Miss
Verschoyle.
The room into which they were shown was always
called the sitting-room, though it answered to the draw-
ing-room of upper middle-class families. It was prettily
and lightly furnished, and bore about it evidence of
being intended for home use, while the flowers arranged
in different stands and vases spoke of refined taste and
feminine influence. Patience was seated before a half-
finished painting of a group of tall white lilies, giving
Dorothy the benefit of her criticism, as the girl knelt at
her side listening with delighted face to the praise her
mother had to bestow.
When the door opened there was a momentary look
of surprise on both their faces, and then Dorothy, com-
ing forward with a perfectly natural but pretty shy
manner, held out her hand to Captain Verschoyle, saying,
"I am so glad to see thee looking so well again."
Poor Charles! I fear his first impulse was to turn
44 DOROTHY FOX.
round and soundly rate Audrey for allowmg her curiosity
to bring him into this dilemma. One glance at the oc-
cupants of the room told him the relationship in which
they stood towards each other, and revealed the evident
mistake he had made. He could not explain it now,
and say that he had considered that homely-looking
person the mother of this girl, who, among these sur-
roundings, looked much more refined than he had in
their first interview thought her.
"This is my mother," continued Dorothy, as Patience
advanced towards them.
Captain Verschoyle was not naturally oppressed with
bashfulness or awkwardness, but on this occasion no
youth raw from a remote country district could have felt
more confused. Audrey was so much amused at the ap-
pearance he presented, as he stood there trying to stam-
mer out something, the enormous nosegay all the while
in his hand, that it required a violent effort on her part
to keep from bursting into a fit of laughter. But she
restrained herself, and came to the rescue by saying
"Mrs. Fox, you will pardon this intrusion, I am sure.
My brother and I felt your kindness to him was so great,
that our gratitude would not permit us to leave Plymouth
without thanking you for it."
"I am very pleased to see thee," said Patience; then,
turning to Captain Verschoyle, she continued, "The mis-
take thou madest in taking Judith for Dorothy's mother
was a natural one, and Judith is so valued by us all,
that I appreciate the intention which made thee come so
far to thank her, quite as much as if thy visit had been
meant for myself."
Patience little knew how her unstudied speech,
prompted entirely by the wish to set the young man at
ease, raised her at once in Miss Verschoyle's opinion.
A REUNION. 45
"How well done!" she thought; "that woman has
breeding in her, though she may be the daughter of a
thousand shopkeepers."
Captain Verschoyle began to recover himself, and by
the time Dorothy had relieved him of his floral burden,
saying, "What beautiful lilies! I was wishing I had some
more this morning," he had found his courage again;
and feeling the truth had best be told, he said that he
had got them for her, thinking that she lived in the town,
and would perhaps accept them, and excuse the poorness
of his offering. They were soon perfectly at home,
Patience listening to an account of Captain Verschoyle's
subsequent illness, and Dorothy showing Audrey the
flower painting she was engaged upon. Audrey thought
she had never before seen anything so pretty as the
child's artless manner, so self-possessed and yet so simple.
She readily assented to Dorothy's proposal that they
should go over the garden, and Captain Verschoyle and
Patience got up to follow them.
"But," said Audrey, "you will get a hat or bonnet
first."
"Oh no; I never do."
"Why, you will spoil your complexion; which would
be a pity, for it is beautiful."
"Is if?" answered Dorothy.
Audrey laughed; here certainly was a rara avis a
girl who was unconscious of the charms she possessed.
Audrey wondered whether she was the happier for it,
and if her whole demeanour could be relied upon. She
was the embodiment of happiness, and yet what capa-
bilities of improvement she possessed! If her hair were
simply but fashionably arranged, and if she had an ele-
gant white toilette, she would be the perfection of her
style. And then Audrey mentally conjured up a reflect
46 DOROTHY FOX.
tion of her own figure clothed in grey, with the white net
kerchief crossed over her bosom, and all her hair taken
back from her face and fastened into a knot at the back
of her head.
"I should look simply hideous," she thought. "What
a providence I am not condemned to belong to the
Quaker persuasion!"
"What art thou showing Audrey Verschoyle, dearest?"
said Patience; then seeing the surprised look on Audrey's
face, she added, "Thou must not think me familiar in
thus naming thee, but it is against our principles to give
persons the title of Miss or Mr."
"Familiar! indeed no, Mrs. Fox; I was just looking
at this yew-tree so curiously cut."
"Yes, they call it 'Charles's heart,' and say the poor
man once stood by it in much sorrow. Dorothy will tell
thee long histories of all he did during his stay at Widey,
for he is her favourite hero of romance."
"Hardly that, mother; but I feel so sorry for him;
and so dost thou, too."
"Yes," answered Patience; "still I always blame him
for want of truthfulness. He relied, I fear, on one of
the world's supports cunning, a very broken reed to all
who try its strength."
"Ah, but, Mrs. Fox," said Audrey, "remember he
lived in an atmosphere where, as in the world of the
present day, a little deceit is pardonable, and strict truth
would be not only unpalatable, but unwholesome, inas-
much as it would cause you to disagree with every
one."
"Thou dost not quite mean that," replied Patience,
"or I should form a bad opinion of the world."
"And do you not think badly of us?" questioned Au-
drey, laughing.
A REUNION. 47
"I hope not " returned Patience. "Of course, thou
must know that in the quiet life I lead, many of the
things I hear I must condemn; but then it is the folly I
censure, not individually those who enter into it. How
could I presume to do that, when, were it not for a good-
ness that has placed me beyond those particular tempta-
tions, my weak human nature might be as powerless to
resist as theirs whom I should be censuring?"
"Mrs. Fox," said Captain Verschoyle, "you put a quiet
life very pleasantly before us."
"Do IV she answered; "and yet I sometimes hope
that Dorothy may see more of the world than I have had
an opportunity of seeing. I do not hold a choice made
through ignorance so highly as I should hold one made
after the person had in a measure tested the value of
what was given up; and just now a great agitation is
working in the minds of Friends, whether it would not
be expedient to give more freedom of action to members
of the society. Many regard the movement with favour,
while others cling to the customs of their fathers. My
husband is one of those who deplore any innovation, so,
of course, we carry out his views; though I cannot say
it would be against my conscience to do many things
which I refrain from doing just because I know his con-
science would condemn them. And now thou wilt come
into the house and partake of some refreshment before
starting?"
Audrey hesitated.
"Oh, thou must come," said Dorothy.
"I should like very much to do so," answered Audrey,
"did I not fear we were almost trespassing on your hos-
pitality."
"Do not fear that," taid Tatience, siiuiing. "Thou
48 DOROTHY FOX.
knovvest it is our custom only to say what we mean;
therefore thy staying will give us pleasure."
"Then I am sure we will not deny ourselves such a
pleasure," added Captain Verschoyle.
And on this they all went back to the house to par-
take of tea and fruit and cake. They sat some time
longer talking of paintings and flowers, and of many
subjects on which Charles and Audrey seldom spoke.
Captain Verschoyle gave them some descriptions of the
Crimea of the sufferings and bravery of the men, and
of the fortitude with which some had heard their death-
warrant, when life would have given them the fame to
gain which they had risked all they held dear. He spoke
more particularly of one of his own especial friends, and
of the influence his life and death had had upon his
men. Patience at length confessed to herself that she
felt greatly drawn towards him, and thought how proud
his mother must be of such a son; for Charles Verschoyle
had that gentle suavity of manner which, while it attracts
all, particularly appeals to women who feel that their
youth no longer claims the attention and thoughtfulness
due to their sex.
They were all reluctant to say good-bye; and, stand-
ing together at the white gate, any one would have been
surprised to hear that they were friends of only a few
hours' standing.
"Farewell," said Patience to Audrey. "I shall often
think of thee."
"And I of you," she answered. "The thought will
do me good as you yourself would do could I see more
of you." Then turning to Dorothy, and meeting her
loving, earnest eyes, Audrey, giving way to a most un-
usual impulse, took the sweet face in both her hands,
A REUNION-. 4^
c'md kissed her on both cheeks. Captain Verschoyle
nieanwhile bade a lingering adieu to Patience.
"Farewell," she said; "I am glad we have met, should
it never be our lot to meet again. In all thy warfare, may
thou be protected."
"Thank you heartily; but I will not think this is to
be our only meeting. Should I ever come to Plymouth
again, you will, I know, give me permission to call and
see you. Good-bye, Miss Fox, I have not expressed half
my gratitude to you for your charitable kindness."
One more look round to see the mother and daughter,
as they stood together, the declining rays of the sun
lingering about the pathway where they stood, and lov-
ingly resting on them, and Audrey and Charles Vers-
choyle turned their faces towards Plymouth. The driver
(who had been well cared for) touched up his horse, and
they were soon well on the road again.
"Charles," said Audrey, breaking the silence, "I never
in my life-time felt so old and world- worn, nor felt such
a desire to be different from what I am. No7V I know
what happiness means! Something born of a great heart
too pure, too truthful, too charitable to see aught but
the best of people, and which, as it daily grows and
strengthens, fills its owner with inward peace and perfect
content! Oh, I have so enjoyed this afternoon! I feel,
if I were a man, I should like to marry that girl."
"And I," answered her brother, "should like to marry
the mother. For such a wife I could give up everything,
and feel perfectly contented."
"Yes, she is certainly charming; but so they both are,
and their manners are perfect. While I was watching
them, I could but make some rather humiliating com-
parisons. Here was I pluming myself on my wonderful
good breeding, the result of birth and society, and t
Dorothy Fox, 4
50 DOROTHY FOX.
come suddenly upon the wife and daughter of a country
shop-keeper, who tell you that they have hardly ever
been beyond the town they live in, and never mixed
with other society than the members of their own com-
munity, and yet the self-possession and graceful tact of
the mother, when she covered your confusion at an awk-
ward mistake, by turning it at once into an attention
paid to her family, and the pretty way in which the
daughter told you that the flowers were just those she
had been wishing for, might have been envied by a
duchess/'
"Quite so," said her brother; "the true thing evidently
springs from some other source than 'blue blood' alone."
"I was very nearly endangering every claim I possess
to good breeding," exclaimed Audrey. "I really thought
I must have had a fit of laughter at you, Charlie. You
have no idea of the ridiculous figure you presented with
that enormous nosegay; only the geese were wanting to
make the representation of the 'Bashful Swain' com-
plete."
Captain Verschoyle laughed. "Well, certainly," he
said, "I never felt more completely disconcerted in my
life, and the worst of it was, I could think of nothing
to say."
"Fancy, Charlie, if mamma could have seen her son
hors de combat before a shopkeeper's wife!"
"Ah! poor mammal" replied Captain Verschoyle,
"she has a good many things to be shocked at yet."
"I cannot think," continued Audrey, "why you were
so little impressed with the girl's beauty; to me she is
lovely. She made me feel so old, and filled me with
a desire to caress her and pet her and indulge her."
"She is very much prettier than 1 thought her," au-
A REUNION. 51
swered her brother; "before, I principally admired her
quaint childishness."
"Yes," said Audrey, "but that is only in her pretty
half shy manner and appearance; she can talk extremely
well."
"Can she?" replied Captain Verschoyle absently.
"Of course she can," exclaimed Audrey, "but you
were so taken up with her mother that I don't believe
you spoke ten words to her. However, it didn't matter,
for I saw she admired me much more than she did
you."
"Then all was as it should be, and we got an equal
division of pleasure. I wonder what the father is like."
"Oh, vulgar, I dare say," replied Audrey.
"And I dare say not," returned her brother; "peculiar
he may be, disagreeable perhaps, but the husband of that
woman could not continue vulgar."
"No, you are right, Charles," answered Audrey, "and
I only wish I could see them often. I know they would
do me good, and keep down that 'envy, hatred, and
malice' which poisons much of my better nature. This
afternoon's visit is the delightful termination to our holi-
day. Say you have enjoyed the last week, Charlie dear,
for I don't believe I was ever so happy in my life be-
fore."
Next morning they took their departure reluctantly.
Marshall quite entered into their regret, for, in addition to
the scenery, she left behind the landlady's son, home from
sea, who, "though a little free in speech and rough in
voice, was a tender, kind-hearted creature." Moreover,
he was so attentive to "Miss Marshall," that she hardly
knew what to think of his intentions. At parting he had
given her a white satin heart-shaped pincushion, worked
v*ith beads, and had told her to accept it as emblematic,
4*
5:2 DOROTHY FOX.
though his own heart was not so hard. So it had been
a happy week to all of them, and as the train carried
them beyond the possibility of another glimpse of the
old town of Plymouth, they sighed that it was over.
Lady Laura was at St. Thomas's station to meet
them, and it rejoiced Captain Verschoyle's heart to see
the tears of joy in his mother's eyes, and her contented
look, as with her hand in his they drove to Shilston
Hall.
"Miss Brocklehurst will be so pleased to see you
both," said Lady Laura. "She has talked so much about
you, that some of those horrid toadies of cousins have
gone away in disgust. I am very glad now that Audrey
went to you, Charlie, although I endured agonies after
she had left, fearing that she might catch some fever or
dreadful complaint. You know, my dearest boy, no-
thing but the certainty that it would have been death to
me, in my weak state, to have gone to such a place
prevented me flying to you. It was a dreadful trial to
remain here. And it was so thoughtful of you to stay
away these two days longer, and have all your clothes
thoroughly exposed to the air. My anxiety for your re-
turn prevented my suggesting such a thing."
"Do you intend staying here much longer, mamma?"
interrupted Audrey.
"I think not," answered Lady Laura. "We are due
at Dyne Court the beginning of next month, and I want
to stay in town for a few days before we go there.
However, Charles shall decide, and I shall be governed
by him."
"Oh no, mother," said Captain Verschoyle, "I do
not want any of the bother of pre-eminence. You and
Audrey must manage everything for me, and I shall be
content to follow cut any plans made for me."
THE CREWDSON?.
53
"Very well," returned his mother, delightedly. "If
you throw the onus of management upon me, I think I
may answer that you will have no cause for complaint.
I have several pet schemes on hand which I think you
will approve of, and before next season comes I hope
you will both be well established, and independent of
everybody." At this point Lady Laura gave a sigh; and
then, meeting her son's eyes, pressed his hand, exclaim-
ing, "I have not told you half what I suffered while you
were away, nor how thankful I feel to have you with me
once more."
CHAPTER V.
The Crewdsons.
JosiAH CREWDSON was a cloth-merchant of Leeds,
where for many years his family had held a good posi-
tion, and were esteemed and respected by their fellow-
townsmen. They adhered closely to the manners and
customs of the sect to which they belonged. Josiah
therefore wore the dress almost universally adopted by
strict Friends. His coat, retaining its swallow tails, gave
way a little in the matter of the old straight collar,
which a lining of velvet, turned down, served partly to
hide; and instead of a white cravat, he adopted a scarf
of black silk or satin; but with these exceptions his
costume was in all respects that of the old school.
In appearance Josiah was short and broad set, with
ruddy whiskerless face, and an undue amount of colour,
which seemed to deepen like a girl's on the smallest
provocation. Had it not been for the excessive gravity
of his speech and manner, he would have struck people
as boyish. And boyish his face really was, although his
figure might have belonged to a middle-aged man!" Ex-
w
54 DOROTHY FOX.
cept when engaged in business, Josiah was painfully
shy, and very sensitive as to his own personal defects.
He greatly envied the ease of manner and fluency of
speech which most men seemed naturally to possess;
and he often wondered what could possibly make him so
bashful and stupid. These two defects resulted entirely
from the hard school in which his boyhood and youth
had been passed.
His father, a stern, narrow-minded man, had certain
fixed notions and plans on which he invariably acted,
and for which he could give no better reason than that
such was his rule. It was his rule, for instance, never
to allow the smallest indulgence to his children, but to
deny them every amusement. He punished each small
offence, and magnified an omission into a glaring fault.
He condemned all lightness of heart, and called all
manifestation of tenderness nonsensical and ridiculous.
His two daughters, who were many years older than
Josiah, were cast in the same mould as their father. To
them it was no hard task to obey regulations which
exactly fitted in with their own cramped views.
But Josiah was not a Crewdson. He took after the
mother, who had died when he was born; and for this
abominable want of sense the family never entirely for-
gave him.
Surrounded by all the comforts of life, the Crewdsons
ought to have been a cheerful, happy family; instead of
which they were dull and gloomy. The silence of a
prison seemed to reign over them. They seldom met
save at meals, where conversation was strictly forbidden.
Except to ask for what they needed, not a voice was
raised. Directly the business of eating was over, all the
members were expected to occupy themselves immediately
with their duties. Amusements were regarded as con-
THE CRF.WnSONS.
55
temptible snares, which old Crewdson said were not
needed by rational beings. If, therefore, Josiah, as a
boy, interested himself in any little diversion which in
the case of one differently brought up would have been
extremely tame and uninteresting, Jemima or Kezia were
down upon him, and if he did not at once relinquish
his newly-found hobby, woe betide him. Thus was he
kept in utter subjection; his spirit curbed, his geniality
suppressed, his tongue tied, and his whole nature turned,
as it were, from its natural source and diverted into the
groove which his father had laid down for it. And when
old Crewdson died, people wondered why Josiah con-
tinued just the same man, permitting his two sisters to
rule his household and lecture and snub him as they
had done all his lifetime. They forgot that twenty-five
years of brow-beating leaves such an amount of bashful-
ness and spiritlessness, that unless a man turn at once
into a bully and a tyrant, many years will hardly suffice
to remove it. In one thing Josiah's father had not
laboured in vain, and that was to make his son a
thorough man of business. Josiah's capacity for busi-
ness was the only thing the old man appreciated in him.
The lad soon saw that on this ground they met on an
equal footing, that his diffidence gave way, and his
natural good sense had full swing. He showed such
undoubted talent that for some years before his father's
death the entire management had almost fallen into his
hands, and the trade, which was very considerable, had
steadily increased. Josiah was accordingly looked upon
as one of the wealthiest and most prosperous of the
younger members belonging to the Society of Friends.
Between the Crewdsons and the Foxes there liad
always been a close intimacy, and it was the wislt of
Nathaniel Fox and old Stephen Crewdson. that this bond
56 DOROTHY FOX,
might be still further strengthened by the ukimate mar-
riage of Dorothy and Josiah. Josiah had not seen
Dorothy since she was a girl of fourteen. But even then
he quite regarded her as his destined future wife; and
many people would have been somewhat surprised to
know that this sedate-looking man, who was apparently
engrossed in his business (for besides being a cloth
merchant, he was a railway and bank director), looked
forward with the greatest satisfaction to the time when
a sweet young wife would lovingly greet his return and
brighten his home, taking the place of the two gaunt
figures, who, seated on the stiffest of horse-hair chairs,
and clothed in the most terribly severe coloured alpacas,
now considered it their duty to bear their testimony and
uphold their principles whenever he proposed anything
pleasant or a little contrary to their established customs.
Yes, the fact was that Josiah's warm answers were often
checked by the thought that very soon the whole domestic
arrangements would be changed.
The proposed alliance between their brother and
Dorothy Fox was of course no secret to the Miss Crewd-
sons. As it had been an arrangement of their father's,
they entirely approved of it. In common with most of
the leading Friends, they considered it an excellent and
sensible union, and one which it was now almost high
time to bring to a conclusion. Dorothy was nineteen,
and twenty-one was considered a fitting age for a maiden
to become a wife. Two years would thus be given for a
more open engagement, and then the necessary prepara-
tion for settling would all be properly gone about; for
nothing done in haste could, according to the Crewdscn
ideas, be performed with that decency and order which
befitted Friends.
The thought that it was high time these two young
THE CREWDSONS. 57
people should see a little more of each other had also
entered Nathaniel Fox's head. Therefore it was fixed,
after a consultation with his wife, that an invitation should
be sent to Josiah, requesting him to spend a short time
at Plymouth. Nathaniel said he knew his friend was too
much occupied to make a long stay, but the more time
he could give them the better pleased they should be.
Josiah readily accepted the invitation; and it was with
no little excitement that he was now looking forward to
seeing his future wife. He began to arrange matters so
that he might pay a visit to Exeter on the way, and be
present at a wedding to which he had been invited, and
which was about to take place between John Cash, his
cousin, and Elizabeth Dymond, a relative of the Foxes.
He knew Dorothy had been asked to assist as brides-
maid; but no sooner had Nathaniel heard that Elizabeth
was to be adorned in a white lace veil and an orange
wreath, while her bridesmaids were to keep her company
in coloured dresses and bonnets, than he sternly refused
his consent to her going. He said he would as soon that
his daughter should exhibit herself before a booth at
Plymouth fair, as take part in such a raree-show.
Jemima and Kezia Crewdson of course were as severe
in their censure. They told Josiah that he, too, ought to
bear his testimony against such worldly wickedness by
refusing to be present; but a letter from Nathaniel, in
which he begged Josiah to go, and seize the opportunity
of rebuking the wedding party, had altered their tone.
They now employed every moment they were with their
brother in repeating to him the various remarks that had
occurred to them as suitable for him to say, and which
were calculated most effectually to damp all cheerfulness
and hilarity.
Josiah, however, had not the slightest intention of
SS DOROTHY FOK.
saying one word of rebuke. He was too painfully alive
to his own awkwardness and shyness to contemplate
standing up before a number of people, many of them
strangers to him, and delivering himself of a caustic
speech. But as his habit was, he silently listened to all
their conversation, not even indulging in a yes or no,
unless absolutely compelled.
He was to start the next morning very early, so he sat
attentively while Jemima, who had packed up his things,
gave him the necessary information as to the reasons
which had made her apparently collect together the most
incongruous assortment of material. It was rather amusing
lo see these two women regarding their business-like
brother as utterly incapable. They had done so when he
was a schoolboy, and so they did now. They packed
his box for him, and they put up his parcels; but when
Kezia commenced to give him various hints as to his
mode of conduct towards Dorothy, it became too ridi-
culous, and Josiah was obliged to return her a mild re-
proof.
"Thank tliee, Kezia, but, doubtless, when the time
comes I shall find words to make myself agreeable to
Dorothy."
"That speech is somewhat self-sufficient, Josiah,"
answered Jemima, immediately taking up the cudgels
for her sister "a fault our father always warned thee
especially to guard against. Kezia's remark was a just
one; and Dorothy Fox, if she is what I take her to be,
is too earnest an upholder of our principles to be caught
by frivolous words and worldly phrases."
Josiah knew that any answer would only draw him into
an argument in which he was certain to come off worst,
so he made no further comment, but promised to deliver
all the messages he was charged with, particularly to tell
HER ladyship's PLANS. 59
Patience Fox that they would be pleased to have a visit
from Dorothy, in order that they might become better
acquainted. Then they bade him farewell, and hoped,
grimly, that he would enjoy himself.
"Thank thee," returned Josiah, 'T think I shall. This
is the first holiday I have had for so long that I shall do
my best to make it pleasant."
"Well," said Jemima, with a gloomy nod of the head,
"I wish it may turn out so."
"One would not give credit to thy wish by thy face,"
laughed Josiah, for the prospect of the change had raised
his spirits, and made him unusually talkative and bold.
The sisters looked at each other, as though they said,
"If he was going to see the Foxes in this spirit, what
will Dorothy think of him'?"
"There is one thing thou shouldst bear in mind,
Josiah," said Kezia, looking with her most severe aspect;
"and that is, that flippancy of speech leads to much
error, and is against the principles thou hast been taught
to obey."
"Yes; and it was a thing our father especially warned
thee against," added Jemima. "I have often heard him
say, that even a fool when he was silent was counted a
wise man." With which flattering remark, Josiah was
left to his own reflections.
CHAPTER VI.
Her Ladyship's Plans.
Tady Laura Verschoyle's house was a small ex-
crescence on a sort of by-way which connected a fashion-
able London square with a fashionable London street.
Lady Laura always spoke of her house as 27, Egmont
Street, which was true, only it would have been more
6o DOROTHY FOX.
correct to have said 2 7 a, Egniont Street. The letter A
seemed a very trifling addition, yet the difference that
such a small sign indicated between the houses was
somewhat startling; for whereas No. 2"], Egmont Street,
would have been termed "that desirable family mansion,"
and was the town house of a baronet with ,3^15,000
a-year, 2 7 A, Egmont Street, would have been advertised
as "an elegant bijou residence," and was the sole dwelling-
place of Lady Laura Verschoyle, who on i' 1,500 a-year
found it very difficult to compete with her more fortunate
neighbours. Had she been contented to live on the
other side of the Park, she might have had a cheerful,
comfortable house instead of this inconvenient one, where,
to make a tolerably good reception-room, all the other
apartments had been robbed of their height or breadth.
27 A had a most cheerless prospect, the front being
shadowed by the high garden wall of a grand house
which looked into the Park. All the back windows were
frosted over, that no glimpse might be caught of the
mews into which they opened. Taking it as a whole, it
would have been difficult to find a like rented abode
with so little to recommend it besides what was to Lady
Laura its all-powerful attraction the fact of its being
situated in one of the most fashionable localities of
London.
The jesting, laughing, and quarrelling which Lady
Laura could not help hearing from the back could not
offend her so much when she remembered that it came
from the grooms or coachmen of a marquis or an earl;
and though the chief passers by were footmen, pages, or
tradesmen's porters, they were all either going to or
coming from some grand house, and so found more
favour in Lady Laura's eyes than the fine stalwart sons
and fresh pretty daughters of "those middle-class people
HER ladyship's plans. 6r
who are always trying to seem better than they are"
would have done.
Lady Laura, with her son and daughter, had left
Shilston Hall the day before, and arrived at her house
in Egmont Street, intending to spend a few days there,
and then go on to Dyne Court. The horses were turned
out; the footman and housemaid were away on board
wages, and only the cook (with her niece from the country)
remained of the usual household. The curtains had
been all taken down, and the furniture covered up for
the summer; and as the family were only going to stay a
short time, Lady Laura had not thought it necess:iry to
have more than the dining-room got ready. They could
manage, she said, without going to the expense of re-
calling the other servants. Certainly on this occasion,
circumstances were very much against 2 7 a, Egmont
Street, looking the least like a house speaking of wel-
come and an invitation to settle down and enjov the
quiet pleasures of life.
So, at least, thought Captain Verschoyle as he de-
scended rather earlier than cook had expected the morn-
ing after their arrival. The close lj^at and the active
habits of the inhabitants of the Mews had driven sleej)
from his eyes at a very early hour, and he now some-
what ruefully surveyed the small uncomfortable room as
the woman made as hasty a retreat as possible, apologiz-
ing for being so late, and promising breakfast as soon
as it could be got ready.
"What an awfully dingy place this is!" thought he;
"how can they exist here? I don't wonder at that poor
girl wanting to get married. Well! I hope when I have
a wife I shall have a better home than this; although she
must help to provide it, for I have not much more than
half my mother's income. I shall certainly look after
62 DOROTHY FOX.
this heiress Audrc}' was speaking of. for money is a con-
siderable sweetener of life."
And then certain memories of his early days arose,
when he had pictured a home and an angel to share it;
and he smiled over these visions, so dimmed now. In.
books you might read of love's enduring through life;
poets spoke of its standing strong unto death; but speak-
ing from his own experience, he had never seen it stand
out before an elder son or wealthier man. Several times
he had been deceived into thinking he had secured a
love pure and fresh enough to withstand all other tempta-
tions, but he had been rudely awakened from his dream
to find that his successful rival possessed the real "Open,
sesame," to all women's hearts a rent-roll or a cheque-
book.
So he began to resolve th d he would try the barter
system, and see how much money his good looks and
name and position could bring him. An uncle had left
him an income of 700 a-year independent of his
mother, but, as he often ruefully said, it was impossible
for him to think of marrying upon that. No, no; he
would do as other men did. He would go in for money,
and he might chance to get a nice girl, and if he didn't
why, she must go her way and he must go his. Then
he jumped up suddenly and exclaimed, "What a con-
founded nuisance poverty is! I wish I was not such an
extravagant fellow; a good wife \9ould be the saving of
me, if she only loved me enough. She would soon make
me ashamed of my selfishness, and I believe make me
do anything to please her. I wonder why fate has never
sent such a woman across my path? I suppose there
are such treasures in the world."
Here his reflections were suddenly brought to an end
by the entrance of his sister, who, hearing from Marshall
HER LADVSHIP'S PLANS. 63
that Captain Veischoyle was already in the dining-room,
came hurrying down in her morning wrapper to keep
him company at breakfast.
"Accept, my dear Charlie, this tribute to fraternal
affection the sight of your beloved and admired sister
minus the adornment of person substituted by the modern
Britons for the woad of their ancestors."
"I am delighted to see you under any circumstances,"
said Captain Verschoyle, "for I was just beginning to
take a very rueful view of things in general."
"Ah, now you have just spoilt your compliment,"
laughed Audrey; "had you stopped at circumstances I
should have tapped you on the shoulder, after the fashion
of the stage coquette, and cried 'courtier;' as it is, romance
has vanished, and I am merely regarded as a dispeller
of 'the blues.' So ring the bell and we'll sit down to
breakfast in the Darby and Joan style of every-day
life."
As soon as the servant had departed Audrey made a
little 7?wiie at the breakfast-table and said,
"This does not look well after Shilston, does it?"
"No," replied her brother; "but what an awfully dis-
mal place this is so close and stuffy! Besides, I can
hardly breathe."
"Poor old Charlie!" exclaimed Audrey, "it is too bad
not to make home look its best to welcome you back.
It is a most uncomfortable room, and just now it cer-
tainly looks its worst. Whenever I return from staying
out, I always feel that we have the most inconvenient
and the most dingy house in the world a sham, my
dear, like the part we play in life, and a hanger on to a
grand locality, just as we are to our noble relations. Oh!
when these things grate on me antl rub me up the wrong
64 DOROTHY FOX.
way, as they so often do, is it any wonder that I turn
idolater and worship mammon?"
"Well, no," returned Captain Verschoyle. "I feel
with you. I do not believe either of us would shrink
from good honest poverty, but it is the straining after
what we cannot reach that frets one. I only wisli that
dear mother of ours would feel the same, and always
say she cannot afford what really can give neither you
nor her much pleasure."
"Ah! there it lies," said Audrey. "I have become
so accustomed to deception that I sometimes ask, am I
not cheating myself into an idea that I do not care for
those very excitements which form the whole business of
my life? No, I can only be sure of one thing insuring
happiness, and that is money; and I intend to go to
Dyne Court, armed to the teeth with charms to subdue
its master, and come away only to return to it as its
mistress Mrs. Richard Ford. An aristocratic name, is
it not? I hear mamma whispering to people, "An old
Windsor family, mentioned, if you recollect, by Shake-
.speare." Let me see, Mrs. Ford was a merry wife
hum! But from the view I at present take of Mr. Richard
Ford, his wife will be a merry widow."
Captain Verschoyle laughingly shook his head, say-
ing, "Come, it is too bad to be sending the old gentleman
off into the other world before you have got possession
of him in this one. But how about my heiress? for I am
thinking seriously of her; it is quite time I got married,
and as you seem to think her ladylike and tractable, I
will resign myself, and bid farewell to my early visions."
"What were they?" inquired Audrey.
"Oh, a home reigned over by an ideal creature, who
was too ethereal to care for more than I could give her,
HER ladyship's PLANS. 65
and earthly enough to love, with all her heart, a stupid,
commonplace fellow like me."
"You dear old creature!" said Audrey. ^'Anj' wo-
man might be proud of you; so don't take such a very
limited view of your mental and bodily advantages. Miss
Selina Bingham will very readily listen to your suit, I am
sure, as I should do if I had ^50,000; but, being as I
am, prudence would bid me take safety in flight from
such a 'braw wooer.'"
''Audrey," said Captain Verschoyle, "I wonder if you
are as mercenary as you would have me think. One
thing I do not believe, and that is, that you ever were
\n love."
"No," replied his sister, looking very serious. "Among
all the slings and arrows which outrageous fortune has
aimed at me, a viierciful Providence has defended me
from Love's bow. I cannot say," she continued, laugh-
ing, "that I have not felt the scratch of the arrow as it
glanced off; and, slight as the wound has always been,
it has just given me an idea of the force with which it
could come. This has made me look to my breastplate,
that I might render it invulnerable. But that was years
ago, and I am tolerably safe in my own strength now,
and think that I could hold a successful siege against
the most fascinating younger son in England."
"Don't be too confident," said her brother. "Many
a stronghold that has stoutly prepared itself for a siege
has been taken by storm."
"My dear Charles, as your mother would say, do not
be guilty of jesting on such a grave subject. Apropos of
mamma, I have often thought over what line she would
pursue if we were to marry poor nobodys. Of course,
she would be furious, but I verily believe she would go
about telling our friends that she was overjoyed, for sht:
66 DOROTHY FOX.
had always brought up her children lo follow the dictat-es
of their hearts."
"Come, come," replied Captain Verschoyle, "you are
too hard on the poor maters
"Indeed, I don't mean to be so," said Audrey. "But
mamma, as a study, is perfect; she is so thorough in her
cajolery. When I begin to be illusory I feel after a time
that I should like to tell people the truth. My vanity
wants to be gratified by showing how clever I am at de-
ception. But it is not so with mamma. She believes in
her fraud, and conveys it to others with such a semblance
of truth, that sometimes even / am staggered. Don't
look so shocked, Charlie, I do not mean to be undutiful;
but this is the way I have been brought up. How can
you expect me to have the faith which they say girls
should have in their mothers, when the very first things
I remember of mamma are, 'Don't tell your papa such a
thing,' or 'If Aunt Spencer asks you, you must say '
well something quite opposed to the truth 1 However,
it is mean of me to shelter myself under the cloak of my
teaching; I ought rather to thank her for having given
me this experience, so that if ever I have children, and
cannot gain their love, I'll tiy to gain their respect. And
sometimes." she added with a sigh, "I think that is my
last hope of being what I sometimes wish to be a better
woman. But, there, I really don't know I am not worse
than my neighbours; and with that very original and
consolatory remark I will conclude my little speech, go
and pay my devoirs to her ladyship, and take her maternal
advice on the most becoming toilette to be worn at Dyne
Court."
She left, and Captain Verschoyle began to consider
what he had to do in London, and what he should want
in the country. He had sent Hallett oif on a holiday,
HER ladyship's PLANS. 6^
and therefore felt that he ought to be busy packing, only
he did not quite see what he wanted. So he, too, wan-
dered to his mother's room, to seek her advice, which
on all matters of dress and adornment was unquestion-
ably good.
Lady Laura admitted her son after a little hesitation
and scrambling about the room. He found her at break-
fast, the different chairs being covered with dresses of
various kinds, with hats, bonnets, and mantles which
Marshall was consulting her about, as to this trimming
being altered, or those flowers changed, so that they
might better accord with the fashion of the new addi-
tions to the wardrobe.
She motioned Captain Verschoyle into a chair, say-
ing,
"In one minute, my dear, I'll attend to you."
Then, turning again to the maid, she went on with
some final directions and suggestions, after which she
dismissed her, and threw herself back in her chair, say-
ing in a piteous tone,
"Oh, my dear Charles, I devoutly hope this plan for
Audrey will succeed, for it is getting more than my
strength will bear to be constantly contriving that her
dress shall appear as various and fresh as that of the
girls we meet out. You know I should be dead to feel-
ing did it not pain me to have her still on my hands.
Considering the advantages and opportunities she has
had, and the efforts I have made, it is wonderful to me
that she is not married. When I look round and see
the plain, commonplace girls (with mothers who have
not seemed to care a pin who they talked to or danced
with) married, and married well too, and all since Audrey
came out well! it only shows one that there must be
some higher power than ours moving in such matters."
5*
68 DOROTliY F05^.
"She'll get married yet, mother," answered her son.
"I am certainly surprised at her being single still; but,
perhaps, you have expected too much for her. Who is
this man we're going to visit now, and where did you
meet him?"
"We met him last Christmas at the Bouveries," re-
j)lied her ladyship. "Audrey took part in some charades
and tableaux they got up, and he so admired her, and
paid her so much attention, that I quite thought he
would have proposed then; but not being able to find
out everything about him, I did not encourage him so
much as I should now. He is quite a millionaire; and
Dyne Court is a lovely place. He said then that he
hoped we would come and see him in the summer,
when this new place, which he had recently bought, and
Avhich wvas then undergoing extensive alterations, would
be ready; and about six weeks since I had a letter beg-
ging me to fix 7ny time, and he would then ask a few
people to meet us."
"So you thought that looked like business," laughed
her son.
"Coming from such a man, I did. He's quite one
of those new people," continued Lady Laura; "but so
sensible he couldn't at first believe that I was Audrey's
mother. I have quite forgotten now how he made his
money, but I dare say it was by brewing, or Manchester,
perhaps; and it's quite the fashion for good families
to marry those sort of people, provided they are very
wealthy."
"But," said Captain Verschoyle, "he must be a great
deal older than Audrey."
"Well, yes, there is a difference certainly, still no-
thing to speak of. I almost wish he would Avear a wig,
for being so bald makes him look rather old. However,
JOSIAH CREVv'DSOn's WOOING. ' 69
when they are married it won't make any difference, and
if Audrey cared for him to look younger I should sug-
gest the wig; but I don't think she will trouble herself
about him then, and he is certainly not older than Lord
Totnes was, nor Lady Gwendoline Farnham's husband."
"I hope he's presentable," exclaimed Captain Vers-
choyle.
"Oh dear, yes!" answered his mother. "Of course
you must be prepared for the manner of the British
merchant honest and bluff; but many people like that
now. I remember Lord Tewkesbury saying that nothing
pleased him better. However, you will soon be able to
judge for yourself. We shall leave on Thursday morn-
ing, and I hope we shall all enjoy our visit, for Audrey
is not the only one I have formed plans for. The wel-
fare of my children is always next my heart, my dear
Charles; and if I could see you both well married, with
good establishments, such as your family and position
entitle you to expect, I could sink into comparative in-
significance, feeling that I had carried out and accom-
plished my work in life, and had not lived in vain."
CHAPTER VII.
Josiah Crewdson's Wooing.
In every woman's breast is born the desire to capti-
vate. It depends on her character whether or not this
may develop itself into vanity. But in its early stage,
when she is yet totally unacquainted with her own power,
she views her charms with hopes and fears, and her
great desire is that she may please. It was this which
made Dorothy Fox linger over her adornment longer
than was her habit on that afternoon when Josiah Crewd-
son was expected.
70 DOROTHY FOX.
He was to arrive at five o'clock, and it was now past
fonr, and time that she should join her mother, whose
step she had heard descending the stairs fully ten min-
utes before. Yet Dorothy returned to the glass and gave
herself another inspection. She was fully acquainted
with her father's wishes, and knew the reason of this
visit. The attentions she was bestowing on her appear-
ance were therefore only the natural promptings of a
woman's heart to look her best in the eyes of the man
who is her lover; for, except by name, Josiah Crewdson
was almost unknown to her. She had hesitatingly asked
her mother if she had not better put on her lavender
silk dress, and Patience had accorded an immediate as-
sent. Dorothy, therefore, in spite of grave colours and
old-fashioned style, looked such a girl as the most fasti-
dious man might feel pleased to let his eyes dwell upon.
She certainly admired herself, and fearing that this feel-
ing, which was not entirely new to her, might not be
quite consistent, she hurried downstairs to avoid further
temptation.
Patience regarded her daughter with eyes full of
motherly pride and love, and then the thought came of
that someone they were expecting who would perhaps
take her treasure from her. At this she repressed a
little sigh, which made Dorothy declare that her mother
had been over-exerting herself. Then she fetched her
work and seated herself by her mother's side to wait
Josiah's arrival. After a few minutes' silence, Patience's
reverie was disturbed by Dorothy saying
"I am glad Josiah was present at Elizabeth's wed-
ding it will be so nice to hear all about it. I do so
wish father would have let me go."
"I should have liked thee to be present, because it
would have given thee pleasure," answered Patience;
JOSIAH CREWDSON's WOOING. y 1
"and," she added, "for that reason thy father would
have desired it too; the dress alone made him refuse
thee."
There was a pause, and then Dorothy said sud-
denly
"Mother, I never thought our dress so ugly until I
saw Audrey Verschoyle. Oh! I should like to wear
clothes like those she had on. Was she not beautiful^'
"No," said Patience; "I did not think her beautiful.
She was very graceful and elegant, and with a face which
would make one say she had more goodness in her heart
than in her mouth. She seemed to take a great fancy
to thee."
"Yes; she said she wished we lived nearer one an-
other, that she might often see me. I wish so too. Are
people who are not Friends mostly like the Verschoyles,
I wonder"?"
Patience laughed. "That way of putting it is scarcely
flattering to ourselves, dear," she said; "though doubtless
they who see various places and mix with various people
gain a more agreeable manner and mode of expression
than stay-at-home folks like us. She interested me greatly,
although not so much as her brother did. What did thou
think of him?"
Dorothy felt vexed with herself because the foolish
colour would mount into her face, and only for the reason
that she had naturally thought a good deal of the hand-
some stranger. How could it be otherwise, indeed, when
he was, in a way, the hero in the only event which had
ever happened in the whole of her quiet life? So without
looking up she answered,
"He was quite unlike any one I ever saw before.
What a pity that he should be a soldier! And yet,
mother, dost thou know? I am very fond of reading
72 DOROTHY FOX.
about soldiers and battles, for they have a kind of charm
for me. I fear sometimes it is not quite right."
Patience smiled at Dorothy's earnestness, for the at-
mosphere with which the girl was surrounded naturally
had its effect upon her. Dorothy had been so entirely
nurtured in the opinions of Friends that the slightest
deviation into anything that they considered unallowable
was looked upon by her as a failure in duty; and this
erring on the right side, as Patience considered it, only
caused her to feel greater anxiety that her daughter
should see more of the world. For some time past she
had been urging Nathaniel to give his consent to her
paying a long-promised visit to her sister Grace in Lon-
don, and afterwards going on to see her aunt Abigail
at York.
"I hope thou wilt have more opportunity given thee
of seeing the world than I have had, Dorothy," she said.
"Sometimes I am led to wonder whether our views are
not a little narrowed by the small circle in which we
move. Charles Verschoyle gave me much to reflect upon
by his description of the late war. But I hear footsteps
it must be yes, it is thy father. But where is Josiah
Crewdson?" she asked, addressing Nathaniel as he en-
tered.
"He is with me," answered Nathaniel; "only I have
out-stepped him by coming through the back way to
speak to James. Here he is," and Nathaniel, after allow-
ing Patience to welcome their guest, took him by the
arm and led him up to Dorothy, saying
"Dost thou recollect her? this is Dorothy."
Josiah thought he stood before the most beautiful
creature he had ever seen in his life, and all the speech
which, on his way from Exeter, he had been concocting,
and which had seemed to flow more glibly each time he
JOSIAH CREWDSON's WOOING. /3
had repeated it to himself, suddenly died away; and all
his nervous shyness, which he hoped he had left behind
him at Leeds, seemed to rush back upon him, and he
could only take Dorothy's stretched-out hand and stnm-
mer,
"Oh! indeed. How art thou?"
Dorothy answered, that she was quite well, and hoped
he was the same; and then Josiah sat down in the mosc
uncomfortable position on the nearest chair, and furtively
glanced again at Dorothy, who, in order to give him time
to recover himself, looked steadily in another direction.
Patience asked him several questions relating to his
journey, until Nathaniel, finding it was within half-an-
hour of dinner-time, suggested that Josiah had better be
shown to his room. He and Patience went off with him,
and Dorothy was left alone.
As soon as they were out of the room, Dorothy's
face assumed a very blank expression. Oh, how different
Josiah was from what she had thought! Not a bit the
same. He was so plain and quite fat not the least
like the man she expected to meet. Poor Josiah certainly
suffered very much by comparison with a figure which
had for the last few weeks moved pretty constantly in
Dorothy's imagination. Quite unknown as it was to her-
self, I doubt much if she would have been so painfully
struck with Josiah's appearance had Fate decreed that
they should meet before her adventure with Captain
Verschoyle. But since that time, he had formed the
type of the romance hero to her her ideal of a lover;
whilst Josiah's light eyes and whiskerless face presented
a sorry contrast to this standard of personal perfection.
She was still ruefully contemplating her disappoint-
ment, when the door opened, and the object of her
thoughts, having completed his somewhat hasty toilette,
74 DOROTHY FOX.
entered the room. He had made up his mind to shake
off his ridiculous nervousness this time, and to plunge
headlong into any topic which presented itself. But with
the exception of that never-failing resource, the weather,
not an idea would come at his bidding. So he said that
it was "very warm, but seasonable;" and this happy re-
mark being agreed to, a silence ensued. Then Dorothy
remembered that she was not quite consistently filling
her post as hostess, and that it was incumbent upon her
to exert herself; and this she did with such purpose, that
Josiah became more at his ease, and could manage to
give other than monosyllabic answers to the questions
put to him. The wedding, of course, proved a delightful
theme for conversation, and by the time that Dorothy
had laughed over his description of Elizabeth's white
stuff dress and gauze veil, Josiah plucked up courage
sufficient to tell her how much more he should have en-
joyed it had she been there.
"Elizabeth told me to tell thee, that she missed thy
face every time she looked at her bridesmaids," said
Josiah.
"Dear Elizabeth," said Dorothy, her eyes filling with
tears, "she is always so kind. Did she not look very
pretty]"
But Josiah was too lost in admiration of the speaker's
own sweet face to attend to her words.
"Eh?" said Dorothy.
"What!" replied Josiah.
"Did not Elizabeth look very pretty? I asked thee,"
returned Dorothy, hardly able to refrain from laughin^^
at his fixed gaze.
"Pretty! oh, yes," hastily answered Josiah, brought to
a sense of his absent manner and open-mouthed stare,
"but I was thinking of thee; she did not look like thee."
josiAH crrwdson's wooino. 75
Here Dorothy laughed outright, declaring that he was
keeping to that plainness of speech enjoined upon them.
On this Josiah tried to defend and explain himself, but
to no purpose she would not listen. So, when Nathaniel
and Patience returned, all restraint seemed to have
vanished, the two having apparently placed themselves
on a perfectly familiar footing. Still, before the evening
was over, each one felt that entertaining Josiah was no
light task. At dinner, do what they could, it was im-
possible to draw him into conversation, Nathaniel quite
approved of children being brought up as the Crewdsons
had been to hold their tongues at meals and listen to
their elders, but when people arrived at years of discre-
tion it was only fit that this restraint should be set aside.
It was just as well to make the time pass pleasantly. But
in the Crewdson household the rule of silence still held
good, so that though Josiah made the effort, he found it
impossible. When his plate was set before him, he could
not do anything but eat up its contents as quickly as
possible. Then he felt so awkward under the impression
of watching every mouthful the others ate, that he had
one helping after another, until Dorothy decided that he
had the most enormous appetite of any one she had ever
seen. No ale or wine being drunk at dinner, coffee was
served immediately afterwards, and they all adjourned to
the drawing-room. Here Josiah went through another
trial between his wish to assist Dorothy, who was seated
at the table pouring out the coffee, and his fear lest he
might by some awkwardness or other make himself ridi-
culous in her eyes. So it ended by his sitting on the
very edge of his chair, and starting up like a Jack-in-the-
box every time that Dorothy moved to hand the cup to
any one. At last, Patience, taking pity on his evident
bashfulness, said to him,
f6 DOROTHY FOX.
"If tliou wert to sit at the table, Josiah, thou might
perhaps assist Dorothy."
After the coffee was cleared away, Nathaniel, with the
view of bringing the two together (notwithstanding that
he gave himself a wonderful stretch indicative of relief as
soon as their backs were turned), proposed that Dorothy
should show Josiah the garden. This was just what Josiah
had been wishing for. But the moment he was alone
with her he found he could not say a word. So Dorothy
had to take the initiative, and tell him the names of the
flowers, and show him "The King's-heart" yew-tree.
During all this time poor Josiah gazed his heart
away, so that he lay awake for hours that night recalling
all that she had said and done his own already humble
opinion of himself dwindhng into nothing as in the quiet
of his own fancy he magnified all her charms.
Naturally, the newly-arrived guest was freely discussed
by the whole household, who unanimously decided that
"he wasn't at all the man for Miss Dorothy, of whom
everybody said that she was a real beauty, more like a
picture than a Quaker. Judith, who in her anxiety to
see her dear child's future husband had come out that
same evening from Plymouth, was highly indignant at
the master for contemplating such a match. She ex-
pressed her opinions so plainly, that Dorothy had to
take up the defence of Josiah, whom Judith in her wrath
had that moment called a calf-faced jolter-head.
"Oh, Judith!" replied Dorothy, reprovingly. "It is
wrong of thee to speak so of one whom father thinks so
worthy."
"Worthy!" echoed Judith scornfully. "Worthy of
bein' ducked for having the impudence to think of you,
child, when every day you're growin' more sweet."
JOSIAH CREV.'DSOn's WOOING, 77
"What is all this about?" said Patience, who had
entered unobserved.
Judith, who stood somewhat in awe of her gentle
mistress, looked a little confused as she answered apolo-
getically,
"It's only me, mistress, lettin' my feelin's roughen my
tongue, and they both run on a good deal too fast; but
Mr. Crewdson isn't the man at all I expected to see."
"No?" said Patience, looking rather grave; "but we
must not be too hasty in our judgments, Judith."
"I think when he is more accustomed to us, we shall
like him better," put in Dorothy; "he is so shy now."
"He is not accustomed to strangers," said Patience;
"and thy father tells me old Stephen Crewdson was a
stern man, and kept his children in great fear of him.
So doubtless Josiah will improve now he is his own
master."
Having said this, Patience put her arm round Dorothy
and drew her into her own room, thinking that the girl
might tell her more definitely her impressions of her
future husband. But Dorothy changed the subject, and'
talked about their projected excursions, until Nathaniel's
step was heard upon the stairs. Then she bade her
mother good-night; and when she was alone wondered
if she should ever get to like Josiah. She was very dis-
appointed in him, certainly; yet there seemed something
nice about him. How odd it seemed to think that he
might be her husband! Then she fell asleep, and her
dreams ran on weddings: and she, dressed like Elizabeth
Cash, stood a bride with Josiah at her side, only, instead
of being like himself, he was like Charles Verschoyle.
And when she awoke she thought what stupid nonsense
comes into one's head in dreams.
The whole of the following vreek was devoted to
78 DOROTHY FOX.
showing Josiah the beauties of the neighbourhood.
Dorothy thoroughly enjoyed each day. She felt no
restraint before Josiah now^ and would run up and down
the hills laughing at him; while he, panting and puffing,
seemed to gain each summit by the sweat of his brow.
He had never yet found courage enough to tell Dorothy
of his love for her, which hour by hour he felt growing
stronger. He had made two or three attempts, but she
had always misinterpreted his speech, or turned it into
fun; and the slightest damper effectually put a stop to
this bashful wooing. But now the last day had come,
for he was to leave them the next morning. So Josiah
was unusually silent, feeling that he ought to say some-
thing, and that Nathaniel would expect it of him. But
how to say it while she was asking him questions and
telling him stories about things so entirely removed from
the subject he had at heart, he did not know. Still this
was almost his last chance, for after their return from
the Castle Hill they were to rejoin Patience and Nathaniel.
In the midst of Dorothy's speculations, then, as to the
different appearance the place presented now from what
it did in the olden time, when it had been the constant
scene of bloodshed and warfare for this afternoon all
was so peaceful and calm, that it was a fitting place
for merry boys and girls to play and make sweet echo
with their gleeful voices Josiah suddenly burst out
with,
"Dorothy, I do love you. I am so fond, that is O
Dorothy! dost thou like me?"
Dorothy looked up rather startled at this abrupt
diversion; but none of that confusion or bashfulness,
which a girl feels when she first discovers that she is
loved by the man she loves, either stirred her nature or
showed itself in her manner as she answered with as-
JOSIAH CREWDSON's WOOING. 79
sumed gravity, hiding a smile which lurked about the
corners of her mouth,
"Like thee, Josiah? oh, yes. Are we not told to love
all men as brothers'?"
There was a pause. Then Dorothy looked up, and
her eyes meeting his, he said, his face instead of Doro-
thy's growing scarlet,
"But, Dorothy, thou art so beautiful."
"Oh! Josiah, how canst thou!" exclaimed Dorothy in
a tone of rebuke. "Remember, 'Favour is deceitful, and
beauty is vain,' and we ought to bear our testimony
against vanity of personal looks. I wonder at thee;"
and Dorothy glanced with a greater degree of compla-
cency towards Josiah, and an increased desire to know
what he had to say to her. But these two answers had
completely overwhelmed Josiah, whose small stock of
eloquence immediately forsook him. The teaching he
had so long received, to the effect that whenever he was
going to act on his own impulses he was certain to make
himself ridiculous, now took possession of him. He had
only stammered and stuttered out something about their
two fathers having intended that they should like each
other, and that he was such an awkward sort of fellow,
when they met Patience and Nathaniel. The missionary
meeting being held that night at King's-heart, no other
opportunity presented itself. But before Josiah and
Dorothy said good-night, he whispered to her,
"Dorothy, thou wilt try and like me?"
"Try?" she said laughingly; "I tell thee I do like
thee." She ran up-stairs, but turned round when she
reached the top; and, finding that Josiah still stood look-
ing after her, she nodded and laughed the more, thinking
"what a funny face he has when he looks like that,"
which meant that a despairing expression did not suit
So DOROTHY FOX.
poor Josiah's commonplace countenance. Charles Vers-
choyle would have expressed his feelings by a look
which would have touched the heart of the coldest
woman; Josiah, although actuated by quite as fine feel-
ings, could only produce laughter in the woman the
smallest dole of whose love he was longing to possess.
Josiah and Nathaniel had some conversation that
evening respecting Dorothy. All Josiah could say was,
that Dorothy had said she liked him.
"Well, I think that is as much as thou canst expect
at once," replied Nathaniel, encouragingly. "Women are
always rather shy about their feelings, but thou must
come again, and then we shall doubtless be able to
settle everything. Take heart, Josiah; Dorothy is her
iither's child, and where she says she likes, doubtless
she means to love."
CHAPTER VIII.
Liking and Loving.
The next morning Josiah left King's-heart. Patience
and Dorothy stood with him in the garden waiting for
Nathaniel, who was to accompany him as far as Ply-
mouth.
"Now thou hast found thy way here," said Patience,
"thou must come again; we shall always be glad to see
thee."
Josiah gave her a grateful look for this welcome in-
vitation.
"I shall be only too ready to come," he replied. "I
am so sorry to leave. I never enjoyed a week so much
in all my life thou hast been so good to me."
And then he turned to Dorothy; but though he
wished to tell her how sorry he was to leave her, and
LIKIN'G AND LOVING. 8t
how he should long to see her again, he found it was
impossible. Every time he tried to speak, his heart
seemed to leap into his throat and choke the words. No
such inconvenience, however, oppressed Dorothy, who
looked smilingly into his face as she said,
"Oh yes; thou must come in the summer, and then
we can go to the Mew Stone and to Cothele."
But Josiah was not heeding a word she said. He
v/as entirely occupied with wondering whether he might
give her a kiss when he said farewell. She was in a way
engaged to him, at least he had her father's consent,
and she had promised to try and care for him, and he
thought he would; but at that moment Nathaniel ap-
peared, calling out to him,
'^Come, Josiah, we've no time to spare; say farewell
and jump in."
He thought he had better not venture anything of
the sort; so he shook hands with Patience, turned again
to Dorothy, changed his mind, and made such a sudden
dash towards her that she only seemed to get a knock
on her nose. Before she recovered from her surprise,
Josiah was seated in the carriage, too excited, and his
face too red, to see Dorothy's look of bewildered aston-
ishment. But as they drove off, the true purport of this
sudden movement dawned upon her, and, unchecked by
her mother's reproving look, she burst into a fit of
laughter.
Patience was very anxious to have a serious conver-
sation with her daughter on the subject of this proposed
engagement with Josiah. She liked him, and believed he
had a great deal of goodness in his nature; but she saw
he was no more fitted for a husband for Dorothy, than
Mark or Samuel their shopmen. Dorothy, in spite of the
quiet sober way in which she had been brought up, pos-
Poroihy Fjjc. t
52 DOROTHY FOX.
sessed a vivid imagination, a quick sense of the ridi-
culous, and such warm feelings as were certain to in-
fluence her life and mould her character. There was
much about her that Josiah, in spite of all the love he
might feel for her, would never understand. As a child,
obstinacy had been her greatest fault. This defect time
and training had turned into firmness. Seldom shown,
because few opportunities presented themselves for its
display, but lying dormant in the young girl's heart, was
a will indomitable as her father's, a tenacity of purpose
which, after she had once taken a resolution, would over-
come most obstacles.
Patience had thoroughly studied her daughter's char-
acter, and felt convinced that to allow such a nature to
ignorantly take any irretrievable step in life would be a
failure in parental duty. She therefore determined that
after speaking to Dorothy she would tell her husband of
the thoughts which troubled her, and beg him to let
their child go on a visit to her sister, and thus see a
little more of society than their limited circle afforded.
The morning passed without Dorothy making any
comment on Josiah or his visit. After luncheon, the
mother and daughter sat down together with their work,
each one silent and apparently occupied with her own
thoughts; at last Dorothy said,
'Mother, wert thou ever in love?"
"Yes," answered Patience.
"Then tell me what it is like."
Before Patience attempted to answer Dorothy's ques-
tion, she sat for some minutes communing with herself.
"Dorothy," she said at length, "thou hast asked a
very puzzling question, and one that I shall find it diffi-
cult to answer to my own satisfaction, for love takes such
various shapes in various natures, that by our own heart
LIKING AND LOVING. 83
we can never truly judge the hearts of others. But first
thou must be open with me, and tell me what makes
thee ask this question."
Dorothy's colour came, as with a slight hesitation she
answered,
"I think that is, I know that father and thou have
always wished me to like Josiah Crewdson; and now that
I have seen him, and know him better, I do like him,
and think him very kind and worthy, but surely, mother,
something more than liking is needed to make people
happy?"
"Indeed, yes, my child, and that is what I wish to
explain to thee. Love is apart from all this; it is the
charm which makes us tender to failings, not blind to
them. Every merit we see in those we love we rejoice
over. Love is something so powerful, deep, and bind-
ing, that, though it is impossible to define it, it is known
to be love the moment it is felt."
"But does all this come at once, mother?"
"No; I think in most cases it does not, but I am
speaking of what in some degree thou should experience
before thy consent is given to be the wife of any man.
Doubtless, love often grows, but I think when I was thy
age I could have felt tolerably certain who might excite
such feelings within me, and who never would."
Dorothy's face crimsoned. The thought flashed across
her, supposing Charles Verschoyle had been Josiah
Crewdson, would she have needed to ask these ques-
tions'? Not that Dorothy was one atom in love with the
stranger who had come among them so unexpectedly,
and whom she most probably would never see again,
but he satisfied her imagination, and Josiah did not.
"Mother," she said abruptly, "dost thou think I shall
ever love Josiah Crewdsou]"
6*
^4 DOROTHY FOX. '
"That is hardly a fair question," answered Patience,
not wishing to give a straightforward No, which would
have been her real opinion. "I see nothing about Josiah
to prevent a woman caring for him; he is very good-
tempered and estimable, and his little awkwardnesses result
only from shyness, he would very soon overcome them."
"But I do wish he was not so fat, and short, and
funny-looking."
"We must not fall into the habit of being caught by
externals," said Patience. "It is only natural, dear, that
thou shouldst admire good looks; but thou wilt never
care less, I trust, for people who have not that gift. I
have been wanting to speak to thee before I ask thy
father's permission for thee to go on a visit to Grace.
I think after thou hast mixed a little more in the world
thou wilt know thyself better."
Dorothy was delighted at the idea; her only fear was
that her father might not consent to her going to a sister
whose views were opposed to many of their own. But
Patience undertook to speak to him first, and to tell him
her wishes, and the reasons she had for believing that
they would be acting consistently in allowing Dorothy to
accept Grace's invitation.
That night, after reading was over, and when the
husband and wife were left alone. Patience commenced
her task, which at the outset Nathaniel listened to very
impatiently. Josiah, he said, was a very worthy young
man; and if he did not speak every time he got an op-
portunity, he never spoke when he might better have
held his tongue. For his part he did not see what more
they could want for their daughter than an excellent
husband, with a good fortune and a flourishing business,
"But," said Patience, "that is all very well if she
cared for the man." . . ^
LIKING AXD LOVIXG. 8,5
"No\v that is one of thy woman's fancies and argu-
ments, Patience," replied Nathaniel. "Leave her alone
and she will care for the man. What other man can
she care for'? Who does she see unless it is Andrew
Dymond or Jabez Smith 1 and compared with them
Josiah has the graces of a posture-master. When they
are once married they will get on very well; as I have
often told thee, love will come. Still, I have no wish to
force the child into a marriage which is distasteful to
her; though, should she decide against becoming the
wife of Josiah Crewdson, she would crush one of the
wishes nearest my heart."
"But thou would sacrifice thy wish, dear, if its ac-
complishment failed to give Dorothy happiness?"
Nathaniel gave a vexed movement, which Patience
noticed, and drawing her chair nearer to her husband,
she laid her hand on his, saying, "Wilt thou listen to me
for a few minutes'?"
Nathaniel nodded assent.
"Well then, first, be assured that I like Josiah, and
that I should be perfectly contented to see Dorothy his
wife, but I do not consider he is calculated to make her
happy; and she has had so little opportunity of com-
paring him with others, that we are not acting up to
our duty if we allow her to make a blind choice. There
might come a time when her heart would reproach us.
Though Grace has many views that we condemn, yet we
know that Dorothy may be safely trusted to her care,
without any of her principles being tampered with. Then
why not let her go on a visit to Grace, with permission
to mix in their home circle, and in any amusement which
she feels we should not forbid?"
"And when she returns home, how then*?" asked
Nathaniel. "Will she not be discontented'?"
86 DOROTHY FOX.
"No, I can answer for that; and if then she makes
no objection to Josiah, be assured, Nathaniel, I shall
raise none."
"I do not see the necessity," said Nathaniel; "never-
theless, I will think the matter over, and by to-morrow,
perhaps, give thee my decision."
The next morning he asked Dorothy to walk round
the garden with him, and after a time he said,
"Well, Dorothy, and what dost thou think of Josiah
Crewdson?"
"I like him; he is exceedingly good, well-meaning,
and worthy."
"Very excellent qualities in a husband, Dorothy."
"Yes, father but," she added as the colour mounted
to her cheeks, "I should Avant to know him much better
before that."
"Certainly, child; certainly. Still thou hast no positive
distaste to him?"
"No; on the contrary, I think very highly of him."
"Yet thy mother tells me thou hast a wish to spend
some time with Grace?"
"Yes," replied Dorothy; "but I do not know that
that has much to do with Josiah, for I wished it quite
as much before I saw him."
"Then thou hast my permission to go," said Nathaniel,
greatly relieved by this last remark of his daughter. "I
know I can trust thee to uphold thy principles in all thy
actions, not entering into anything which thy conscience
does not approve as consistent. From Fryston thou mu.st
go on to see Aunt Abigail; and while thou art so near,
what dost thou say to accepting this invitation from the
Crewdsons?"
"If it will not be staying away too lona: from thee
LI ICING AND LOVING. 87
and mother, I should like it," said Dorothy, her face
beaming with pleasurable anticipation.
"No," replied her father; "we must learn little by
litde to try and do without thee; no easy task when the
time comes," he added, patting her head lovingly.
The tears sprang to the girl's eyes as she exclaimed
"Oh, father, I never want to leave thee! I do not
care to go now. Let me stay at home."
"No, my child. I am very glad, as things seem to
be turning out, that thou art going. I shall write to
Grace, and tell her thy mother will take thee; and, as I
have some business in London the week after next, I
will go and bring her home."
During the next few days nothing was thought of
but the preparations necessary for their journey. At last
the morning for starting arrived, and Nathaniel accom-
panied them to the station. Grace was to meet them at
Paddington, so that they should not have any trouble;
for to Patience a journey alone was an undertaking.
As they stood waiting for the train to come up
Nathaniel could not help noticing the attention which
Dorothy attracted. She was looking all the more beauti-
ful from the excitement, which made her eyes sparkle
and her colour brighten more than usual. Her fair
youthfulness seemed to strike Nathaniel afresh, and he
anxiously thought to himself whether he was right in
letting her go from him. What if she should attract the
attention of some vicious worldling, whose fair words
and specious reasoning might entangle her young fancy!
And this fear made him walk to the old house opposite
the Guildhall with a more measured step and graver face
than usual; and during the whole of the day he con-
tinually said to himself, "I fear I have not acted wisely
in letting her go."
S3 DOROTHY FOX.
CHAPTER IX.
At Dyne Court.
"Dyne," says an old chronicler, "was the king's
demesne at the Conquest, the chief house whereof ad-
joined the abbey (now demolished), and in times past
hath been notable for that Hieretha, canonized a saint,
was here born; esteemed to be of such sanctity that you
may read of many miracles ascribed to her holiness, in
his book who penned her life. This dwelling-place of
Dyne Court and lands, which the family of Montague
enjoyed, from the time of King Henry I. even unto King
Henry VII.'s days, came unto the Chichesters by the
marriage of Margaret, sole daughter of the house, witli
Geoffrey Chichester, who took the name of Dynecourt,
by which honourable name this family hath ever since
been known."
Known at the Court of the virgin queen as grave
and reliable advisers; known to have laid down life and
lands for the martyr Charles; known at his son's gay
revels as roistering gallants; known as the friends of
each wanderer of the house of Stuart; known as men
who were eyed with suspicion by the house of Hanover,
until, their fortune gone, and their lands mortgaged,
they died out of royal memories, the last three genera-
tions of Dynecourts had been known only to those who
dwelt near as men who had nothing to bequeath but
their ancient name and ruined house. These had de-
scended some few years before to one who, in his turn,
was known to the neighbourhood as that Dynecourt
who, sick of trying to stave off the evil day, had sum-
moned up courage enough to look into his condition,
and had sold the old place which he could not keep
from falling into ruin. He had paid off the debts still
AT DYNE COURT. S)
clinging round it, and had acknowledged himself all but
beggared, and forced to earn his own living.
So the descendant of all the Dynecourts the friends
of kings and boon companions of princes, successful
lovers of court beauties, and husbands of titled dames
now toiled in the law courts as a barrister; while Mr.
Richard Ford, whose father had been a porter, and he
himself an errand-boy, was the owner of the fair lands
of Dyne Court. When Richard Ford was yet a boy in a
fustian suit, with a heavy basket on his arm, he never
passed Temple Bar, or the Tower, or any old building,
without being compelled to stop and gaze upon it.
Though he knew not why, his gazing brought him plea-
sure; and as he advanced in age and social position, he
became a humble collector of curiosities, and when he
grew rich he found he possessed an antiquarian taste.
His search for a seat had therefore been guided by this
dilettanteism: the house must have a history, its sur-
roundings must have an interest. Directly Dyne Court
was in the market he went down to it. He longed to
call the place his own from the moment he saw the
quaint village with the old-fashioned inn "The Swan
with Three Necks," stretching its sign across the street.
His desire was only increased by the sight of "the fair
church and its stately tower," by the rough stone bridge,
before the building of which "the breadth and roughness
of the river was such as it put many lives in jeopardy,
until the pious Dynecourt Fulk Dynecourt was ad-
monished by a vision to set on the foundation of a
bridge near a rock which he should find rolled from the
higher grounds upon the strand, and in the morning he
found a rock there fixed, which incited him to set for-
wards so charitable a work and build the bridge now to
be seen." And when, after crossing the bridge, Mr.
^o tjorothy fox.
Ford stood in front of the large iron gates, and saw,
half-way up the avenue, the Gothic arch (trace of the
abbey which once stood on that spot), he firmly de-
termined that if money could do it, he would be master
of Dyne Court.
And now he was master of it. Ever since that time.
Dyne had been noisy with labourers and tradesmen, put-
ting the whole place in thorough repair, but without
altering its exterior. Mr. Ford himself vigilantly watched
over the work. The interior arrangements of furnishing
and decorating he committed to the hands of "a great
London authority;" and at the present time all who had
seen it declared everything to be perfect. It took one a
long time to get conversant with all the traditions and
histories of "the Court lands;" and when Mr. Ford, with
natural pride of heart, showed any guests over them, he
played a very secondary part to Roger Cross, who re-
garded his office of head gardener as one of hereditary
distinction, it having been (as he informed them) in his
family for two hundred years. Roger did not attempt
to conceal his feelings at the bitter change which had
overtaken the fortunes of his old masters; and after
pointing out the spot where the duel took place, in which
Charteray Dynecourt fell by his friend the Earl of Here-
ford's hand, or the gate which had never been opened
since Maud Dynecourt shamed the family by taking
flight through it with one of "Oliver's Lords," forsaking
her denounced Cavalier lover, he would shrug his shoulders
and shake his head, saying
"But times is changed with us since then, ladies and
gentlemen."
Then there was the Well, where all true lovers went
.to swear their constancy and pledge each other in the
At dyne court. qi
Avater, which secured them the good-will of St. Hieretha.
There was many an avenue, too, where belles in sacques
and hoops and farthingales whose names are still
famous walked and coquetted with beaux in ruffles,
powdered wigs, and rapiers, who lived and died for the
upholding of their country and its laws.
Mr. Richard Ford took great pains to keep everything
in the best possible order; and so tender was he over
these footprints of days gone by, that it grieved him to
see even the branch of an old tree removed, or a dead
shrub replaced; and although his steps, as he slowly trod
the Dyne Court avenues, did not fall where his ancestors
had trodden before him, he reverenced the associations
of a past age, and regarded much of his newly-bought
property as hallowed ground.
When, therefore, the neighbouring families, in accord-
ance with the expressed wish of Mr. Dynecourt, called on
the new comer, they decided that, as he could never be
a Dynecourt, they were very glad to see him what he
was simple, unpretentious, valuing things which even
all his money could not buy for him, and naturally pos-
sessed of tastes and feelings which, though he was guilty
of an occasional solecism, or a faulty H, prevented him
from being called vulgar. His great wealth had intro-
duced him to many fashionable circles, and in them he
was the more welcome, because it was understood that
he was looking out for some fair maiden whom he
might make mistress of his newly-gained possessions.
Many a girl, much younger and with far less excuse
than Audrey Verschoyle, smiled upon him, and greeted
him with sweet words, while he talked to them after a
very staid fatherly fashion, and was so very little affected,
apparently, by their solicitude, that it was not to be
wondered at that Lady Laura should regard with triumph
92 DOROTHY FOX
the marked attention which, from their first introduction,
he had bestowed upon her daughter.
The handsome carriage was sent to the station for
the Verschoyles, and they drove up the avenue to find
the master standing at the entrance of the house. He
gave Audrey a most cordial welcome, and the mother's
heart swelled with pride as she thought how well her
child would fill the position to which she saw that she
was destined.
From the moment they entered the house, Mr. Ford,
by his manner, showed that Audrey was the guest he
most delighted to honour. When he displayed the
beauties of the house, he made her his especial charge,
seeming well satisfied when she expressed pleasure; and
he made a note of any alteration she suggested.
The party staying in the house was small, and con-
sisted of a Mr. and Mrs. Jekyl Finch, together with their
daughter, and a cousin to whom she was engaged;
General Trefusis, an old Indian officer, and his sister;
and Mrs. Winterton and her niece, Miss Selina Bingham,
They had all met before, and the sayings and doings of
their mutual acquaintances possessed for each a special
interest. The arrival of the Verschoyles was hailed with
general satisfaction; Lady Laura was always so agreeable,
Miss Verschoyle so clever, and the son was quite a hero,
and so good-looking. Mr. Ford expressed himself de-
lighted to see Captain Verschoyle, and added, " We must
invite some nice young lady to look after him." Quick-
sighted Lady Laura decided at once that this remark
was intended to convey that Miss Bingham was reser\'ed
for somebody else. But who could it be? Perhaps the
old man himself might be coveting her money those
rich people were sometimes so grasping. So she at once
answered,
AT DYNE COURT. 93
"My dear Mr. Ford, you are too thoughtful; but niy
son's health being still very delicate, I fear he has the
bad taste to prefer the attentions of his mother to those
of the most charming young lady in England where any
reciprocity of interest would be expected. No, no. you
must leave my son to me."
Lady Laura took great pains to repeat this ofier of
Mr. Ford's to the guests individually, varying the remarks
according to the condition of the hearer. She told Miss
Bingham that her son never paid any girl the slightest
attention beyond common politeness.
"He declares he shall never fall in love with any one;
but you know, my dear, he's been spoilt that's the truth
of the matter. Men never care for women who wear
their hearts upon their sleeve."
Whereupon Captain Verschoyle's naturally winning
manner was regarded by the heiress as a personal com-
pliment, and every courtesy he showed her seemed of
double value when it came from a man unaccustomed
to be generally gracious. The days passed very idly and
pleasantly. They chatted and gossiped together, they
lingered over breakfasts and luncheons, they strolled in
couples over the grounds, Audrey being always the com-
panion of their host, who took sedate pleasure in show-
ing his knowledge of Roman antiquities, and the history
of abbeys and monasteries. She, in her turn, listened
complacently, and would intersperse his rather heavy
facts with old traditions, legends, and anecdotes of the
places with which these archaic memories were con-
nected. These talks were not altogether uncongenial,
and Audrey remembered she had often felt far more
bored by the conversation of other eligible but younger
"partis" than she did after an hour's tete-a-teie with Mr.
Richard Ford. Though she had not been at Dyne Court
94 DOROTHY FOX.
a week the servants looked upon her as their probable
future mistress, and most eyes followed, with curious
gaze, the couple as they walked together Audrey's tall,
beautiful figure gaining height from her sweeping dress,
and her dark hair arranged so as to display to the best
advantage her well-formed head, which she had to bend
when she addressed her companion.
At the close of one of these long summer days,
Audrey had been singing for the old man. She had
never reckoned singing amongst her accomplishments;
and if asked to sing would say that she could not. But
Mr. Ford thought it the sweetest voice he had ever
heard, and was wonderfully stirred by the few well-
chosen words (for she always looked to the words more
than the music) rather spoken than sung. They were
sitting in the gloaming, apart from the rest of the party,
who were amusing themselves independently of the singer.
Miss Verschoyle did not seek to disguise that she was
solely intent on giving pleasure to the master of the
house. Mr. Ford had asked her for old-fashioned songs,
and she had given him several; her companion hardly
thanking her in words, yet quietly showing her how he
enjoyed the treat. At length, without a thought, she
commenced to sing "Auld Robin Gray."
"Such a mistake!" Lady Laura afterwards observed;
but at the time she only said immediately it was con-
cluded, "My dear Audrey, pray do not sing any more of
those doleful ditties." But Audrey did not reply. She
rose and shut the piano softly, while Mr. Ford said,
huskily, "Thank you, my dear, it is t^venty years since last
I heard that song." Then she said to him, "Will you
walk round the terrace with me? I want to see who the
man was standing outside the window listening to me."
They Avalked round, but could see no one.
AT DYNE COURT. 9o
"It was your fancy, I think," said Mr. Ford.
"No, it was not," replied Audrey.
"Then, perhaps, it was one of the servants."
Audrey did not feel inclined to say that she knew it
v^is not a servant, for it little mattered. So they spoke
of other things, and joined General Trefusis, Miss Bing-
ham, and Captain Verschoyle in a short stroll. As they
were entering the house again a servant came up and
said, "Mr. Dynecourt has arrived, sir."
"Where is hel" asked Mr. Ford. "Will you excuse
me. Miss Verschoyle 1" and he hurried away.
Captain Verschoyle followed his sister into her room
that evening, with the evident intention, as she said, of
having a gossip. So she might just as well resign her-
self and dismiss Marshall at the onset, "to 'improve the
shining hours,' meaning the moonlight, with the chief
butler, or baker, or whoever reigns at present in your
fickle bosom."
"The butler. Miss Audrey! Well, I never; what will
you make me out next? Why, he's nearly seventy!"
"And a very suitable age for you," replied her mis-
tress, laughing.
"No such thing, Marshall," exclaimed Captain Vers-
choyle; "you are a great deal too good-looking to be-
come a nurse yet; besides, what would that Devonshire
landlady's sailor son say?"
"Thank you, sir," said Marshall; "you know every-
body doesn't care about setting the Prayer-book com-
mandment that you mustn't marry your grandfather
at defiance," and Marshall demurely bade them "Good-
night."
"That was a sly hit at you, Audrey."
"Yes, I suppose so; Marshall has given me several
hints as to the interest shown in the servants' hall regard-
g6 DOROTHY FOX.
ing their master's -wooing. By the way, what do you
tliink of your brother-in-law electa'
"Brother-in-law elect!" echoed Captain Verschoyle;
"why, you have not accepted hiin, have you?"
"No; because he has not yet done me the honour to
offer me his hand, and shall we say] heart; but, when
that glory is laid at my feet, I intend to invest myself as
quickly as possible with all the insignia of office which
may belong to the dignity of Mrs. Richard Ford."
"Be serious, Audrey. Do you think the man means
lo ask you to be his wifef
"No; but the master of Dyne Court intends asking
me to be the mistress, and I intend accepting. Don't
look so grave, Charlie; I have tried for matrimonial
])rizes far more distasteful than this man is to me, not-
withstanding that he may call me "Ordrey" and some-
times hope I am "appy."'
"But surely you 7Husi shrink from marrying /ii'm. Mark
you, I am not speaking against the man, for I feel sure
he is good at heart, and there is much to admire in the
good sense which makes him above being ashamed that
he has risen in life. But, Audrey, his age, his appear-
ance, oh! it seems such a dreadful sacrifice, and for
whatr'
"For whati" she answered; "for all I hold dear. I
dream of the entertainments I shall give, the people I
shall gather round me here, the dress, the jewels, the
carriages, the thousand and one delicious extravagances
I may commit when I have money at my command. We
don't look at the value of the coin, we esteem it for
what it will bring us. So with Mr. Ford, if I regarded
him standing on his own personal merits, I should
shudder to be obliged to spend my life with an elderly
riian who has long passed all his romance, and in the.
AT DYNF, COURT. Q7
days when he did possess it, would have perhaps be-
stowed it upon a cook or serving-maid. No, no, Mr.
Richard Ford individually is ignored, and is only re-
garded by me as the medium by which I shall attain all
I have ever desired and longed for."
"But, Audrey, don't tell me your heart has never pic-
tured any other life than one of endless frivolity and
company]"
"Marry for love!" she said, scornfully; "love is very
well in a novel on a rainy day, but how does it stand in
reality?"
"Audrey," said Captain Verschoyle, "give up all idea
of this marriage; you may yet meet with some one to
inspire a different feeling."
"Never now: my heart is choked up with other gods;
love could not take root in such a stony soil; the first
little storm would tear it up to wither and die. More-
over, I must say this is rather cool of you to take me to
task for my adoration of Mammon, when you are at this
very moment paying homage at the same shrine. Now
then, it is my turn to cross-question. Do you really in-
tend proposing to Miss Bingham?"
"That is a question I have asked myself several
times, and hitherto I have been unable to give any
answer. She is a very nice girl, and I might become
very fond of her, but I should never be in love with her."
"I think she would not say No to being Mrs. Vers-
choyle," said Audrey.
"I am not at all sure of that," replied her brother;
"but this I am sure of, that she will not break her heart
if she is not asked, for with all her timid yea-nayishness,
she has a very decided preference for herself, and who-
ever she marries will never be anything but prince con-
sort in her heart. Yet a man might do worse, and there
Dorothy Fojc- 't
98 DOROTHY FOX.
is no reason why he should not love her for herself, for
she is rather pretty and tolerably accomplished."
"Yes," interrupted Audrey, "that is her fault; you
feel that you must always qualify everything you say of
her, and consequently she has no positive character."
"Very unlike my sister there," laughed Captain Vers-
choyle.
"Oh! I know I like to have my own way, and I dare
say if I had fallen in love it would have been with some
weak amiable creature, who deferred to me in all things,
and was entirely guided by my opinion. And yet I de-
test men of that kind."
"Ah!" said her brother, "my ideal is a woman who
has an opinion, and yet is ready to follow out that of
the man she loves; a woman like our sweet Quaker
friend, Avho freely gave her ideas, and then quietly
added, 'But my husband's wish is different;' and love
had made that law so strong that it never entered her
mind to resist it. Do you know, I often think of her."
"So do I," said Audrey. "That afternoon seemed to
open up a fresh vista of life to me; the spirit of peace
took possession of me then. I shall never forget the
scene the mother and daughter I can recall the very
sound of their voices. But there goes twelve o'clock;
my dear Charlie, be off, or I shall look like a wraith to-
morrow."
Captain Verschoyle rose to bid her good-night,
saying
"You will think over what we have been talking
about? Don't marry this man if you feel you may some
day repent it. Money cannot bring everj'thing, Audrev."
She laughingly shook her head in dissent, and without
replying to his question, said,
AT DYNE COURT. 99
"Oh! by the way, did you hear who Mr. Dyne-
court isl"
"No," answered her brother. "What about him?"
"I know nothing about him, only a servant told Mr.
Ford that Mr. Dynecourt had arrived, and he hurried off
to see him, and I left the drawing-room before he re-
turned."
" Dynecourt 1" said Captain Verschoyle; "that must
be one of the family to whom the place belonged."
"Perhaps so; I never heard anything but that it had
belonged to a very old family who had lost their money.
Mr. Ford was once about to give me their history, but
something prevented him. Now if he should prove
young, and good-looking, and a rival to Captain Vers-
choyle"? But don't despair; should the worst come, call
me to the rescue, and I'll measure swords with the inter-
loper, and as it would be perhaps my last passage of
arms, it should be successful, and insure victory."
"Ah, well," said her brother, "as I do not yet know
whether I wish to be the victor I shall not engage your
services. Good-night. Think over what we have been
talking about."
"Yes, I promise."
And she kept her promise. She said to herself that
she would look at it on every side, and on every side
the advantage of marrying Mr. Ford showed itself. She
felt certain that, with the help of some of her relations,
who held a good place in the fashionable world, she
could introduce her husband into it, and once there she
knew she should need no help to keep her place. No
one understood expending a large income better than
Audrey; and her reflections were often forgo tteij in the
pictures her fancy presented, of some wonderful /^Yi? or
entertainment, where she would display her taste, and
lOO DOROTHY FOX.
make herself the envy of people who had often offended
her by their indifference or their patronage. Yes, she
would accept Mr. Ford gladly; she felt almost certain he
would propose to her, though not quite so soon as
Charlie imagined. "I dare say he will defer it until
almost the last day, which would be just what I should
like; and then I shall settle the matter, go to town, and
prepare my trousseau, and we need not meet again until
a day or two before the ," here she sat down pausing
before the word "wedding." Her hands lay idly in
her lap, her wide-open eyes had that look which tells of
blindness to external objects; a slight trembling of the
mouth now and then showed that she was thinking
deeply, seriously. The clock striking one broke in on
her reverie, and she gave a short, quick sigh as the words
seemed to rise to her lips, her tongue almost giving
sound to the thought "Whatever comes, I trust I shall
never forget that my duty is to be very kind to the old
man."
And Audrey was soon in dreamland; and entertain-
ments, and balls, and weddings, and funerals, all mixed
themselves together in her mind, until Marshall's voice
awoke her, telling her that it was past eight o'clock, and
that there was a fresh visitor to dress for that morning.
CHAPTER X.
At Cross-Purposes.
Miss Verschovlf. did not make her appearance in
the breakfast-room next morning until nearly ten o'clock.
Most of the party had already left, and the remainder
were about to follow their example. Mr. Ford was still
sitting at the table, in order, as it seemed, to converse
with his newly-arrived guest, who had only just com-
AT CROSS-PURPOSES. lOI
menced breakfast. As Audrey entered the room, Mr.
Ford advanced to meet her, and after the usual salu-
tations, led her to the table, saying,
"Miss Verschoyle, you must allow me to introduce
Mr. Dynecourt to you, a gentleman to whom I feel very
grateful for giving me the pleasure of his company for a
short time."
Good Richard Ford uttered these words nervously,
fearing that his speech might not convey so much honour
as he wished it to do. Gladly would he have sunk into
temporary insignificance, if Mr. Dynecourt would have
consented to consider that he was still master in his old
home. Geoffrey Dynecourt had shrunk from paying this
visit; but his voluntary banishment had so visibly pained
the new owner, that he determined, in gratitude for the
kindness and consideration Mr. Ford had shown him, to
overcome this feeling. It was a trial to go as guest
where he had lived as master, but it was only one of
many, and he began to take rather a pride in conquering
his feelings, and forgetting that he had ever been any-
thing but what he now Avas Geoffrey Dynecourt, bar-
rister of the Inner Temple.
Miss Verschoyle acknowledged the pleasure it gave
her to meet Mr. Dynecourt, who rose, bowed, and gave
her a chair. Then as both looked up to take a closer
inspection of each other, their eyes met, and Audrey
knew that it was he who had stood listening to her while
singing.
"I am fortunate," she said, "in finding a companion,
for generally at breakfast I have the full benefit of my
own society."
"Why." replied Mr. Dynecourt, "do you so disHkc
early rising?"
"Oh! I detest it; the family morning meal, when all
ioi DOROTHV FOX.
are assembled at eight or nine o'clock, is a remnant of
barbarism, invented doubtless to promote and keep alive
discord. Who could feel amiable at that hourl"
"Well, I don't know," said Mr. Dynecourt, laughing,
"I was up at six this morning, and I felt quite as fond
of mankind then as I do now."
"Oh! but not of womankind," put in Mr. Ford; "for
then, my dear sir, you had not seen Miss Verschoyle."
"Mr. Ford is so charmingly old-fashioned," said
Audrey, smiling, "that he has not forgotten that the most
effectual way of making a woman good-tempered, is to
pay her a compliment."
"Do you really think, Miss Verschoyle," asked Mr.
Dynecourt, "that ladies set so much value on flattery or
compliments'?"
"Speaking from what I hear most people say, I should
most certainly say no; speaking from personal experience,
most decidedly yes. I delight in a compliment, and
can comfortably digest a very tolerable quantity of whole-
some flattery. I often smile, as you are doing now, at
this weakness, but 'it is our nature to,' and we cannot
help feeling very kindly towards a man who delicately
shows us our superiority. But of course it must be
managed skilfully. When it is so, I may know quite
well that it is not true; yet I like to hear it, and in a
way believe it."
Mr. Dynecourt looked at her steadily.
"Ah!" she said, "I know you are pitying my weak-
ness."
'No indeed, I was thinking what an unusual amount
of truthfulness you have."
"Are you trying my powers of credulity?" she asked,
somewhat scornfully, "because you have already sue-
AT CROSS-PURPOSES. IO3
ceeded iii overstepping the boundary, and stumbled on
a piece of flattery which I cannot swallow."
"Have 11" he answered; "it was quite unintentional.
1 never pay compliments, that is not my forte."
At this point Miss Bingham came into the room, say-
ing that they had decided upon a charming plan. They
were to ramble through the Abbey- Woods, taking luncheon
with them for the "Abbot's Rest," then they would return
by "The Dame's Farm," get some tea there, and drive
back again by dinner-time.
"That will be charming," exclaimed Audrey, turning
to Mr. Dynecourt.
"Yes," he said, "I think you have been happy in your
arrangements."
Miss Bingham hastened off to enter more fully into
an account of what was to be done: Audrey and Mr.
Dynecourt seated themselves on one of the seats on the
terrace, and carried on an animated conversation, until
Marshall came from Lady Laura, to say that she wished
to speak to Miss Verschoyle.
Audrey obeyed the summons, deciding that she would
give herself a treat that day, and devote some portion of
her company to Mr. Dynecourt. "I fancy I shall like
him," she thought, "or else I shall dislike him, for he is
one of those people one must have decided opinions
about; and mine are, as yet, unformed. I think he is
good-looking."
"Marshall, don't you think that gentleman I was sit-
ting with Mr. Dynecourt, I mean is very handsome 'I"
"Handsome, Miss Audrey, la! no; he looks to me
all one colour eyes, skin, and hair; and he has such a
melancholy, haughty sort of look, just like the picture of
that Lord Howard at Spencer House, as if he was say-
ing, 'I'm very miserable, but I defy you to pity me.'"
T04 DOROTHY FOX.
"Well, really, he has something Vandykeish about
him," returned Miss Verschoyle. "I expect it is that
short pointed brown beard which gives the expression;
but I think him very good-looking, and I am not sure
that I shall not end by calling him very handsome."
"You don't mean it, Miss Audrey; though I must say
you have a very peculiar taste. You always thought that
Adam Gregor was good-looking a poor woe-begone fel-
low. Everybody to their liking, of course, but give me
a nice fresh colour, with good curly hair and whiskers,
and eyes like sloes, and anybody may have the peaky-
faced, yellow-haired gentlemen for me."
"What! are you still faithful to that Jack-my-Hearty
you met at Plymouth?"
"I'm sure I don't know who you mean. Miss Audrey,
but I suppose if I am going to lose my young lady, if s
quite time that I was faithful to somebody, and had got
somebody to be faithful to me."
"Very true, Marshall; but I am not off your hands
yet; and you and I are too old stagers to count our
chickens before they are hatched."
"Oh! but, miss, it's all secure this time; if you will
say 'yes,' there'll be nobody to gainsay you. I wish I
was as sure of being comfortably settled, as I am that
before this time next year, I shall see you mistress
here."
Miss Verschoyle laughed. "And if so," she said,
"get your sailor friend to leave off toiling on the sea,
and become a tiller of the ground, and we'll find him a
sinecure situation. Did you say mamma was in m}'
room]"
"Yes, miss."
Audrey entered, and found Lady Laura engaged in
pulling out and crimping up the frills and lace attached
AT CROSS-PURPOSES. ro5
to the costume which she and Marshall had agreed that
Audrey should wear.
"I am not going to wear that dress, mamma," she
exclaimed, "I shall wear my new blue one."
"Why spoil that, dear? You look very well in this
one, and Mr. Ford, I see, is not an impressionable man
as regards dress."
Audrey did not answer Lady Laura's remark. She
only said,
"I have made up my mind to wear the blue."
Now, under ordinary circumstances this would have
been a declaration of war in words, which would have
raged sharply, until Audrey had given in, and conceded
to her mother's wishes; but just now Lady Laura was
wonderfully yielding and amiable towards her daughter.
So she told Marshall to put away the refused dress care-
fully, and left her daughter under the maid's hands. Miss
Verschoyle desired that her hair might be re-arranged
after a fashion she considered particularly becoming.
Altogether she took such an interest in her appearance,
that Marshall felt quite certain her mistress had some-
thing "fresh in her head." When her toilette was finished,
and Audrey went into her mother's room for inspection,
Lady Laura exclaimed,
"You were quite right, my dear, to decide upon the
blue. I never saw you looking better. Charles, love,
come and congratulate your sister on her appearance."
Captain Verschoyle, who had been sitting with Lady
Laura, turned round, and lifting up his eyebrows to
evince his astonishment, asked who it was all for.
"Who is it for?" repeated Lady Laura; "really,
Charles!"
^'Well, then, what is it for?" said Captain Verschoyle.
Io6 DOROTHY FOX.
"For your especial benefit, sir," replied Audrey, with
a significant nod as she went out of the room.
"Dear girl, how I shall miss her!" said Lady Laura
pathetically. "I am sure no disinterestedness can equal
that of a mother in giving up her children." Then, seeing
Marshall had gone, she added confidentially, "My idea
is, that Audrey has determined that the old gentleman
shall propose to-day; and a very excellent thought it is,
for they could not have a more fitting opportunity."
"Oh, mother! the idea of her sacrificing herself in
this way is hateful to me."
"Now, Charles, I beg I insist that you do not
mention such a thing to Audrey; not that I think my
daughter would listen to such an absurd word as sacri-
fice, in the case of a girl who has not a penny marrying
a man with ^"30,000 a-year."
"Come, mother, don't forget you were young your-
self," answered her son.
"Yes, young and foolish, Charles. Your dear father
was a charming man, and I am sure I idolized him; but
he ought never to have married me I have said so
dozens of times to him, and he always agreed with me.
/ love my children too well ever to expose them to
such a life of struggle to keep up appearances as I have
had."
"But," said Captain Verschoyle, "do you not think
you would have been much happier if you had accepted
your position, acknowledged yourself unable to compete
with your wealthy friends, and contented yourself with
the society of those who valued you for yourself]"
"And where, I should like to know, would you have
been had I only studied my own ease? Really, Charles,
I was unprepared for such ingratitude in you, when my
AT CROSS-PURPOSES. lO/
one aim has been to maintain and keep my position for
my children's sake."
"My dear mother, you know I appreciate all your
goodness, but I do dislike being tolerated and patronized,
through accepting invitations I can never make any re-
turn for."
"Then all I can say is, I am very sorry to hear that
my son possesses such a plebeian spirit of independence.
A proper pride, which forbids one to make intimates of
vulgar people, or to associate with persons one never
meets in society, I ca7i appreciate; but to give up the
entree to such houses as stamp your standing in society,
because the people don't make a great fuss about you,
or be unable to put up with a somewhat rude speech
from a person who can get you invited to most of the
places other people are dying to be seen at, would be a
piece of folly which few well-bred persons, I think, could
understand."
Captain Verschoyle smiled as he answered,
"Your ladyship lays too much weight on aristocratic
birth and breeding, forgetting that 'virtue alone is true
nobility.' "
"Charles, I beg you will not repeat any of those
horrid radical sayings to me. You are really growing
exactly like that odious old Henry Egerton, who is always
preaching about equality. I suppose you will be telling
me next that it is my duty to visit with the greengrocer,
and to cultivate the society of the butcher and baker,
with a view to an ultimate alliance being formed with
some of them."
"Well, you know," said her son, slily, "you are
giving your consent to one of the family marrying a
tradesman."
"I have no patience with you, Charles. If you have
108 DOROTHY FOX,
not the sense to understand the difference which a
colossal fortune makes in the man's position, I give you
up. I have never asked, and I have no curiosity to
know, how Mr. Ford made his money. It is enough for
me to know that he has it, and that society accepts him
on the same terms. I am quite sure that when he is
Audrey's husband they will be in a very good set; I
shall take care of that. Our family know too well what
is due to any member of it not to lend a helping hand.
I don't expect your uncle Spencer, nor Lord Towcester,
nor any of our aristocratic cousins, to make a boon
companion of the man, but I feel certain that they'll ask
him to their large entertainments, and make a point of
always accepting his invitations to dinner."
"Poor old gentleman!" exclaimed Captain Verschoyle,
"he won't trouble the family long; he'll soon sink under
all the greatness thrust upon him. Do you think that if
I were to honour with my hand some daughter of a
house gilded but yet defiled by trade, I should be able
to insure that my wife would not be jostled by the aristo-
cratic elbows assembled at Grantley House, and snubbed
by the patrician mouth of Lady Spencer T'
"There can be no occasion for me to answer such
absurd questions. Besides, I ho^Q your wife will be able
to enter society in her own right. The Binghams are
an old county family, and distantly connected with Lord
Radnor and the Tuftons. I found all that out from Mrs.
Winterton."
"Oh! is it decided, then, that Miss Bingham is to be
your future daughter-in-law?"
"Well, it will be your own fault if she is not, and I
should think you would hardly be so blind as to throw
such a chance away; for though you keep your looks
remarkably well, you have certainly lost much of the
AT CROSS-PURPOSES. lOQ
esprit you had some years ago. I wanted to speak to
you about Miss Bingham, only we have wasted all our
time over this ridiculous discussion. I see now who Mr.
Ford was reserving her for."
"And who was that?"
"This Mr. Dynecourt he makes so much of. It is
not likely he will have a chance with you; but still I
should redouble my attentions, and when all is settled
between Audrey and Mr. Ford, she can give him a hint
not to press the young man to prolong his stay."
"I beg you will do nothing of the kind, mother, for
I can assure you it is not at all certain at present that I
shall ever wish to dispute any one's claim to the honour
of being Miss Bingham's suitor."
Lady Laura saw that her son was not now inclined
to listen favourably to her schemes for his marriage, so
she wisely resolved to hold her tongue. Professing to
be suddenly amazed at the lateness of the hour, she
asked him if it was not time that he should join the rest
of the party, whom she was going to see start, for her
inclination did not prompt her to accompany them.
Mr. Ford proposed driving to Abbot's Gate, and
Audrey volunteered to be his charioteer. As they had
to go round a long distance, they started before the
pedestrians. The conversation naturally turned upon
Mr. Dynecourt, and Audrey heard to her great surprise
that he had been the former owner of the property.
Mr. Ford grew eloquent while eulogizing the man who
had acted so nobly.
"I do not expect you to admire his conduct as I do,
Miss Verschoyle, because you have not been brought up
to look on an honest, independent spirit as I have; but
the man who possesses that, and sufficient perseverance
to battle with the world and to conquer, why it is nine-
1 10 DOROTHY FOX.
teen to one but he'll succeed. Where should I have
been but for that? Certainly not sitting beside you, my
dear young lady," he added, sobering down, lest he might
become too confidential in his enthusiasm. "I tell Mr.
Dynecourt he'll die Lord Chancellor yet. I hate going
to law, but I should almost snatch an opportunity that
I might do him a good turn."
"Why," said Audrey, "what is hel"
"A barrister, and a very rising one, too. He has
many influential friends, and every sensible man coni'
mends his spirit. Some of his other friends wished him
to wait and get a diplomatic something, but he preferred
doing what he has done, and I honour him."
"Poor fellow!" said Audrey, "what a trial; not only
giving the place up, but all the old memories and asso-
ciations; oh! I do so feel for him."
"So did I, Miss Verschoyle, more than I ever did for
any one in my life."
"But could nothing be done?" said Audrey; "was he
irretrievably ruined?"
"Nothing could be done then; things had been going
from bad to worse for generations; the former owners
had shut their eyes, and left to their successors the task
of amending matters, or of plunging deeper into the
mire. I cannot explain it to you, but embarrassments
hedged him in completely, so that notwithstanding the
enormous sum I paid for the place, Mr. Dynecourt was
not able to secure more than suffices to bring him in
^500 a-year. I tell you this, knowing it will go no
farther."
"Certainly," replied Audrey, "it is safe with me. I
am very glad you have told me."
"I thought when I did so you would appreciate him,'
6uiu Mr. Ford, kindly.
AT CROSS-PURPOSES. I I Ij
"I do, and you too, Mr. Ford; you have a very noble
nature."
"Thank you, my dear; that is a compliment which,
coming from you, I value very much."
Had Audrey entertained the idea her mother had
credited her with, and pursued her opportunity, assuredly
she would then have been offered the hand of Richard
Ford. But she did not wish that the honour should be
])resented to her just yet. So, when they reached Abbot's
Gate, and had sent the carriage back, she adroitly changed
the subject by reminding Mr. Ford that he had never
given her an account of the ruin they were going to see
at Abbot's Rest. Once launched on his favourite topic,
Audrey was safe from all love passages, which, to speak
truth, Mr. Ford was very glad to shirk; for he more often
wished his companion was his daughter than that she
should be his wife. He had no desire to marry; and the
only inducement was, that, with the exception of two or
three distant cousins, about whom he cared nothing, he
had nobody to whom he could leave his wealth. Though
he could always gather people round him, yet he was
very lonely in the midst of them. And then he was
being constantly told that he ought to marry. He had
taken a great liking to Audrey; and since she had been
his guest his regard had grown daily, until he had made
up his mind that if he did marry, she should be his wife.
Still he gave a sigh when he thought of this, for not-
withstanding his sixty years, his stout figure, and generally
commonplace appearance, Richard Ford had a seat in
his heart which death had left vacant; and it seemed to
him something like sacrilege to a memory to fill that
place, even in name.
lil DOROTHY FOX.
CHAPTER XI.
Abbot's Walk.
Arbot's Walk was a long avenue of beech trees, at
tlie end of which was an old ivy-covered ruin of what
had probably been a votive chapel to some saint. Tra-
dition said that the pious abbot, Petrock, had "raised it
to that reverend St. Germain, bishop of Auxerre, whose
memorial was so sacred among the Britons, that many
churches were dedicated to his memory in this island;"
and the good Petrock having gone thither, as was his
daily wont, to meditate on the sainfs wisdom, "in that he
had been one of those who confuted Pelagius's heresy,"
was found by the monks seemingly in a deep sleep, from
which he had never awakened. From that time they had
named this peaceful retreat "The Abbot's Rest." You
might have wandered many a long mile before so fair
and secluded a spot would have met your eye. Coming
immediately out of the rather gloomy walk, the little
knoll on which the ruin stood looked bright without
being sunny. Its rich carpet of wild thyme was studded
with flowers rarely found in any other part of the grounds.
The large stones, lying here and there, were covered with
moss, and formed supports to thick low bushes of roses,
which were cut, in order to prevent their long branches
trailing over the ground. On the side opposite the ruin,
you were separated from Dyne woods by a lazy murmur-
ing stream.
When Audrey and Mr. Ford came suddenly to this
spot, they both uttered an exclamation of surprise, to
find the whole party assembled. They were all sitting
quietly after their walk, either silently resting, or con-
versing in low whispers. The first couple Audrey took
note of was her brother and Miss Bingham. Then she
abbot's walk. t I )
looked all round. To her disappointment, Mr. Dynecourt
was not there. But he might have rambled away with the
Rector's daughter, so she asked
"Did you call for Miss Coventry?"
"We sent for her," said Miss Bingham, "but she had
an engagement."
Perhaps he was coming later.
After a time she said, "But where is Mr. Dynecourt'/"
"He asked me to excuse him early in the morning,"
returned Mr. Ford.
"Yes," added Miss Trefusis, "he walked to die first
gate with us, and pointed out the prettiest way, but he
said he was unable to join us."
"We made a bargain together," said Mr. Ford, "that
if he would come here, he should be entirely free to do
as he liked, and go where he liked unquestioned. I dare
say he has gone off to one of the neighbours: they are
all anxious to see him."
"There are no people living very near here though?"
said Audrey.
"No," replied Mr. Ford, "but he is an excellent walker,
and if he chooses to ride or drive he can do so."
In spite of herself, Audrey was vexed as well as dis-
appointed. She had no wish that Mr. Dynecourt should
fall in love with her, but she wanted him to admire her.
Before she had heard his history, she had made up her
mind to devote herself to that purpose during the day.
This desire had been the cause of the especial regard she
had that morning displayed for her personal appearance.
Since the conversation with Mr. Ford, all her sympathies
had been enlisted; and she resolved she would delicately
pay him every attention. He should feel that all this was
not from pity, but from an appreciation of his character.
And now, after all this thought and planning on her part,
Doroth.y Fox. 5
114 DOROTHY FOX.
he was not to be present to receive the benefit. Slie was
piqued. But after a time she smiled at her unreasonable
vexation. "I am forgetting," she thought, "that I am
scarcely on promotion now. How odd it will be for me
to have done with scheming; it will rather diminish the
zest of going out. I wonder what thorns lie on the bed
of roses upon which unbounded wealth reposes. Not
many, I fancy, that will penetrate my hardened skin. So
adieu to my new-fledged fancy, I'll console myself with
my Nestor; but, my mood being somewhat captious, I
had better not indulge in tete-h-tctes"
The day passed very pleasantly, Audrey exerting her-
self to amuse everybody; helping General Trefusis to
compound a delicious mystery in the shape of a cham-
pagne cup; washing the salad in the stream; insisting on
Mr. Ford helping her to lay the table; then making him
sit down and watch her, because she feared he was tired;
and finally, knowing the two old gentlemen had walked
quite enough, she professed herself unable to get farther
than Abbot's Gate. General Trefusis and Mr. Ford must,
therefore, please drive with her, and they would meet the
rest of the party at "The Dame's Farm," and after tea,
again drive home together.
After they had departed, Mrs. Crichett, the farmer's
wife, declared that if that was the lady Mr. Ford was to
marry, though he had picked the whole world he could
not have found a nicer. Roger Cross had told her all
about it, and she was a noble-featured madam.
"Ah!" exclaimed the good woman, "I wish it was one
of the old stock she was to be bride to; what a couple
the master and she would make!"
While Audrey was dressing for dinner, she told her
Brother how much they had enjoyed their day. Thougli
abbot's walk. 1 15
she did not seem to have had any formal proposal made
to her, yet as she had evidently devoted herself to Mr.
Ford, Lady Laura was delighted to hear her daughter so
often unconsciously couple their names together. Charles,
too, seemed to have made up for his dereliction, by
paying Miss Bingham very pointed attentions. All was
thus going on in a way to satisfy her maternal anxiety.
As her eyes followed Audrey's graceful figure through
the room, she said, with pride, to Marshall
"Miss Audrey is very elegant, Marshall."
"Yes, my lady; she pays for dress."
"My family always do," replied Lady Laura. "We
seem born for silks, and satins, and jewels; but then you
seldom see a well-born person over-dressed. There was
that Mrs. Danegelt; people made such a fuss about her,
though I always thought she had too many ornaments
on; and afterwards I discovered that her father was a
woollen draper. It's a very odd thing how naturally
people seem to become what they are born to."
"But, my lady, some people seem to think that anything
becomes them," said Marshall, drily.
"That is very true, Marshall; and I am glad to know
you have so much sense. It is very sad to see all the
barriers of distinction in dress and other things broken
down; besides, it is so wicked, because, of course, it is
the will of Providence."
"Ah! mamma," laughed Audrey, "you may depend
upon it there are people desperate enough to believe
that we are all brothers and sisters."
"Well, perhaps, figuratively speaking, we are so; but
every right-minded person will know and appreciate the
demands of aristocratic birth."
"Then you are not one of that sort, Marshall," said
Audrey; "for I have been demanding my fan and my
II 6 DOROTHY FOX.
handkerchief for the last twenty minutes, because, if per-
mitted, my wish is to descend to the drawing-room."
Mr. Dynecourt made his appearance at dinner. He
did not sit near Audrey, and she took litde part in the
general conversation. Lady Laura remarking this, Mr.
Ford excused her, saying she must be tired. She had
done so much that day, he explained; adding, in his
usual old-fashioned way, "she has shown us that she can
be as useful as she is ornamental." Audrey nodded her
thanks to the old gendeman; and, shielding herself under
the plea of fatigue, ate her dinner almost in silence.
The Finches were leaving the next day; so Mr. Ford
considered it incumbent upon him to devote himself to
them that evening; and Miss Verschoyle was allowed to
enjoy her book undisturbed. At last the daylight slowly
faded away, and she was obliged to give up reading.
Almost immediately after, somebody said,
"I have been waiting patiently for you to close your
book. I had not the courage to disturb you."
It was Mr. Dynecourt; and, having said this, he seated
liimself by her side. Audrey expressed regret that he had
not shared in the pleasure of the day.
"Did you not think of us alii" she asked.
"I do not know that I thought of you all; I thought
of you very often."
"And why?" she demanded.
"Well, I can hardly say why, but things you had
said came back to my mind. I have seen so few ladies
lately, that you do not know what a treat it is to me to
talk to one."
"Ah!" she answered, laughing, "observing I was un-
duly flattered by your remembering me especially, you
hasten to show me the compliment is due to my sex, not
to my individual charms."
abbot's WAi.K. 117
"Indeed you are wrong; my fear is that from having
been unused to ladies' society, I shall say too readily
what is in my mind, and so give offence by my apparent
boldness."
"Have you no sisters, then?"
"No, nor any near female relative. All my intimate
friends are middle-aged married people, so that I have
never been in a position to talk unreservedly with any
woman."
"Do not tell me I have before me such a rara avis
as a man who has never cared for any woman in par-
ticular."
"You have," he returned. "I do not say I was never
haunted by a beautiful face, or that I never put myself
out of the way to meet some pretty girl who had caught
my fancy; but as to being in love certainly not. I have
never seen any woman whom I desired to marry, and I
suppose I never shall now. People do not readily fall
in love at eight-and-twenty."
"Oh, men do," said Audrey.
"But why men more than women?"
"Because they are younger at that age."
"But not in heart?" said Mr. Dynecourt.
"Well, I suppose not, but people can get on very
well without love if they have money." She added:
"Now, we are very poor. I never had money enough to
meet my wants, and naturally I have felt some envy of
the people who were able to get all they desired. So I
believe the right arrangement is , that the rich men should
marry the poor girls, and the heiresses the men without
money."
"Then," said Mr. Dynecourt, "pray exclude me from
your arrangement, for I would not marry the richest wo-
man in England if I did not love her and she did not
1 I 8 DOROTHY FOX,
love me. I am poor, but because I have lost my pro
perty I have not given up every chance of happiness,
every claim to the gift which God has left to us as a
feeble trace of Eden. You do not mean that, Miss
Verschoyle. I could not look into your face without
feeling that you have loved, or that you will love deeply
and truly."
"It has not come yet," she replied; "and, to quote
your words, people do not readily fall in love at eight-
and-twenty. Now, do not betray my confidence, for I
have a horror of people knowing how old I am. Indeed,
I do not know why I was weak enough to tell you."
"Oh, I knew it before: Mrs. Winterton asked me if I
did not admire you; and added that you were wonder-
fully young-looking for eight-and-twenty."
Audrey laughed. "I hope," she said, "you were polite
enough to contradict her. I shall think very poorly of
your s avoir fair e if you did not."
"No, I did not contradict her, neither did I agree
with her. I said what I thought that you must have
always looked the same, and that you would always con-
tinue the same, because it was for something more than
actual beauty one would love to look upon such a face
as yours."
She looked up at him quickly. "Stay," she said, "let
me recall your speech of this morning: 'I never pay com-
pliments flattery is not my forte.' "
"See," said Mr. Dynecourt, "already I have offended
you; but don't be too severe. I told you I was afraid
that my habit of speaking my thoughts would make you
think me over-bold."
"Indeed!" she replied. "I only wanted to assure m}-
self that I was not going to hear of my goodness and
amiable temper next."
abdot's walk. tig
"1 should never tell you that," he answered, laughing,
"because I am not sure that you have a very amiable
temper. Do you know I thought you were more cross
than tired at dinner?"
Audrey laughed outright.
"So I was," she said, "andj'ow were the reason. I
was vexed with you for not coming to the picnic."
At this moment Mr. Ford came up, and she went on.
"I am just telling Mr. Dynecourt that I was very cross
with him for not joining us to-day."
"That's right, my dear, you scold him. I did not
like to interfere with you," he continued, laying his hand
on the young man's shoulder, "but I was very disap-
pointed at your not coming. However, we will have an-
other day, and then you'll make up for it. We are
going into the next room now; Miss Finch has con-
sented to favour us with a last remembrance of her
beautiful music."
Audrey prepared to follow.
"Afterwards," said Mr. Dynecourt, "you will sing
something."
"I!" she answered; "no I never sing to people."
"But you sing for people. I heard you, and thought
it was different from any singing I had listened to be-
fore."
Then she left him, and sat by Miss Finch's side, and
afterwards she joined Mr. Ford, so there was no further
conversation between them. Mr. Ford told her that he
hoped she liked his favourite, and that he should be
obliged if she would help him in his endeavour to make
Mr. Dynecourt's visit as pleasant as possible.
"I shall be delighted to help you in any way I can,"
she answered, "and I like Mr. Dynecourt very much.
120 DOROTHY FOX.
He is rather different from anybody I have met before.
I enjoy talking to him."
"That is right," answered Mr. Ford; "I want you to
be excellent friends. I always like my favourites to take
to one another."
"Then am I a favourite"?" she asked, looking smilingly
into his face.
" Vou are a very great favourite, my dear. I only
wish for your sake that I was a young man."
"Do not wish that," she said; "perhaps you would
not be so nice."
"Perhaps not," he answered, as he inwardly contem-
plated himself at five-and-twenty, when he had got his
first start in life. How would this elegant young lady
have regarded him then? Certainly not with the eyes of
love, as, "drest all in his best," he gave his Patty a treat
and took her to Primrose Hill, or out to enjoy the won-
ders of the St. Helena Gardens. Ah! what happy days
those were past for ever, for money could purchase no
delights such as he knew then. He sighed, and turning
to Audrey, said:
"Make the most of your young days. Miss Verschoyle,
for youth has happiness which in after-life we vainly
sigh for."
"Has if?" she replied. "I feel as if I had never ex-
perienced any of those pleasures. It must be very plea-
sant to have bygone days to recall and dwell upon."
"Sometimes those memories come back very bitterly,"
he said, "and yet I would not wittingly part with one.
Most people would say I have had a wonderfully prosper-
ous life, and I thankfully acknowledge that I have; but if
it were permitted that we might in any way make a
choice, I would have given up my money had God seen
fit to spare me what I valued more."
LOOKING TO BOTH SIDES. 1 : I
Audrey had no opportunity of making any answer,
for Mr. Ford abruptly turned round and asked Miss
Trefusis to play him "The Harmonious Blacksmith," and
their tcte-a-tete was not renewed.
CHAPTER XII.
Looking to Both Sides.
To regulate his feelings by his common sense is one
of the most difficult tasks a man can set himself to per-
form. So, at all events, thought Captain Verschoyle as
he endeavoured to persuade himself that, should Miss
Bingham accept the hand his common sense prompted
him to offer her, he ought to consider himself a very
lucky fellow. "She is extremely ladylike," he said to
himself, " decidedly pretty, and inclined to be uncommonly
fond oT me." Yet he did not like her, and it was no use
asking himself why. It was enough that, notwithstanding
all her attractions, he did not, could not, and never
should care for her.
He felt his utter inability to marry without money.
Nevertheless this was his real position, and unless the
girl he might desire to make his wife possessed an in-
come at least equalling his own, he must forego all idea
of changing his condition. True, he might do so if he
gave up his profession; but, when he contemplated all
the advantages he hoped to gain by his hard service,
his campaigns, and Crimean feats, he exclaimed
"No! not for any woman living. What makes me
want to get married I don't know; but certainly when I
came home this time the idea took possession of me;
and then that foolish old mother of mine is so anxious
to secure this chance, which she very flatteringly hints
may be my last. Well, I suppose I shall be a fool if I
122 DOROTHY FOX.
don't try my luck. A fellow does not get such a chance
every day."
Then, as he stood in front of the glass setding his
tie, he thought,
"I'm not a bad-looking fellow, and I don't think that,
as men go, I'm a bad sort, but I'm hanged if I believe
any woman was ever downright in love with me yet.
They've shammed, and so have I, so I have not very
much right to complain."
After this he succeeded in running a pin into the
back of his neck, which feat effectually drove love and
Miss Bingham out of his head; and, after the manner of
his sex, he spent the rest of the time in bestowing the
most condemnatory epithets on those indispensable
requirements. Later in the day he sought his mother,
and finding her in her own room, he said suddenly, and
without any preamble
"Mother, do you know, I think I shall run up to town
for a few days."
Lady Laura regarded her son with considerable sur-
prise, but she would not commit herself further than to
repeat, "Going to town for a few days!"
"Yes; I want to see after those boxes of mine. There
is some bother with the railway now."
Her ladyship put a mark in the book she was read-
ing, shut it, and laid it on the table near her. Then
turning round so that she might face her son, she said,
as she looked at him fixedly
"My dear Charles, what can you mean? May I ask
what are your intentions'?"
Captain Verschoyle laughed as he answered, "Well,
the truth is, I feel so uncertain of my intentions, that I
Vv'ant to try if a week's absence will not help my decision."
Lady Laura gave a little shrug of her shoulders as
LOOKING TO r.OTH RIDES. 123
fehe continued in her sweetest voice, "You are acting
very foolishly, Charles, and nothing is more fatal than
indecision. Now, if you have any doubt of yourself,
why do you not propose this very day, being quite cer-
tain what your line of action should be? After the thing
is done you cannot draw back, and you will begin at
once to see the wisdom of your choice."
"No, mother, that is not me at all. If I acted upon
your advice I should repent it immediately, and perhaps
ever after."
Lady Laura saw she had best try a little severitj^, so
she demanded in a rather sarcastic tone, "Would it be
too much to ask you what more you want than a sweet,
amiable girl, ready to yield to your every wish; whose
money you might spend without a word being asked;
who would at any time be made happy by the prospect
of a ball ox fete ^ and who would be won over and ap-
peased by any trifling article of dress or jewellery, without
casting in your teeth that it was her own silver which
had baited the hook that secured her favour?"
"But, mother, I don't see why I should marry at all
unless I am perfectly certain that it would immensely
add to my happiness. My income is sufficient to keep
mer
"Oh! indeed, is it?" interrupted Lady Laura, elevat-
ing her eyebrows with feigned astonishment.
"Well, I know I have kicked over the traces some-
times, but I always manage to make things square in the
end. I've always contrived to pay what I owed."
"Really, have you?" Then she added in the same
cutting tone, "What a comfort for a mother to know that
she has a son whose highest ambition in life is to be
able to pay what he owes!"
"Come, come," said Captain Verschoyle, "you're get-
124 DOROTHY FOX.
ting vexed with me, and there is no reason for that. I
only tell you that I think I had best have a few days by
myself before I decide perhaps an unnecessary thing
for very likely the young lady or her belongings would
turn up their noses at a penniless soldier, though he had
the honour of being Lady Laura Verschoyle's son."
"Indeed, they would do nothing of the kind," said
Lady Laura, angrily. "Though it is quite true dozens
of men would snap at her, yet remember every man is
not connected as you are; and from something I learned
about them a few days since, I know that unless she
does marry somebody of good family, she will never get
into a good set. Turn up their noses at you indeed!
If they did, I should soon give them a quiet hint which
would considerably alter their tone."
Lady Laura said a great deal more to her son, and
he said a great deal more to her; but in spite of her
advices, her remonstrances, and cutting speeches, he
ended as he had begun, with a determination to excuse
himself to Mr. Ford on the plea of business, and to start
the next morning for London, where he said he should
probably remain a week.
During the day Captain Verschoyle told his sister of
his intended visit to London, assigning as a reason for
his absence his anxiety about the missing boxes. Audrey
only laughed and shook her head as she bade him put
no trust in the saying, that "Absence makes the heart
grow fonder." "It may make it grow fonder of some-
body else, Charlie," she went on, "but not of the one on
whom you are just now trying the recipe."
"Mind your own business," returned her brother,
"and keep your wisdom to help you to swallow your
own pill; for I tell you, Audrey, that if I were you that
old fellow would be a choker for me."
LOOKING TO BOTH SIDES. 1 25
"My dear Charles, do you know that the domestic
animals of our species are, by a wonderful provision of
nature, gifted with a remarkable power, by which they
can get down the most unpleasant bolus, provided it be
only well gilded?"
Then as soon as she had driven him off, and was
alone, she said to herself, "Poor Charlie, he need not
be in a great hurry now I shall be of some service to
him, I hope. How delightful to think of being able to
be generous! Mr. Ford is a liberal man I see, and he
is certainly very kind to me; and I" here she sat think-
ing for some time until the luncheon bell disturbed her,
and she arose hurriedly, saying, "It's of no use; once for
all let me remember that the thing is impossible. Im-
possible? Why, what folly will seize me nextl Are we
not two beggars with nothing but our hearts to call our
own? If I do not take care," she added with a little
bitter laugh, "even that small possession will not remain
long in my keeping. How a woman might love him
though! And I believe that he has never cared for any
one before."
Surely Audrey could not have meant Mr. Ford in
speaking thus to herself; for as she went down the stairs
her last thought was, "I hope that when I am mistress
here he will let me be very kind to him."
After luncheon Lady Laura took the opportunity of
trying to find out from Mrs. Winterton how long she
thought of remaining at Dynecourt. Hearing that her
stay was likely to last for a fortnight longer, her spirits
rose.
"To tell you the truth," she said, "I am asking on
my dear boy's account. Those horrid people at the
Horse-Guards will never let him alone, and he has to
go there to-morrow on some business which may detaia
126 DOROTHY FOX.
him for a week. Poor fellow! he is so dismal about it;
and he is dreadfully anxious to be certain that he will
find you here when he returns. I don't think I shall
speak to you," continued her ladyship playfully to Miss
Bingham who joined them; "I am so jealous. Here I
find Charles low-spirited and dull because, as I think, he
has to leave his foolishly fond mother for a week; but,
dear me, I discover that I am nobody, and that all this
anxiety is about somebody else, and whether she will be
here when he returns."
Though Miss Bingham exclaimed, "Oh! Lady Laura,
what do you meanl" she was evidently pleased, and
quite forgot her vexation of a few hours before, which
had been occasioned by Captain Verschoyle, without
any comment or seeming regret, telling her that he was
going to London for a week.
"Ah! you may well look guilty," continued Lady
Laura, drawing the young lady's arm within her own;
"and during his absence I shall make you console me
by being my constant companion."
In spite of this manoeuvre, and notwithstanding that
Lady Laura felt she had managed matters in the best
possible manner, she was still extremely annoyed widi
her son; and when next morning he came to wish her
"good-bye," she said that she was very unwell, that she
had passed a sleepless night, and that her nerves were
completely unstrung.
"Now don't look so dismal, mother," he said. "I
dare say by the tiine I come back I shall be only
too delighted to listen to your sage advice, and to act
upon it."
Lady Laura closed her eyes, and feebly shook her
head, intimating that it litde mattered, for he would not
LOOKIN'O TO BOTH SIDES. 12/
have her long: she was not what she used to be before
he went to the Crimea.
"Remember, Charles," she added, "I cannot stand
anxiety now; and it is only my duty to tell you that
Dr. Coulson says my life hangs upon the merest thread."
Still, though she bade him good-bye with the air of
one taking what was likely to prove a final adieu, she
entrusted him with a note to her milliner, Madame
Roget, telling him to impress upon Madame the urgency
of these commissions being immediately attended to, so
that the new bonnet and head-dress ordered might be
ready by the following Friday, when he was to bring
them down with him. After this she kissed him mourn-
fully, and sank back upon the sofa apparently exhausted.
But, much to her son's astonishment, as he was slowly
descending the stairs, thinking that he had behaved in
a most unfeeling manner, he heard her calling in her
usual voice
"Charles, Charles, tell Madame Roget that if she has
any doubt about tulle she is to put lace, but that I
desire it may not be such an expensive one as the last
she used."
"All right, mother," replied Captain Verschoyle, greatly
relieved by this sudden change for the better; "I'll be
sure to execute your commissions, and you shall have
something scrumptious when I come back."
Having already said good-bye to the rest of the party,
who were assembled in the dining-room, he drove past
with a wave of the hand.
All the way up he had been thinking that perhaps he
was, after all, setting off on a fool's errand. Miss Bing-
ham had looked uncommonly pretty that morning, and
she seemed quite sorry that he was going. It would be
rather a sell if, while he was away, he should be cut out
1^8 DOROTHY FOX.
by Dynecourt, who hadn't any more than he had, and
was therefore equally open to temptation.
"Well, what a dog-in-the-manger beast I am!" he
said. "I don't want the girl myself at least I am not
quite certain whether I do want her or not and so I
don't wish any other fellow to have her while the doubt
is on my mind. I should not do badly if I had her
money, particularly if we were to be quartered at York
this winter. What would old Harry Egerton say to her,
I wonder? I have a good mind to run down to Darington,
and have a talk with the old boy. I want to see him,
and I know in his heart he wants to see me, though he'd
die before he'd say so."
And as he drove to his hotel, for he had decided not
to go to Egmont Street, he thought over the plan. The
next two days in London with nothing to do, nobody to
see, and nowhere to go, considerably told in Miss Bing-
ham's favour. Captain Verschoyle came to the conclu-
sion that, having finished his ostensible business and
arranged to go to the Paddington station for the missing
boxes that evening, he might as well write to his mother
and tell her that it was very probable he should return
next day. He would not announce his intentions too
decidedly, else her ladyship would fancy by his more
speedy return that the business was to be settled to her
satisfaction without delay. He had only got so far as to
say that things must take their course che sard sard.
He half wished something would turn up to prevent him
from returning before the day he had specified, but he
could not stay in London longer the place was un-
bearable.
When he reached Paddington the station was in all
the bustle consequent on the arrival of the train from
Plymouth. He therefore waited until most of the.
LOOKING TO ROTH SIDES. 12Q
]i.issengers had left, and then went on the platform to
speak to the guard. He was standing looking for him
when a porter, addressing some one near, said, "No,
ma'am, there's no lady waiting on the other side."
"Perhaps we had better go on, then," returned a voice
in answer. "Wilt thou get a cab for us, and direct the
man to drive to the Shoreditch station T'
Captain Verschoyle turned quickly round and ex-
claimed,
"Mrs. Fox, how glad I am to see you again! I hope
}'0U will permit me to be of any service to you that I
can."
Patience held out her hand, saying, "Indeed, I am
very glad to see thee, for I have so little knowledge of
London that I feel quite bewildered to be alone. My
daughter was to have met us, but I fear something un-
foreseen has happened, as she is not here."
"Your daughter!"
"Yes, Grace Hanbury, my married daughter. Oh!
Dorothy is with me."
Immediately Captain Verschoyle was expressing his
pleasure at meeting Miss Fox again.
"Did I hear you say you were going to Shoreditch'?"
he asked.
"Yes, my daughter lives at Fryston, on that line."
"Then you must allow me to see you safely to the
station."
"Would it not be giving thee trouble 1" said Patience.
"No, indeed, it would be giving me great pleasure,
so you will not refuse me."
"Thank thee," replied Patience; "in that case I will
gladly accept thy offer, for Dorothy and I are but
country folk, and, therefore, somewhat timid away from
home in this large city."
Dortthy Fox. 9
IjO DOROTHY FOX.
I
CHAPTER XIII.
Josiah at Bay.
During the time Patience and Dorotliy Fox were
under Captain Verschoyle's escort driving to the Sliore-
ditch Station, Grace Hanbury was anxiously waiting for
them.
A sHght accident had detained the Fryston train for
more than an hour on the road, so that Grace did not
reach London until after her mother and sister were due
at Paddington.
Fearing if she then went on, they might cross each
other, she remained where she was, in a state of great
anxiety and trepidation; doubtful as to what they would
do whether come on or wait; and knowing her mother
in any case would be nervous at not seeing her.
The hour she had allowed for their drive from
Paddington had passed, and she was standing on the
.steps irresolute as to the expediency of taking a cab and
starting off in search of them; when, to her unbounded
relief, they drove up.
"Oh, mother! I am so delighted to see you," she ex-
claimed. "I have been so fidgeted about you both.
Dorothy, my dear, give me your bag. I started from
I'Yyston so as to have more than an hour to spare; but
the engine of our train broke down, and I was detained
on the road for nearly two hours. Of course I was in
an agony to know how you would get on, for" looking
at Captain Verschoyle "I feared you were alone."
"So we were," said Patience, "but at the station we
most fortunately met Charles Verschoyle, and he kindly
imdertook to see us safely here."
"Wilt thou let me introduce thee to ray daughter
Grace Hanbury 1" she said, turning to Cnptain Verschoyle,
JOSIAH AT BAY. I3I
who was looking with some astonishment at this elegant
woman, fashionably dressed, and very different from the
person he had expected to find awaiting them.
Grace held out her hand, saying, "You have done
me such good service in taking care of my mother and
sister, that we must be friends at once. And now about
the luggage: the Fryston train goes in ten minutes, and
I think we might save it. If you will stay here, mother,
Mr. Verschoyle and I will look after your boxes."
"Oh!" said Patience addressing Captain Verschoyle,
"Ave must not trespass further on thy goodness."
"You must allow me to see you safely off, Mrs. Fox;"
and he followed Grace, who was wondering who this
good-looking man could be. "Verschoyle! Verschoyle!"
she could not remember any Friends of that name; "an
admirer of Dolly's perhaps; I must ask him to dinner."
The luggage was soon ready. The train drew up.
Captain Verschoyle found them a carriage to themselves,
helped them in, looked after all their little comforts, and
then waited to see them start. By this time he had
quite won Grace's heart; so she said "I hope you will
come down to Fryston and see us. It is only a short
journey from London, and we can give you a bed."
Patience was so taken aback at this speech, she
hardly knew what to do; and at that moment it was im-
possible to explain to Grace the slight knowledge they
had of the young man whom she mistook for an intimate
acquaintance.
Captain Verschoyle saw her confusion; and thinking
it perhaps arose from the difference in her mind between
their positions, he answered
"You are very kind, and I should like to come of all
things; but unfortunately I was thinking of leaving town
to-morrow."
9*
132 . . DOROTHY FOX.
"Don't go to-morrow, come to us to-morrow; I want
to introduce my husband to you."
"Well, if you don't mind having ma to-morrow, I will
come with pleasure."
"I am so glad," said a soft voice. It was Dorothy,
who, meeting Captain Verschoyle's eyes, blushed crimson.
She had not intended to give utterance to her thoughts
only she was so glad he was coming that she might
see him again. Twenty times during the last two hours
she had wished Josiah Crewdson were like him, not only
in appearance, but in knowing everything you wanted
without being told, and in saying such pleasant things.
Dorothy need not have been so hard upon poor
Josiah; sympathy might have softened her comparisons,
for just now it was she who was self-conscious and shy,
sitting silent while her mother and Grace talked to their
new friend.
Mrs. Hanbury gave him all the necessary instructions
about the train he was to come by; and then they had
to say "Good-bye," leaving Captain Verschoyle standing,
hat in hand, watching their departure.
"What a handsome man, mother!" exclaimed Grace,
as soon as they were out of hearing; "so nice too, and
gentlemanly! Who is hel"
Patience gave her the history of their acquaintance-
ship, and Grace was much amused at it, and her own
mistake; "for, of course," she said, "I supposed he was
a friend of yours; indeed," she added, laughing, "I was
not sure he was not a lover of our little Dolly's."
"Oh! Grace," cried Dorothy, while all the blood
seemed rushing to her face, "why, he is a soldier."
"A soldier! what, one of father's old enemies! Why,
you look as horrified, child, as if he were a Mohammedan.
Dear me! how father used to lash those unfortunate red
JOSIAII AT BA^'. 133
coats, until I longed to take up the cudgels in their de-
fence. But I dare say he has changed many of his no-
tions against them since the war; for notwithstanding our
prejudices, we Friends would have fared badly but for
these 'sons of Belial,' as Dorcas Horsenail used to term
them."
"Ah! thou must not laugh at Dorcas," said Patience;
"her peculiarities are few, and her good qualities many.
When any of the soldiers come home sick or disabled,
Dorcas forgets whose sons she calls them, and makes
them her own charge."
"Yes, and you will see, mother," added Grace, "that
all these prejudices which Friends have held because
tlieir grandfathers held them, will die out; while those
principles which they have sifted for themselves, will
continue as long as the sect exists. As for the love of
fighting, it is born in boys; I believe it is their very
nature."
"What dost thou think I heard father ask cousin
Josh when he came to see us?" said Dorothy, "If he
did not remember at York chool how they used to fight
the boys of other schools, when they called after them
'Quack, Quack!'"
"That is splendid oh! we will hold that as a rod in
pickle over him, Dolly."
The rest of the journey was taken up in giving an
account of all the west-country Friends, many of whom
were known to and connected with Grace.
As Captain Verschoyle drove back to his hotel, he
laughed over the adventure. This unlooked-for meeting
would detain him in town another day. Perhaps it was
almost a pity to have accepted it, as there would be the
bother of sending a telegram to his mother. However,
it was done, so it was no use regretting; and then he
134 DOROTHY FOX.
thought "How pretty that girl is! I don't think I have
seen another such face since I returned to England. I
like her manner too, half shy and childish, and then
suddenly becoming most prim and old-fashioned. I won-
der at women having anything to do with such plain
dress, and peculiar bonnets; and yet I don't know if I
should have admired her as much in the flounces and
furbelows the girls deck themselves out with now; her
very quaintness is half the charm. Her eyes are lovely,
and can't she make them speak too! By Jove! I should
think she makes the hearts of all the thees and thous in
the community palpitate pretty considerably."
Whether in this respect Captain Verschoyle's specula-
tions upon Dorothy's charms were strictly correct, does
not appear; but certain it is, that one man seemed to
have found out that he had a heart since those brown
eyes had met his, not with the shy coy glances they
gave to Charles Verschoyle, but with a fearless open gaze
straight into his own.
Josiah Crewdson had been home a week, though it
seemed to him a year a year of long separate days,
every hour of which increased the growth of his love for
Dorothy Fox. The time which, before he saw her, was
willingly devoted to business was now given most grudg-
ingly. He was obliged to make an effort to shut out the
bewitching face which tormentingly came between him
and the long rows of figures he used to run up with such
fluency and skill. Alas for poor Josiah! now that he
knew the pleasure life could give, there was no more
contentment in the joyless existence he had formerly
known.
He had given great offence to his sisters by his strict
reticence with regard to his visit generally, and to Dorothy
in particular. The Miss Crewdsons enjoined silence as
JOSIAH AT BAY. I35
a virtue to be especially practised by Friends. But it is
not in the nature of women, even Friends, to be other
than specially curious regarding those of their sex of
whom they have heard much, and seen but little. The
beauty of Patience Fox had been acknowledged, and her
daughter was said to be more than equal to her in per-
sonal favour; therefore, though Josiah would have been
severely rebuked had he dwelt upon Dorothy's fair face,
Jemima and Kezia itched to give that rebuke which their
brother's taciturnity compelled them to withhold. Josiah
answered "Yes" or "No" to any question they put to him,
but he volunteered not the slightest information, until Kezia
was driven to say that concealment and mystery led to
discord among families, and was a thing which their
father particularly warned his son against. But the arrow
fell aimless in its attempt to loosen Josiah's tongue.
Jemima then tried her hand, and remarked, that it
was a pity Josiah had gone to see the Foxes in such a
spirit, as, by his own showing, he had failed to produce a
favourable impression upon Dorothy, who was doubtless
a woman of discernment.
Then, to their great astonishment, Josiah turned upon
them, told them to mind their own business, and leave
him to manage his affairs. What he thought of Dorothy,
or what she thought of him, concerned themselves alone;
and he did not want it made a subject of general or
domestic conversation. But if they wanted to know what
he thought of Dorothy Fox, he would tell them in a few
words. And here Josiah's florid round face became
crimson, and he stammered and stuttered so violently,
that he had to jump up suddenly, and seize his bed-room
candle. Between the futile attempts his unsteady hand
made to light it, he managed to get out: "She's the best,
and the most beautiful, and the most clever, and the
136 DOROTHY FOX.
sweetest girl I ever saw in all my life; and I hope she
will marry me, and then I don't care for anything else
or anybody." Having delivered himself of this broken
speech in favour of the lady of his love, Josiah banged
the door behind him, and left his sisters speechless with
astonishment at his extraordinary and unwarrantable
effrontery.
For once in their lives the Miss Crewdsons seemed
to become absolutely limp. Had they heard aright '?
Were they in their senses'? Could these words, still ring-
ing in their ears, have come from "that boy Josiah?"
"Oh, Jemima!" Kezia at last found breath to gasp
out, "if father had been alive!"
"Then he'd never have dared to do it," answered her
sister; "but there's more in this than meets the eye, and
unless I am mistaken thou wdlt find Dorothy Fox is a
bold, forward girl, and no more fitted to be the wife of
our Josiah than than thou art."
And then a solemn conference ensued, as to the best
way of rooting out the " flesh and the devil ," two evils
which had evidently taken hold of Josiah. One thing
they both decided upon, and this was not to mention
the subject again to him, for the present at least, but to
preserve towards him a demeanour indicative of great
injury and unwonted severity.
So the next morning, when Josiah, somewhat abashed
at his unusual boldness, tried to make amends by being
specially attentive to his sisters, his amicable endeavours
met with no response. Whenever they supplied any of
his wants at breakfast, they did so with the air of those
who don't say they hope, but shall be surprised if, they
are not heaping "coals of fire" upon the transgressor's
head. And thej- sniffed their rather long noses, as if
JO ST AH AT BAY. I o7
those organs were being gratified by the fumes rising
from the retributory process.
Josiah drove into Leeds a trifle more dispirited per-
haps than usual, but not so disconsolate as he had been
wont to be after former ebullitions of the family temper.
Now, at least in thought, he had some one to turn to.
Surely, surely Dorothy would learn to love him. She
had told him she liked him; and Nathaniel said that
that meant love, only it was the way of women not to
speak openly of their feelings; and this Josiah, by ex-
perience, could understand. He knew how impossible it
was for him to tell her what he wanted to say; but if she
only felt it, and would give him a little encouragement,
he could say all that now seemed lying heavily at his
heart.
So the day and its duties went on, and Josiah strove
with all his might to bend his energy to his business,
and not allow himself to give one thought to Dorothy.
When the Cloth Hall was closed, he threw himself
into his well-worn office chair, looked at his watch, found
it was past four o'clock, gave a sigh of relief, thought of
Dorothy, and wondered if she was thinking of him. Per-
haps so. She would be most likely working; or he
pictured her near the old yew-tree her favourite seat-
reading, for he knew nothing of the letter then on its
road, telling him of her journey to London.
Fortunately for Josiah, he has no magic mirror, by
whose aid he can see Dorothy, or read her thoughts. If
he had, he would have found they were not only far re-
moved from him, but given to another; and for that other
Dorothy (though she would have fairly denied the charge,
and would have been shocked at the accusation) had
been spending more time in the arrangement of her hair
and the adjustment of her plain dress, than she had ever
138 DOROTTIV FOX.
done before; and, worst of all, when it was completed,
she was never more dissatisfied with her appearance. If
-she had only some bit of colour about her, she knew she
would look better. So she picked from the box outside
the window a piece of scarlet geranium, and held it up
against her dress; then, after a guilty look around, she
stuck it for a moment in her hair how pretty it looked
there! But a sudden horror of her vanity seizing her,
she pulled it hastily out, smoothed the place over with
lier hand, and ran half-way down-stairs, then back again,
picked up the flower, and demurely came down with it
in her hand.
Grace was at the door, just setting off to drive the
ponies down to the station to meet Captain Verschoyle.
She nodded to Dorothy, and thought how pretty the
oirl looked, as she stood in front of the handsome old-
fashioned house, watching the carriage until it was out
of sight.
CHAPTER XIV.
Fryston Grange.
1 HE house of John and Grace Hanbury was one of
those houses built at a time when people who lived
twenty miles from London were as completely country-
folk as the present dwellers in remote parts of Cumber-
land or Cornwall.
The railway had completely altered the people, but it
had left the little town very much as it found it. What
was the use of building shops when most of the inhabit-
ants went to London for all their household purchases'?
Then land for fresh residences could not be bought, as
Fryston was encircled by a royal forest, on whose borders
stood John Hanbury's house, a long, rambling building,
FRYSTON GRANGE. 13(5
with walls covered by a net-work of ivy, climbing up
until their straggling sprays even reached and twined
round the quaint chimneys. The windows opened on a
lawn dotted over with pine trees, and here an old fir,
there a cedar, farther on a fantastic willow. From be-
tween the trees the distant landscape opened, revealing
Warleigh and the Kentish hills, led up to by a rich dis-
play of timber in all its verdant stages.
John Hanbury was the only son of a wealthy merchant.
His father had given him a liberal education, had sent
him to travel for a couple of years, and had been de-
lighted to find when his son returned that his heart was
still faithful to his boyish love, Grace Fox, whose aunt
had married Mr. Hanbury's younger brother.
. Grace was a great favourite with old Mr. and Mrs.
Hanbury, who, though they strictly conformed in every
way to the rules of the Society of Friends, had no objec-
tion to the more liberal notions of their son and his wife.
Nothing pleased the old couple better than to see gathered
round their son's table the best society that their part of
the country afforded, and to be present at any festivities
given at the Grange. So that the house Captain Vers-
choyle was going to differed in no respect from one be-
longing to the circle in which he generally moved, with
the exception that it realized the word home, and within
its walls presented a picture of thorough domestic happi-
ness, such as it had never before been his good fortune
to witness.
Before the pony-carriage returned to the Grange, Mrs
Hanbury had contrived to make Captain Verschoyle
know, without seeming to tell him, the position her hus-
band filled as a corn merchant in the city.
Grace understood better than Patience the distinction
many people made with respect to position. She knew
ij^O DOROTHY FOX.
that Captain Verschoyle was aware her father was a
tradesman, and she wished him to understand that her
husband was also in business.
As they approached the house the trees attracted his
attention, and, in answer to his praise of them, Grace
said, "We are very vain of our trees; I display them with
great pride of heart to my father, who always tries to
take me down by reminding me of that wonderful yew
hedge they have at King's-heart. You went there, I
think?"
"Yes, and I never enjoyed an afternoon more. What
a charming woman your mother is, Mrs. Hanbury!"
"She is, indeed," replied Grace. "I think her the
sweetest, most lovable woman in the world; and Dorothy
Avill be wonderfully like her. I am but her step-daughter,"
she continued; "not that I believe her own child loves
her better, and, mingled with my love, is so much grati-
tude for never letting me forget my own mother, and
never letting me remember that I was motherless."
"I can quite fancy all that of her," said Captain Vers-
choyle. "When my sister and I saw her and Miss Fox
standing together, we thought they formed one of the
most perfect pictures we had ever seen."
"Dorothy, you know, is very young, and from never
having seen strangers, rather shy and reserved; but she
is a dear child to us who know her."
"She is very beautiful," replied Captain Verschoyle;
"and my sister, who has a passion for dress, took it seri-
ously to heart that Miss Fox could not be attired in a
certain very recherchee toilette, which she considered in-
vented for her particular style of beauty."
Grace laughed. "I dare say you do not think I am
a Friend, or rather a Quaker, as you would term us. My
husband and I consider the singularity of dress a distinc-
TRVSTON GRANGE. I4I
tion no longer necessary; but my clear father pins his
faith to a broad-brimmed hat and coal-scuttle bonnet;
and we were terribly afraid he would insist on Dolly
wearing one of those frightful things. But he pretends
to look upon her as still a child, though I believe his
heart failed him at the idea of hiding her sweet face
under such a disguise."
"And yet how pretty she looks in the plain dress she
wears!"
"True, but she would look fifty times prettier in a
more becoming one. I intend trying to induce them to
give way a little in that matter while she is with us."
"If you succeed, you must allow me an opportunity
of judging of the effect," said Captain Verschoyle, laugh-
ing.
"Certainly. This is our house."
They entered the gates, and drove up to the door.
"They seem all to be in the garden," said Mrs. Han-
bury; "shall we go and find them?" .And stepping
through the library window, they walked across the lawn;
where, before they had gone many steps, they met Pa-
tience, who gave Captain Verschoyle a warm greeting.
"And where is Dorothy?" asked Grace.
"With the children; I left them all romping together,
as I want to write to thy father by this post."
"You must see my children," said Grace, and she
and Captain Verschoyle proceeded down a side walk into
a sort of wilderness, where a sudden turn brought them
in front of Dorothy seated on the grass; while the two
little girls adorned her hair with daisies and poppies.
She sprang up in great confusion, and before speaking
to Captain Verschoyle began to pull out the flowers.
"Oh! Aunt Dorothy, please don't," cried both the
children.
1^2 DORnxnV FOX.
"No indeed," said Captain A^erschoyle, "it is a pity,
for they look so pretty," and he took her hand, holding
it for a moment. "Do let them stay, Miss Fox, they are
really most becoming."
Just at this moment the groom came to ask his mis-
tress if he was to go for his master, or if she intended
driving down herself
Grace hesitated, and Captain Verschoyle said, "You
are not allowing me to detain you, Mrs. Hanbury]"
"If you do not mind, and Dolly will take my place
and do the honours, I think I will go to the station for
John. I always like to meet him if possible."
"Then I hope you will not allow me to keep you. li
Miss Fox will consent to take charge of me, I will en-
deavour to be as obedient and docile as a "
"Friend," put in Grace, laughing.
"Well, a Friend though I intended to say a lamb."
"Synonymous terms," she cried, as she prepared to
leave them. "And in your case we will transpose the
motto, and call you a Friend or sheep in wolf's cloth-
ing."
"What does Mrs. Hanbury, meanr' he asked, turn-
ing to Dorothy.
"Because thou art a soldier," she said, looking at
him shyly.
"Oh, I see of course, Quakers don't like fighting.
Then do you not like soldiers. Miss Fox?"
"We know it is wrong to shed blood," she replied,
looking very demure; "and I do not hold with soldiers'
principles."
"Neither do I, as a rule," said Captain Verschoyle,
smiling at the little Puritan's manner; "but that is not
answering my question. If a soldier hadn't any principles,
would you dislike him -the man himself, I mean?"
FRYSTON GRAXCK. 1 43
"I I never knew any before I saw thee;" and Do-
rothy's brown eyes looked up Avith a coy expression,
that made Captain Verschoyle think them fifty times more
lovely than before; and he said, "Then am I to under-
stand that you have based all your dislike to my profes-
sion on meV
This time Dorothy looked up with a smile, saying
"I never said I disliked thee, but I think it is a great
pity thou art a soldier, to fight with and kill thy fellow-
creatures."
"Oh! I am not at all a blood-thirsty waiTior," laughed
Captain Verschoyle; "I am a dreadful coward: indeed I
am not sure that I did not run away whenever I saw the
Russians approaching."
"Run away!" exclaimed Dorothy. "Oh! I am sure
thou art far too brave to do that; none of our soldiers
ever ran away."
"But would not that be the right thing to do? You
know I shall not be able to carry out my character of
being a Quaker if you do not tell me how I am to act."
"But thou art not a Friend. Thou must not call us
Quakers," she said, looking archly at him for a moment,
and then dropping her eyes suddenly, making her com-
panion repeat to himself, "How lovely she is! It is the
sweetest face I ever saw." Then with the irresistible
desire of making her look up again he said, "But if you
would try, you might make me one. I am sure you must
have converted very many people."
What could he mean? Dorothy felt it was something
more than his words said; and in the confusion that
suddenly oppressed her, she began pulling off the leaves
of her geranium, which after all she had pinned (or rather
.salved her conscience by allowing Rosie to jiin) in her
drcs^.
144 DOROTHY FO^C.
This pretty baslifulness, with not a trace of gauchertey
only increased Captain Verschoyle's admiration. It was
something entirely new to a man who had generally been
met half or more than half way on his own ground. A
flirtation with such an entire novice had a freshness
which gave new zest to the somewhat hackneyed amuse-
ment. He felt himself entire master of his own position,
and that feeling too being new, he was pleased with
himself, and doubly pleased with his pupil.
To Dorothy's untutored ears his little commonplace
compliments and every-day speeches sounded like some
sweet music which searched her heart, and awoke and
stirred up feelings which before lay slumbering and un-
heeded.
"You are spoiling your bouquet," he said; "poor
fiovvers! give them to me. Here is a Marguerite for you
to try your fate upon. You know the way, do you not?"
"No; I have seen a picture of Marguerite with a
daisy in her hand; but I did not know "
"What! not know," he interrupted, "that she was
trying to see how much she was loved? Ah! you have
tried that often."
"Indeed I have not."
"Now, Miss Fox, will you look straight into my face,
and tell me to believe that you were never interested
enough in any one of your devoted admirers to care to
what state of desperation you had driven them?"
Poor Dorothy! without looking up, she felt that he
was looking fixedly at her, and that it was impossible to
raise her eyes from the ground; then a thought rushed
through her mind could he, by any possibility, know
anything of Josiah? and her face crimsoned at the sus-
picion.
FRYSTON GRANGE. 145
"Ah!" said Captain Verschoyle, "I knew you must
plead guilty."
"No," stammered Dorothy, trying to be unconcerned,
and to treat it as a joke, "I do not plead guilty." Then
raising her face without looking at him, she said, "I
never tried it, or even heard of it before."
"Then I will teach you. Hold the flower in your
own hand, so; and now you must think of somebody
who loves you. That is very easy, is it noti But you
too must care a little, or you will have no anxiety as to
the result. Now give me your hand, and pull off that
leaf, and say after me: 'He loves me, passionately; in-
differently; not at all;' at each sentence a leaf, and the
last leaf decides it."
"Passionately!" she exclaimed, looking up with a
radiant face.
"I knew it would be that," he answered.
"How couldst thou know? thou thou couldst not
tell who I meant."
"Still I knew. Now you will see that mine will come
,Not at all;'" and he commenced pulling off the leaves:
"'Passionately;' 'Indifferently;' 'Not at all;' 'Passion-
ately;' 'Indifferently;' 'Not at all' There, did I not tell
you so?"
"Oh! but they are not true," she cried; "try an-
other."
"No, I have no need to try, after what you say; I am
only too happy in hearing that it is not true."
Before Dorothy could speak, Grace and Mr. Hanbury
had turned into the walk.
"Here you are at last," she exclaimed. "I could not
imagine where you had wandered, and I began to think
whether I ought not to feel anxious; but John, who is
one of those unpleasantly matter-of-fact persons, calmed
Dorothy Fox. ivJ
146 DOROTHY FOX,
me by the prosaic observation, 'that people always found
their way home about dinner time.' "
Mr. Hanbury and Captain Verschoyle shook hands,
and they all turned towards the house; Dorothy silent,
and glad that no one asked her to talk.
Was she waking from a dream that some charmed
tongue had lulled her into? Waking to the conscious-
ness that she, Dorothy Fox, had forgotten her principles,
let slip her scruples, and laid aside her maidenly reserve;
and towards whom? for what? Towards a stranger, a a
soldier; for vainly did she pretend that no name was in
her thoughts when she pulled the leaves off the flower.
She resolved to hold more guard over herself, and to
remember the testimony she was called upon to bear.
But before she had finished rearranging her dress, she
was recalling each word that Charles Verschoyle had
said, and as she stood regarding herself critically in the
glass, she wondered if he liked people with fair hair.
She hoped so; and then a prick of conscience made her
turn away, until she soothed herself by thinking that
perhaps, after to-day, she should never see him again;
and, at the thought, she gave an involuntary sigh.
By the time John Hanbury and Captain Verschoyle
arose from the dinner-table to join the ladies, each man
had said to himself of the other: "This is as good a
fellow as I have met with for some time."
When they entered the drawing-room Mrs. Hanbury
was playing some of the "Lieder ohne Worte" to her
mother and sister.
"Don't stop, Grace," said her husband, going up to
the piano; "I dare say Captain Verschoyle will not object
to a little music."
Captain Verschoyle expressed his great love for
music, stopped to hear Mrs. Hanbury for a few minutes,
FRYSTON GRANGK. 147
and Ihen sauntered over to the place he had fixed upon
when he first came in the chair next to Dorothy.
"You play, of course, Miss Fox, and sing, I know,
like a nightingale?"
"No, 1 have never learnt," she answered.
"Never learnt! why, how is that? I thought learning
the piano was considered as necessary for young ladies
as learning to read and write."
"Father does not approve of music."
"Do you know," said Grace, "that / never learnt
until after I was married? John taught me my notes. I
verily believe our most serious quarrels were over those
minims and crotchets."
"Ah, thou wert very stupid," said Mr. Hanbury.
"Thou wert very impatient, and would vex me by
making me learn scales instead of tunes. I wish father
would let you learn, Dolly; you used to have a capital
voice."
"I wish so too," replied Dorothy. "Mother begged
for it," she added, turning to Captain Verschoyle; "she
does not condemn music."
"I am quite sure of that. What a sweet woman your
mother is. Miss Fox! I am quite in love with her. You
are wonderfully like her."
The inflection in his voice made Dorothy's heart
beat, but she determined to conquer this time; so she
answered, "There is nobody in the world like mother.
I was so amused when thou mistook Judith for her, but
Judith was quite angry with thee."
"And well she might be. I cannot fancy what in-
duced me to commit such a stupid blunder."
"Oh no! it was not stupid; we all love dear old
Judith, but mother " and she stopped, her sweet eyes
expressing .the love it seemed impossible to speak.
148 DOROTHY FOX.
"What will you do when you leave her?" said Cap-
tain Verschoyle, asking the question that first came up-
permost, in his desire that the lovely face should not be
turned away from him.
"Leave her!" she repeated; "what dost thou mean?"
"I mean when you are married. You intend to marry
some day, do you not?"
Again the vexed feeling took possession of Dorothy
that he had heard something of Josiah Crewdson.
"I I don't know," she said.
"But / know; and who, I wonder, will be or per-
haps is the enviable man fortunate enough to secure
your love?"
"Nobody!" cried Dorothy, defiantly; "I do not care
for any one, nor shall I."
"Hush, hush!" laughed Captain Verschoyle, amused
at her earnestness! "don't let me hear such treason.
Here is Miss Fox," he said, turning to Grace, who had
joined them, "declaring she never intends marrying for
love. I tell her it is too cruel to announce her deci-
sion. Notwithstanding, we know by sad experience that
Avomen have struck against being troubled with hearts in
our day."
"Captain Verschoyle!" exclaimed Grace, affecting to
be horrified by his remark, "oh, this is a stigma we will
not sit calmly under! Come, mother, come, Dolly, let
us combine our forces, and defend our woman's nature."
"Vain, utterly vain, my dear Mrs. Hanbury; for, has
it not been proclaimed in every matrimonial market-
place throughout the land, that the god of Love is de-
throned, and the god of Riches reigneth in his stead?"
"And yet," said Patience, "thou wilt find that as of
old, so now there remain still, thousands who have not
'bowed the knee to Baal.'"
FRV5T0N GRANGE. I 49
"What you say may be true, Mrs. Fox," replied Cap-
tain Verschoyle, laughing, "but I only wish you would tell
me where to find these idealistic young ladies, willing to
share our joys and sorrows and our small incomes."
"Where!" exclaimed Grace; "why, every nice girl
you meet would do so for the man she loves. You know
it is all very well putting it upon us women, but when
a man says, 'I cannot ask her to give this up for me,' is
it not the echo of, 'I cannot give it up for her?' Of
course, I do not mean that a man without an income,
or any prospect of making one, is to ask a girl to share
nothing because they love each other; no honourable
man would do that. What I condemn is, the name of
wife and helpmate being separated. Don't you think
that two people will love each other better, and be more
to each other at the end of five or ten years, struggling
together, than if they had lived apart, discontented, and
rebelling against Providence for not being kinder to
themi Eventually they marry, but by this time perhaps
they have ceased to be necessary to each other. At all
events, the wife will have lost some of the sweetest memo-
ries a woman can recall, in having lessened the anxie-
ties and eased the cares of the man she loves."
"Spoken like an oracle, Grace," said John Hanbury.
"Should business fail, thou shalt go about advocating
the rights of women."
"I know nothing about our rights," she answered. "I
take our position from what we were created for, and
therefore, what to the best of our abilities we ought to
fulfil. 'God said, It is not good that man should be
alone, I will make him an help meet for him," and He
made woman. I am quite contented with that. Educate
us well, and so completely, that we are fit to be com-
panions, confidants, and advisers to men; but defend us
150 DOROTHY FOX.
from being fellow-students, rivals in examinations, and
compeers in professions."
"I quite agree with thee, Grace," said Patience. '-From
that very day when woman's (so-called) rights are estab-
lished, her influence will decline."
Captain Verschoyle gave a comically rueful look as
he exclaimed with a sigh, "Well, all I know is, I wish
some nice girl would only fall in love with me. I am
sure she would turn me into an awfully nice fellow.
There," he continued, "is Miss Fox smiling at such an
idea. You think the thing impossible, do you not?"
" Yes," she answered, responding to her thoughts, and
not thinking how her reply might be taken.
"That's right, Dorothy. Uphold your principles by
always speaking your mind!" said John Hanbury laughing.
"Oh, but, John, thou must not I meant "
"No, no, never mind!" replied Mr. Hanbury, "let Cap-
tain Verschoyle read it his own way; for you and I have
read of the pride that apes humility, have we not, Httle
Dolly? and we have heard of 'Early to bed and early to
rise,' and not only so, but we are told 'to practise what
we know.' "
"That^ is a shabby sort of way of informing us that
thou art tired, John Hanbury," said Grace, rising. "Will
nine o'clock be too early for you. Captain Verschoyle ]"
"Oh no."
"Then, good night."
"Fare thee well," said Patience.
"Good night, Mrs. Fox; good night, Miss Fox; in
order that you may sleep peacefully I will try and for-
give you that thrust at me, although my vanity will, I
fear, never recover the terrible blows it has received to-
day."
Dorothy coloured. "Thou hast nothing to forgive,"
FRYSTON GRANGE. I5I
she answered, "because thou didst not understand what
I meant."
"Oh, very well! Then I shall expect a further ex-
planation. Good night."
The next morning, before Captain Verschoyle left
Fryston Grange, it was arranged that when he came
again to town he should pay the Hanburys another visit.
Grace and Dorothy went as far as the station with him,
and while Mr. Hanbury was receiving some household
commission from Grace, Captain Verschoyle said, "Miss
Fox, you must not run away before I come again. Re-
member, I have not had that explanation yet."
"Thou must please promise me to forget it," she an-
swered, gravely.
"So I will if" and he paused until Dorothy looked
up inquiringly -''thou wilt promise not to forget me."
The whistle of the train sounded, there was only
time to jump in. "Good-bye," "Good-bye," a wave of
the hand, and Captain Verschoyle and John Hanbury
were on their road to London.
Grace and Dorothy re-seated themselves in the pony
carriage, and were very near home, when the former
said,
"Why, surely, my Dolly has lost her tongue. What is
the child thinking of?"
"Thinking of!" echoed Dorothy "me oh, I do not
know."
Then fearing that this speech did not entirely agree
with her principles always to speak the plain truth, she
said, as fresh colour mounted to her cheeks "At least,
1 do know; I was thinking of Charles Verschoyle."
15^ DOROTHY FOX.
CHAPTER XV.
A Pic-nic at Dyne Court.
On the fifth morning after Captain Verschoyle left
Dyne Court, Mr. Ford did not make his appearance at
the breakfast table. His man came to say that he was
not quite well, and would be glad if Mr. Dynecourt
would go to him when it was convenient to do so.
Mr. Dynecourt found the old gentleman threatened
with an attack of bronchitis. "Mr. Dynecourt," he said
"I sent to ask you to do me a favour. That is, while I'
am detained in my own apartment, will you act in my
place, just consider our friends your guests, see they
have all they want, and that they are happy and com-
fortable? I dare say I shall be all right in a couple of
days, and in the mean time you must ask the ladies to
pay me a charitable visit here, and cheer me up a litde."
Mr. Dynecourt consented, sat and chatted with Mr.
Ford, and then, at his desire, went to look after the
arrangements made for the day's amusement. Another
pic-nic had been decided upon, and Mr. Ford would not
hear of its being put off on his account. "And be sure,"
he said, "that you look after my favourite. Miss Audrey,
and see she does not over-exert herself; we allowed her
to do too much last time."
Each one was both concerned and sorry to hear of
their host's indisposition; but Dr. Morcambe assured therii
it was nothing; only, with Mr. Ford's experience of how
much depended on prompt caution, he was acting most
prudently, and the result would be seen by his joinino-
them in a few days.
Lady Laura had intended doing violence to her feel-
ings by forming one of the party, that she might look
after her son's interests, and not permit any teie-a-tete
A PIC-NIC AT DYNE COURT. I55
between Miss Bingham and Mr. Dynecourt. Now her
plans were suddenly altered, for, of course, she must stay
with Mr. Ford. "I shall read the paper to him," she
thought, "and talk about Audrey." By the way, she must
go and see him before they set off. "How provoking of
Charles to leave just at this time, completely throwing
that girl at Mr. Dynecourt! Audrey must contrive to
keep them apart, secure his attentions, and leave Miss
Bingham to the curate; no harm can come of that, for
the man has not a word to say out of the pulpit."
Thus decided, her ladyship proceeded to her daughter's
room, and found her arraying herself in the muslin dress
that on the former occasion she had refused to wear.
"That is right, my dear; that dress is quite nice
enough for now. You must go and see Mr. Ford before
you start. I think I will go up, and say you are so con-
cerned you wanted to stay at home, but I knew he would
be uneasy at depriving you of any enjoyment; or, per-
haps, you had better say it yourself. Of course, you will
offer to remain, though you need not do so really, be-
cause I think it will be better for me to have a quiet
day with him."
"I shall not only offer to remain, but I shall willingly
do so, if it gives Mr. Ford any pleasure," returned
Audrey. "I am going up now to sit with him until it
be time for us to go."
"Then, after you have paid your visit, I will pay
mine. I hope there will be no necessity for you to re-
main at home, as I believe I could do much more by
bearing him company; and, Audrey, just see that Mr.
Dynecourt does not take possession of Miss Bingham.
If you can manage it, secure him for yourself; if not,
join them whenever you see him attempt to stroll off with
her. Charles may never have another such opportunity,
154 DOROTHY FOX.
and, though from his obstinate stupidity he deserves to
lose her, it would be a great annoyance to me."
"Very well," replied her daughter, "then I am to
sacrifice myself, and engage the companionship of Mr.
Dynecourt as much as in me lies."
"Exactly so. You need not put yourself out of the
way to make yourself agreeable."
"Certainly not," said Audrey. "Do not fear; I will
endeavour to place the young man and myself on a
proper footing."
She went off smiling to herself, and knocked at the
door of Mr. Ford's private sitting-room.
"Now this is very kind of you, my dear young lady,
not to stand on ceremony, but come up like an old
friend."
"I want to know if I can do anything for you," said
Audrey. "Will you let me stay and read to you? I have
had very little experience, but I think I can promise to
do as much nursing as you require."
"What! and deprive everybody else of the pleasure
of your company! Why, I should never dare to meet
their angry faces again. No, no! you go and help my
friend Dynecourt in entertaining the rest, and then I
shall rest contented, being certain all is going on well."
"Mamma is coming to offer herself as a companion,"
said Audrey. "You know she does not care for pic-
nics."
"If I am not depriving her of enjoyment, I shall be
delighted to see her; and when you come back you will
tell me of all you have seen and done?"
"May I come and make tea for youl" said Audrey;
"or would it be too much worry?"
"On the contrary, I only stay up here to secure my-
self against draughts, and talking too much; but if you
A PIC-NIC AT DYNE COURT. I55
will promise to come and see me, I shall look forward
to a pleasant evening."
After a little time she bade him good-bye; went
down and told her mother Mr. Ford would be pleased
to see her, adding, "I am going to make tea, and spend
the evening with him, and give him an account of our
day."
Lady Laura was delighted. "Nothing could be better.
It is just what I should have managed myself. Really,
Audrey, you have a great deal of me in you."
Audrey checked the answer she was prompted to
return, bidding her mother adieu at once, that she might
not be tempted to give vent to a little sarcasm which
she found hard to repress.
Miss Verschoyle rendered such strict obedience to
her mother's wishes, that she and Mr. Dynecourt were
companions the whole day long. Mrs. Winterton, Miss
Trefusis, and the General had arranged a wonderful bo-
tanical search. Miss Bingham and the Rev. Robert Kirby
(whose loquacity would have disgusted Lady Laura) fol-
lowed their example, and, they said, their footsteps, but
their fates did not permit them to meet a circumstance
which did not seem to affect their enjoyment in the least.
On this occasion they were all pedestrians, and cer-
tainly, from the time after luncheon when they separated
themselves into three sets, each had but a very hazy no-
tion of the other's movements.
With Geoffrey Dynecourt the day sped swiftly. At
first he would not question himself too closely as to
what this new, delicious feeling might be, not deep
enough yet for him to be distracted by doubts, or tor-
mented by fears. He only knew, that wherever Audrey
was he was content to be. He could listen to her, talk
to her, and, at the end of hours spent together, he would
156 DOROTHY FOX,
sigh because the tune to leave her drew near. Con-
stantly he wondered whether she shared in these impres-
sions. He knew she always met him with a smile of
welcome, seemed pleased when he joined her, sorry when
they parted, and, by many a soft look from those wonder-
ful eyes, showed her interest and sympathy. In imagina-
tion he clothed her with every grace: every pure and
noble feeling a woman could possess he freely granted
her. He seemed to have enshrined her in a sanctuary,
and dared not, even in thought, approach nearer her
than the outer courts, where he could gaze upon her
image.
Incapable of disguise where his feelings were con-
cerned, Audrey soon noticed the almost reverential man-
ner Geoffrey at times assumed towards her, and, instead
of laughing to scorn the good he imputed to her, she
felt a strange wish that he might not be undeceived. She
said to herself that she wanted him to think well of her,
and she tried in every way to strengthen the impression,
until he felt himself hourly becoming more intoxicated
by her witchery.
Could it be that she felt the same influence? If not,
why did her eyes soften when they met his, and her voice
sink as if its tones were tuned for his ears alone? Oh,
she had given him signs which, unless love had been the
prompter, would never have been visible in one so proud,
so noble, so far exalted above any ideal he had ever
before formed of womankind.
The whole of that day Audrey had been thoroughly
herself, and devoid of all arts, save such as were natural
to a girl who desired to please. That desire seemed to
spring from an entirely new impulse.
"What a happy day I have spent!" exclaimed Mr.
Dynecourt.
A riC-NIC AT DYNE COURT. 757
"And yet you are sighing," said Audrey in her soft
voice.
"Yes: sighing because it is over. Are you not sorry
when a great pleasure comes to an end?"
"Has it been a great pleasure?" she asked. "Last
time you would not go with us."
"Last time you went, remember how little I knew of
you."
"Oh, that is all very good, but I only know your
staying away made me cross."
"And now, would you care if I stayed away?"
Audrey did not answer for a moment; then she in-
tended giving some laughing reply; but, when she met
his eager gaze, she gave him a long look of loving re-
proach, and the quick blood mounted to her cheeks.
"Oh, Audrey! Miss Verschoyle!"
But, before he could say more, she exclaimed
"There is Miss Bingham! I am so glad we have met
them. Let us hurry on that we may return together re-
spectably, after having lost our chaperones."
Miss Bingham, who had a little wholesome dread of
her aunt, remarked, "We will not say we have only just
met."
"Certainly not," replied Audrey; for from the terrace
Lady Laura advanced to meet them smiling delightedly,
and kissing her daughter in acknowledgment of the visi-
ble obedience with which she had followed her instruc-
tions.
"And have you had a pleasant day, my dears?"
"Oh! a charming day!" exclaimed Miss Bingham.
Audrey and Mr. Kirby expressed the pleasure each
had enjoyed. Only Mr. Dynecourt was silent. He could
not make out Audrey's manner: the evident wish to hurry
on and join the others; the sudden change from the low
158 nOROTHY FOX.
soft tone, which spoke so much more than the words, to
one of raillery and banter. Why should she laugh at
Miss Bingham, tease Mr. Kirby, and pretend that all the
time they had been absent Mr. Dynecourt had been most
anxious about them? It jarred on him, until he won-
dered what it could mean. It fell like a cloud over the
past, and he seemed to discover the first trail of the ser-
pent in the Eden of his love.
"Just as I expected," thought Lady Laura; "he is an-
noyed at having been kept from Miss Bingham all day.
If I had not foreseen this, there is no knowing what
mischief might have been done; for I have no doubt, in
her heart the girl is a little piqued at Charles leaving;
and, of course, his rival would make capital out of that
piece of stupidity. Nobody could believe that a son of
mine would do such a thing."
As she looked up to say something more, she noticed
Audrey turn round, and seemingly (for they were too far
off for her to hear) ask for some flowers Mr. Dynecourt
was carrying. He gave them to her, and then she return-
ed a few sprays of the heather to him, which he received
with a somewhat stiff bow.
"The bear!" said Lady Laura, as she dropped her eye-
glass; "he evidently cannot control his temper, and is
stupid enough to show his mortification. Well! I am not
surprised; for I fancied he was not overstocked with
sense, when I heard some Quixotish tale of his having
given up his property to pay the debts, as if he could
not go on as his ancestors had done.
Marshall, as she dressed her young lady, speculated
upon what had gone wrong at the pic-nic: generally Miss
Verschoyle gave her the benefit of her triumphs or dis-
appointments.
"I shall not wear any ornaments to-night, Marshall;
A PIC-NIC AT DYNE COURT. I ^()
put some of that heather in my hair, and give mc a
bunch of it to fasten here. That will do."
"A red rose would look much better with this white
dress, Miss; heather does not show any colour at
night."
"Never mind do as I tell you."
"Oh! you are dressed," said Lady Laura, opening
the door. "Then go and arrange my toilette, Marshall.
I will come to you in a few minutes."
As soon as the maid had departed, Lady Laura
began her questioning, confiding to her daughter how
necessary her caution had been; "for I never saw more
evident displeasure than Mr. Dynecourt displayed."
"About what?" said Audrey.
"Why, at your not allowing him to walk with Miss
Bingham. Did he contrive to be alone with her much?"
"No, I do not think he spoke to her unless I was
present."
"Excellent! You are getting quite a diplomatist,
Audrey."
"What a pity that you should only discover my talent
when I have no further need of it!"
"What do you mean, my dear, no further need
for it?"
"Why, surely, if I marry this rich man, I shall be
able to afford to be as straightforwardly frank and un-
pleasantly candid as I please; there will be no need for
deceit ox fourherie then."
"My dear, don't speak of Mr. Ford as 'this rich
man;' it does not matter with me, of course, but it is a
bad habit to get into."
"Oh! is it? I thought you honoured people by nam-
ing what you valued them for."
,l6o DOROTHY FOX.
Lady Laura fancied Irom her daughter's tone that a
discussion had better be avoided; so she said
''I have not seen much of Mr. Ford alone; for Dr.
Morcambe stayed to luncheon, and after that he had
letters to write. He seems to be very much better,
though. One thing I discovered he has no relations,
except distant cousins; so, of course, his estates would
be left to his wife, if he died without children."
"Did he say so?"
"Now, my dear Audrey, is it likely I should speak
on such a subject to him? I was thinking, perhaps, you
had better be rather agreeable to Mr. Dynecourt, be-
cause through him you will easily get to know all the
desirable people in the neighbourhood."
"Do you really think so? You know," she added,
in a tone of sarcasm, "that he has lost all his money,
and calls himself a beggar?"
"Oh yes! I don't want you to make a great friend
of him; still, he might be of service."
"Then you may depend upon my cultivating him;
but, remember, I consider you responsible for all that
may come of it."
"Why, what could come of it, Audrey?"
"Oh, I cannot tell: such very odd things happen
sometimes to penniless people. Though when they be-
long to the crime de la crane, they have no excuse for
not behaving better."
"My dear Audrey, you are very odd this evening.
Are your spirits depressed? You had better have a
little salvolatile. I shall send Marshall with some; for
there goes the first dinner-bell, and I have to dress."
Miss Verschoyle did not join the ladies. After din-
ner, she sat alone in her own room, rather puzzled as
to how she had displeased Mr. Dynecourt; for she saw
A PIC-NIC AT DYNE COURT. l6r
something had gone wrong. Though she M^ore the
heather they had picked, he mounted none; and she had
given him a spray expressly for that purpose. She had
a great mind to take hers out of her dress and not wear
it any longer; and then she smiled to think her tact was
rather at fault.
But the smile soon died away, and she got up, and
resolutely ended her reverie by proceeding at once to
Mr. Ford's apartments. He was sitting in readiness for
her; and Audrey, knowing that the most certain way to
insure his amusement was to get him on his favourite
topic, began asking him after she had told him how
far they had walked, where they had taken luncheon,
and how sorry every one was at his absence as to the
history of an old church in the neighbourhood, which
Mr. Dynecourt had mentioned to her.
This involved sending for several books, getting some
photographs, &c., until tea arrived, and Audrey sat down
to make it.
Just then there was a knock at the door, and Mr.
Dynecourt presented himself.
"The very man I wanted to see," exclaimed Mr. Ford.
"Now, Miss Verschoyle, what do you say to my inviting
him to join us 'in the cup that cheers, but not inebriates?'
Have I your permission?"
"Most certainly," she returned, politely.
"Oh, I came with a message from Lady Laura to
Miss Verschoyle," said Mr. Dynecourt, hesitatingly; "but
when I have taken back the answer, if you will permit
me to return, I shall be so delighted;" and he looked
appealingly at Audrey for a little further invitation.
During her absence, all his annoyance had vanished,
and he was now alternately blaming his bad temper, and
wondering why it had been aroused. How absurd that
Dorothy Fox. 1 1
I 62 DOROTHY FOX.
he had become irritable and unreasonable, simply be-
cause she had suddenly changed her manner! Now he
longed to see her, to show her his penitence. What
an ill-mannered fellow she must think him! She would
be disgusted with him, and perhaps think no more
of him.
Thus exaggerating his own offence, as he had hers,
he proceeded to the drawing-room. As he feared, she
was not there; but, fortunately for him, Mr. Kirby had
been obliged to leave, and Miss Bingham was sitting
alone. She beckoned him at once to her side to ask
him if General Trefusis had made any comments on
their losing his party.
To prevent the conversation reaching Mrs. Winter-
ton's ears, it was carried on nearly in a whisper: so that
when Lady Laura entered the room, the first thing she
noticed was the two heads in alarmingly close proximity;
and her fears were further aroused by Miss Bingham
getting very red as her ladyship came suddenly upon
them.
"You are looking so tired, love, don't you think you
would be wise to come and sit in this nice easy-chair 1"
"No, thank you, Lady Laura: this ottoman is very
comfortable, and I am not tired."
Lady Laura said no more. She sat down by Miss
Trefusis, and began telling her of some wonderful ferns
her cousin, Lady Honoria Camden, had collected. Still
she kept her eyes on the two delinquents, who again
settled into their tete-d-tele.
Miss Trefusis explained some peculiar mode of rear-
ing ferns an uncle of hers had adopted; and when Lady
Laura exclaimed, "Now, you must tell me all that over
again; for I shall write every word of it to Honoria to-
morrow," she naturally supposed that her ladyship was
A PIC-NIC AT DYNE COURT. 1 63
greatly interested. So she was in aia,nner; but her
thoughts were concentrated on the couple opposite.
"I can see he does not want to be interrupted, by
the anxious way he keeps looking at the door," she
thought; "and I do not like to see her so very talkative
and confidential." Miss Bingham's story of how she
nearly tumbled into the brook from an immense stone
turning over, and how Mr. Kirby sprang to her as-
sistance, fell on the ears of a listener as deaf to her tale
as Lady Laura was to the explanations of Miss Trefusis.
All Geoffrey Dynecourt could think of was, whether
Audrey would come down before she went to Mr. Ford,
and, as he was almost certain she must have gone to
him by this time, what possible pretext he could find for
joining her.
Imagine then his joy, when Lady Laura suddenly
broke in upon Miss Trefusis by saying, "But will that
mode apply to all ferns 1 would it suit the the dear
me! I have forgotten the name, that beautiful tall spread-
ing one. What can its name be? how stupid I am!"
"Oh! it suits them all," returned Miss Trefusis.
"Yes, dear; but I must be certain about this one,
because Honoria would never forgive me for misleading
her, and these what is their name"? they are her
especial favourites. Now, Audrey would remember in a
moment. How tiresome! for I might write perhaps to-
night."
Then in her sweetest tone she said, "Mr. Dynecourt,
would it be asking you too much, just to go to Mr.
Ford's room, and ask Audrey if she would tell me the
name of that fern we admired at Lady Honoria Camden's?
I would not disturb you, but I want to write about it
darticularly to-night, and I cannot remember the name.
I will entertain your companion until you return."
11*
1 6-!. DOROTHY FOX.
He could not believe his ears, and was so taKcn
al)ack at the sudden realization of his hopes, that he
almost stammered out his acquiescence.
"Ah! as I thought, very unwilling to go! But you
don't come back here, my friend," and by a dexterous
movement of the chairs, she contrived that should she
be obliged to relinquish his seat, which she had taken,
there would be a vacant seat on the other side.
Ten minutes elapsed, and then Mr. Dynecourt re-
turned, saying, "Miss Verschoyle thinks you must mean
the Osmunda, but she does not know; and will you ex-
cuse me, Miss Bingham, as Mr. Ford has asked me to
sit with him this evening?"
"Dear girl!" inwardly exclaimed Lady Laura. "That
is very good of her to be so thoughtful of Charles; for
of course it Avas her suggestion. One thing, she is per-
fectly secure of the old man; and perhaps she is right
not to see too much of him alone, for her temper is
very peculiar. In that she takes after her father. Well
then! now there is no need for further exertion on my
part. I wonder, though, what made him accept the in-
vitation*? Mr. Ford may have lent him money; or per-
haps he may have some scheme of his own to advance;
but whatever it be, I think if he pits himself against me,
he will have to cry 'halt' before long."
CHAPTER XVI.
The Sprig of Heather.
The little tea-party, as old-fashioned Mr Ford called
it, was a success. "I don't think I have enjoyed anything
so much as this for a very long time," he said; "we all
look so homely."
"There is something delightful about tea," replied
THE SPRIG OF HEATHER. 1 65
Audrey, "it always makes one so confidential. I re-
member when I was a child, and Marshall's friends came
to tea with us, how I used to open my ears, and be
entertained with their gossip. Those times are the only
pleasant recollections I have of childhood, except Charlie's
holidays, which were always a series of red-letter days.
A London child without companions has not many plea-
sures. Except at her luncheon, which was my dinner, I
seldom saw mamma. My mornings were spent with my
governess, and the rest of the day Marshall and I battled
out together. She was very good to me, and when I
was ill, I could not bear her out of my sight. Poor
mamma always hated a sick-room, and kept away from
us when we were ailing with any child's complaint,
fearing it might turn out to be small-pox, which she has
a dread of."
"Did she really?" said Mr. Ford; "dear me! I can
remember how my good old mother used to wait upon
me hand and foot, if my finger only ached. Father was
very well while nothing was the matter; but any one
who was sick went to mother."
"Had you any sisters or brothers?" asked Audrey.
"Yes, my dear; but they all died early. So did my
father and mother, and I was left alone in the world
before I was twenty."
"Loneliness is a feeling which causes us many a
heart-ache," said Mr. Dynecourt.
"Very true, but my back ached too often in those
days to indulge in any such reflections. There is no
cure for sorrow like employment."
"I quite believe that," said Mr. Dynecourt. "When I
am idle, I see life in a new light, with nothing but its
greys, browns, and neutral tints."
Audrey looked at him. "Oh, not now, Miss Vers-
l66 DOROTTIY FOX.
clioyle; I never saw so much rose colour before, and I
really was in great need of it, for I was very gloomy
when I came here."
"Now, that speech has done me more good than any-
thing I have had to-day!" exclaimed Mr. Ford; "and it
is very kind of you to say it."
"It is much kinder of you to give him the occasion
for saying it," laughed Audrey, taking out some knitting
she had brought with her. "Now, Mr. Dynecourt, enter-
tain us, tell us some story or adventure; in short, be
amusing."
"I cannot; I am too happy."
"Does happiness, then, take with you the form of
silence?"
"This does; I am afraid to speak lest I should break
the spell."
"In that you are wise. My motto is, 'Enjoy all you
can in the present without asking or expecting anything
from the future.'"
He was about to answer her, but she put her finger
to her lip. She had spoken in a low tone, and Mr. Ford
seemed wrapt in his own reflections, from which he
roused himself, saying, "Really we are not very talkative;
a Quakers' meeting."
"Did you ever know any Quakers?" asked Audrey.
"Yes, I have known several."
"Were they all very nice, good people?"
"Oh! I fancy much the same as other people are,
some good and some bad. I have only known them in
the way of business, though, and must say I have
always had reason to think well of them. Why do you
ask?"
"Because of two gentle Quakers I met this summer
in Devonshire, a mother and her daughter; we became
lilh Sl'RIG OF HEATHER. 1 67
acquainted through an adventure my brother had;" and
she related the circumstance of Captain Verschoyle's
faintness, of her curiosity, and the visit they paid to
King's-heart. " You would have been charmed with them,
Mr. Ford, they were so simple and unaffected; quite
different from any people I ever met before. The
daughter was sweetly pretty, and had such an artless
naive manner, that I seemed to be an old woman com-
pared to her. Then it was so strange to hear them call
us Charles Verschoyle and Audrey Verschoyle; some-
how all traces of stiffness vanished, and we were like
friends of long standing when we parted. I should very
much like to see them again."
"Perhaps you may. Plymouth is not so very far off;
and if you spent one happy week there, why not some
time or other try another?"
"I told Charles I should go there to spend my honey-
moon."
"Even that maybe accomplished," said Mr. Ford, look-
ing smilingly at her. "I have never been to Plymouth,
but I have often heard of its beauties. Was it the scen-
ery you admired so much?"
"I did admire the scenery; but I believe the happi-
ness I enjoyed really came from myself. I was quite
contented, ready to be pleased with everything, and then
so glad to be with Charlie."
"But," said Mr. Dynecourt, "would not any place be
charming under such circumstances'? What happiness
equals that of being with those we love? You should
have put your delight at being with your brother first,
for from your love to him came contentment and the
readiness to be pleased."
"I do not know that," she replied; "and if so, the
question is how long would this tranquillity remain?"
l6S fOROTHY FOX.
"With you, for ever."
"Why do you say, 'with you'1"
"Because I think you different from many other
women, who might place in the other scale money and
luxury; but I am certain neither of these would compare,
in your eyes, with love."
She did not look up from her knitting as she an-
swered gravely, "You have formed, I fear, a wrong es-
timate of my character. No one values the good things
of this world more than I do."
"Yes; but you value love morel"
"I have never set higher value on any love which I
have experienced."
"But in thought, in feeling, you know; you imagine "
"I very seldom indulge in imagination; I am afraid
I am very matter-of-fact."
"There I must differ from you, my dear," said Mr.
Ford; "you have, I think, a very imaginative nature.
Your education may have caused you to look upon
many things as so necessary to your comfort, that rather
than give them up you would repress the luxury of great
domestic happiness; but, I believe," he added, looking
fixedly at her, "if you consented to marry one for whom
you did not feel the affection which under other circum-
stances you would freely bestow, you would be guided
by duty and try to make him happy."
"I hope I should; I think I should," she said, raising
her eyes with an effort, for she could not reply with that
graceful ease which at other times was natural to her.
"Let us hope you will never have such a trial, Miss
Verschoyle," said Mr. Dynecourt.
"I do not think it would be a trial to rneP
"Not a trial to spend your life with one who had
not your whole heart one who could give you nothing
THE SPRIG OF HEATHER. 1 69
but fine clothes and jewels, and could win nothing from
you in return but duty or scanty gratitude! I know you
are only saying this for argument's sake; but even in jest
I do not like to hear it from your
"Then I will be silent," she said gently; "only you
must neither of you attribute too much goodness to me,
for I fear I have a large measure of coarse clay in my
composition. I have made peace because I want you to
do something for me. Look at this skein of wool."
Mr. Dynecourt came nearer to her, and seated him-
self on a footstool, while she wound the skein into a
ball. The two made a charming picture. Their faces
contrasted well her dark hair, and eyes full of vivacity
and fire; his thoughtful face, earnest and almost grave in
expression. Sometimes they were silent, then a merry
quip or jest would come, or the wool would get into a
tangle, and cause much accusation, reproach, and defence.
Their host looked at them, and repressed a sigh. If
he carried out his intention of asking her to be his wife,
what could he give her to compensate for that which
then she would be deprived of? He had no doubt that
whenever he offered himself to her she would accept
him. He saw through her mother's plans, and estimated
her character exactly. He was not blind to Audrey's
love of money, show, position; but under all this he
caught glimpses of her true nature, and believed her to
be true-hearted, loving, and unselfish. And as his eyes
turned again upon the two, he thought how pleasant it
was to be young, and to be able to inspire love for one's
self alone. Ah! all that was buried and gone for him;
he sighed audibly.
Audrey turned quickly, saying, "You are tired, Mr.
Ford, and we are thoughtlessly making too much noise."
"No, my dear, I like to see you merrj'. I have spent
170 DOROTHY FOX.
a ver}' happy evening, and have to thank you both for
it. It has been like home to me, and that is what I
often sigh for, even in my own house. I was not born
to grandeur, and sometimes it is rather irksome to me."
"You must let us come again," replied Audrey. "I
think it is time for me to leave you; Dr. Morcambe will
scold us if we let you talk too much, so good-night, and
to-morrow I hope to see you almost well."
"Good-night, my dear," he said, taking her hand,
"good-night."
"I will see you to your room," said Geoffrey; "or
will you return to the drawing-room 1"
"No, I shall court some beauty-sleep to-night," and
they went out of the room together.
As they crossed the corridor leading to her apart-
ment, Mr. Dynecourt said suddenly, "Miss Verschoyle,
have you pardoned my ill-temper'?"
"What do you mean?" she asked; "I have nothing
to pardon."
"Yes, you have."
"Well, then, you are forgiven," she said smiling to
him.
"Give me that heather as a token, that when you are
gone I may feel happy."
"What have you done with the spray I did give you?
Have you lost it or thrown it away, for you did not
wear it at dinner?" and she looked up saucily in his
face; but her eyes fell before the gaze she met, as he
said, "Yes, I did; but I put mine nearer my heart than
you did yours. Give me that bunch to to keep with
the rest."
"No, I cannot; I must say 'good-night' to you, or
some one may see us."
"And if they did, and knew for what I was asking.
THF. SPRIG OF HEATHER. 17I
would Oh, you must see whose image fills my heart!
I cannot hide it from you longer, and yet I dare not tell
you. Give me those flowers if I have any hope," and he
held out his hands imploringly.
"Hush, hush! they are coming out of the drawing-
room. I dare not stay. Good-night."
He held her hands so tightly for a moment that the
pain forced her to look up and see his face, so ashen in
its paleness, and then he let her go, and they parted.
No one was in the room, and Audrey threw herself
into her chair. She mused a little, and then said to her-
self, "Audrey Verschoyle, I think you and I had better
have a little conversation together. Do you intend being
mistress of Dyne Court, or do you prefer to lose the
chance by making a fool of yourself with a man whom
it is impossible for you to marry? Yes, impossible; don't
let there be any mistake there. All your life you have
striven to secure a good match, and hitherto you have
been disappointed. Now the prize is in your grasp, all
your desires are within reach; there is a fair prospect
that the wealth you have sighed for will soon be offered
to you. What do you intend to do? To accept the old
man, and marry him, of course. Yes; but it is very
hard not to enjoy a last flirtation before liberty goes. I
need not disguise matters. If I could indulge myself, I
would fall in love with Geoffrey Dynecourt; and he I
think he is beginning to care for me. Why do I feel so
much compunction for this man? I never cared before
what others suffered. I always said, I can take care of
my heart, and other people must do the same. What
is there about him? He is not cleverer or better-looking
than dozens of men I have met before, and yet he makes
me different. I never feel tired of being with him. I
blush like a school-girl when he looks at me; and I find
172 DOROTHY FOX.
myself thinking about him much oftener than is at aU
necessary. In such circumstances, most people would
say, the less I saw of him the better. Would it be pos-
sible for me to fall seriously in love with a penniless
man? Most decidedly it would not. I should only
return to the old life of keeping up appearances, to the
everlasting envy, hatred, and malice which fill my heart.
I almost wish I had never seen him. I find my heart is
not quite dead yet, there is still a little weakness left in
it; but my will is stronger than my heart, and I can con-
trol myself thoroughly, and I know that when this last
spark is extinguished there will be nothing to rekindle.
Had I not better let it burn itself to ashes? for love is
the only luxury which Mrs. Richard Ford will require to
deny herself. He will marry, I dare say, and then no
doubt I shall laugh at the absurdity which made me cast
a thought at poverty when I have secured wealth. I
said I need use no disguise to myself, and yet what a
hypocrite I am! for in my heart of hearts I know if I
loved as I could love, I would throw prudence and
Dyne Court to the winds and share the fortunes of the
man I had chosen. But, thank goodness, I have no such
feeling to contend with. I have made my election, and
as I see that he is taking our our flirtation too seriously,
I must show him his error. At all events, I will give
him no further encouragement." And she ended her
reflections by ringing for her maid.
Lady Laura came in, shortly after, with Captain
Verschoyle's letter, saying he would return at once. This
had put her ladyship into excellent spirits. "I shall be
so glad to have that responsibility off my hands, for Mr.
Dynecourt's attentions are becoming rather pointed;"
and she gave an account of the drawing-room scene,
coloured after her own vivid imagination.
THE SPRIG OF HEATHER. 173
Audrey knew that it was not true that he had hung
over Miss Bingham's chair and devoured every word
she said, while she, in her turn, had coquetted and
blushed with delight at his speeches. Yet it annoyed
her, made her feel uneasy, and as if she would like to
revenge herself upon him for it.
So she said she was very tired, and did not require
Marshall any more, and bade them both "Good-night."
Then she drew aside the curtain and looked out on
the moonlit scene, and her heart leapt up for joy to see
some one gazing at her window. A moment after she
thought, "How imprudent of him! some one else might
notice him. Oh, that is all right," for she sees he is
smoking and walking to and fro.
On such a lovely night, what more natural than that
the late owner should moodily pace up and down, keep-
ing company with his bitter reflections'? Audrey could
see his face by the moon's light, and it was pale and
sad. Was this to be wondered a.t1 Surely fate had dealt
very hardly with him had taken all and left him no-
thing. Pity and love flew towards him from her heart,
and forgetting all her new-made resolutions, she gently
opened the window, and the next time he came under
it a sprig of heather fell at his feet. Audrey only waited
to see him pick it up, passionately cover it with kisses,
and almost before he could look up she had gone.
Seeing her face in the glass she said to herself, "Ah,
well may my face be red! But I think I had better not
indulge in more reflections to-night."
1/4 DOROTHY FOX.
CHAPTER XVII.
Playing with Edge Tools.
While Geoffrey Dynecourt built castles in the air,
in which he and Audrey were to dwell happily together
for ever; and Audrey Verschoyle half-courted, half-thrust
aside the new feehng which possessed her, because it
was at once so sweet and so bitter, Richard Ford sat
musing over his fire. In his hand he held one of those
so-called portraits cut out of black paper, very common at
one time. It was a likeness of his dead wife, and as he
sat gazing on it, his memory took him back to the day
Nvhen it was made, nearly forty years ago. What a
happy day they had, and how proud he was of his pretty
Patty; and she why, she thought the king himself second
in everything to Richard! Ah! how they had toiled to-
gether Patty, never cast down, but always looking at
things in a bright light. They used to call those their
hard days, and speed their passing by making plans for
the future, when the summit of their ambition would be
gained, and they would possess a little home in a country
place, such as Willesden or Hampstead, where they would
keep fowls, and have a garden, with a bower where he
could smoke his pipe, while she sat working at his side.
By the time they were able to accomplish this, Patty
was sleeping in St. Clement's churchyard. Oh! if God
had but been pleased to spare her. Ten years were
such a short time to be together; and what hardships
she had borne during those years! She might have
married so much better, too, over and over again. There
were Carter and Page both dying for her, and her old
father threatening all sorts of things, if she did not give
up that penniless Dick Ford; but not she; and when
PLAYING WITH EDGE TOOLS. I/j
times were hard, and he told her he ought never to have
brought her to poverty, how she would hang about him,
and tell him she was happier than the richest lady in the
land! And the fire looks all blurred, as the old man
with dim eyes nods his head, saying, "She was an angel!
She was too good for this world!" But how he had
changed since those days! why, he wasn't like the same
man, Patty herself would hardly know him, among so
many grand folks, quite one of them too, and made as
much fuss about as if he were a lord. Money was cer-
tainly a good thing, though it lost half its charm when
you had nobody to share it with; nobody to leave it to.
He was only turned sixty. Many a man after that age
lived to see a goodly family spring up around him. Yes,
he must marry; it was his duty; his position seemed to
demand it of him, and certainly nowhere could he find
one better suited to be his wife than Miss Verschoyle.
He knew he should often vex her by mistakes in speech
and manner; he knew, however pleasant her society might
be to him, he was but a poor companion for her. He
said to himself, he was not supposing for a moment,
that when she married him, it would be for aught but
his money; and then he thrust aside something which
asked whether, when the riches she desired were her
own, she would not sigh for freedom; would she not
come to regard him as a burden from which death alone
could free her? No, no! he must have common sense,
and not expect to be loved like a young man; he must
be content with respect and esteem, which he believed
Audrey would always accord to him. And another thing
in his favour was his belief, that on love merely she set
little value. Had it been otherwise, surely she would
have long since secured what must have been frequently
offered to her. So he decided that he would wait until
1/6 DOROTHY FOX.
his Other guests had departed, beg Lady Laura to remain
another day, and then ask Audrey to be his wife.
Before Miss Verschoyle and Mr. Dynecourt met again,
Audrey had seriously taken herself to task for giving
way to her imprudent impulse. She never raised her
eyes when she said "Good-morning;" nor did she return
the pressure he gave her hand. She complained that
she had a headache, and therefore took her breakfast in
silence. She knew Geoffrey Dynecourt was watching
her, by the alacrity with which her wants were anticipated;
but beyond these attentions, he did not intrude himself
upon her notice; and he allowed her to leave the break-
fast-room without following her.
Some fears, and a shade of disappointment, did trouble
him; but he pressed them down with the heather, lying
Avarm at his heart, sweet token that she loved him; for,
after having asked the heather as a sign, she would surely
never have thrown the precious gift to him, unless her
love was all his own.
Oh! how bitter it was to him now to know that his
house and lands were in the possession of a stranger!
For her to be mistress over that which had hitherto held
the first place in his heart, would be happiness indeed.
The idea that this loss could make any difference to her
in giving him the love he longed for, never once occurred
to him. True, he had hardly dared to hope for such a
treasure. He had nothing that could make her love him.
He was not half good enough, or clever enough. Had
he been a duke or an earl he would have asked her love
as humbly as he did now, and have thought himself as
little worthy of it. That such a priceless gift could be
bought, could be bartered away for money, never occurred
to him. To him she was a very Una, walking unharmed
and unsullied amid the world's snares.
ri-AVlNG WITH EDGE TOOLS. 177
111 the fortnight they had spent together at Dyne Court
tlaey had seen more of each other than they could have
done in years of ordinary London visiting Hfe. Audrey
soon knew that the sage maxims with which she generally
favoured her companions would be distasteful to this man,
with his exalted ideal of what woman should be, and his
belief that in her he saw the reflection of the image his
fancy had painted. She had made the most of the morn-
ings spent together, when Mr. Ford was in company with
his steward. Every evening while the gentlemen sipped
their wine, from which prosy ordeal Geoffrey made an
early escape, the two wandered together through the
shady avenues; hushing their voices, because all around
was so still, saying little in words, but by every lingering
look and half-drawn happy sigh, telling a tale more eloquent
than the most ready speech ever told, and tightening each
loop and mesh of the net, from which one at least never
wished to escape.
Circumstances had prevented Geoffrey Dynecourt from
seeing much of fashionable society. Except when he was
a very young man, he had never had a positive flirtation;
consequently he was quite unskilled in that dangerous
warfare of art and coquetry so generally indulged in. He
only knew that he had disguised nothing from her, who
had aroused these new feelings in him, and all he had
offered she had accepted. The refusal to give him the
heather was the first positively painful doubt which had
crossed his mind, and while his heart was yet cast
down, hardly daring to hope again, and battling with
despondency, the prize fell at his feet, and proclaimed
him victor.
To Audrey such a character as Geoffrey Dynecourt's
was entirely new. Playing at love-making had been one
of her earliest accomplishments, and she had generally
Dorothy Fox. 12
178 DOROTHY FOX.
found the men she had practised her arts upon equal to
herself in the knowledge of these pleasant deceptions.
True, it had happened that at times one of the com-
batants had been wounded; but what mattered that to
the other? it only showed off his or her superior skill,
and one consolation there was the hurt was a mere
scratch which would soon be healed, and leave the suf-
ferer wiser than before. It was well known that no de-
ception took such an earnest form as when two people
knew that nothing could possibly come of it. Audrey
used to declare no flirtations ever equalled those with
ineligible men and younger sons "the others said their
heart-broken speeches and rapturous compliments with
fear and trembling, doubting lest in some underhand
way you might take advantage of them. They therefore
took fright and went off like rusty muskets when you
least expected them."
Had it not been for the certainty that she was to marry
Mr. Ford, Audrey would have had no qualms of con-
science about the earnest looks, the lingering adieux,
the low-toned conversations; but she wished to retain
Geoffrey Dynecourt as a friend after she married. "And
I am rendering that next to impossible," she thought, as
she sat in her room reflecting on the previous night's
episode; "for old men's wives had better not choose their
friends from former lovers; 'Pity is akin to love,' and
Mrs. Richard Ford must live without either of those soft
sympathies. It is of no use sitting brooding over it," she
continued, rising hastily, "I had better take a stroll, and
exorcise this dark mood. I hope no one will see me go
out, and I'll get a good spin, and come back better
pleased with myself perhaps, and the world generally."
While putting on her hat she wondered how she could
get out into the walk which she saw from her window.
PLAYING WITH PJjGIS. TOOLS, 1/9
"I think there must be a door at the bottom of the side
staircase, or how did he get there last night? I'll try."
Her efforts were successful, and, as she gently closed the
door, she congratulated herself that no one had seen her
depart. She did not hear a heart leap up, and a voice
say, "My darling! I knew you would come here to meet
me." She did not see the passionate eyes that had
waited so long for their light to appear, now lovingly
Test upon her. She did not know that Geoffrey Dyne-
court was following her, exulting more and more, as he
saw her turn towards the "Saint's Well," for was not
that the place where all true lovers went to pledge their
vowsl
"A place for lovers, and for lovers only," seems best
to describe "St. Hieretha's Well," shaded as it was from
the glaring light by trees, whose branches lovingly entwined
and interlaced each other. The moss-covered ground
formed a carpet, on which two fantastic old stumps stood
side by side, fashioned into a rude sort of elbowed seat;
ferns flourished in rich luxuriance, peeping out from every
nook and cranny; and a fringe of hartstongue lapped
round the tiny pool of water, where hung the mystic cup,
dedicated to the lips of true love alone.
Audrey had never been here before, and to her hot,
chafing spirit, the cool retreat was welcome indeed. It
was impossible to turn her back at once on such a quiet
rest; she must sit here awhile and ease her burden of
discontent. So she took possession of the seat, but be-
fore many minutes had passed, the man whose presence
she at that moment least desired stood before her, knelt
by her side, took both her hands in his, and looking
into her face, said, "Audrey, my darling!" Then a great
wave seemed to sweep over her heart, and she recognized
one before whom ^he was awed and abashed. The words
12*
l8o DOROTHY FOX.
she would have spoken died away upon her lips, as he
put his arm round her, saying tenderly, "We have no
need of words to tell our love, our hearts have spoken
to each other, and made their choice before they even
whispered to us their sweet secret. Oh ! Audrey, my own,
how good God has been to me! I had been doubting
Him because I had lost worldly riches, and all the time
He was going to give me you, a precious treasure that
the whole world must covet; making you love me, when
I thought I should have to worship you afar off all the
days of my life. How could I dare hope for any more]
You who might choose any one! Nay, dearest, it is true.
I had no right to dream of being chosen by you; but
since you love me, and have said you will be mine, I
walk upon air!"
"No, no!" were the first words she found power to
utter.
"Not in words; and, darling, do not think I presume
in saying so. Oh! Audrey, I will beg, entreat for every
word and look! No slave ever more humbly asked a
great boon at his master's hand than I will at your feet.
It is only because I know, come what may, you have
given me your heart, that mine refuses to be silent, and
ivill proclaim aloud its passionate delight."
She made a great effort to free herself from him, and
regain her self-possession.
"Mr. Dynecourt, we have that is, you are mis-
taken."
"Mistaken!"
"That is, I mean you have taken things too seriously.
I I never intended," and she stopped, seeing the agony
of suspense he was enduring.
Still he clung to hope.
"Miss Verschoyle," he said in a penitent voice, "I
PLAVING WITH EDGE TOOT.S. l8r
have been too sudden. I should have waited {or you to
speak. You think, perhaps, I make too little of your
love; have dared to call it mine too readily. Oh! if so,
forgive me. I will wait; I will be silent; I will not speak
of it again until you bid me. No task you impose shall
be too hard, if it is to win one word of hope from you.
I was intoxicated with delight, and did not know what
I said. Tell me you forgive me!" and he tried to take
her hand again.
"I have nothing to forgive," she said humbly: "it is
you who must forgive me; but I I never thought you
you were serious," and she hid her face in her hands.
In a moment he had taken them away by force, and
exclaimed in a harsh voice, "Look straight into my
face. Now tell me, did you mean all the time to de-
ceive me?"
"I I never thought "
"I do not ask what you thought; but when you
looked into my eyes with love, was it to cheat me?
When you answered my half-spoken words in your soft
low voice, was it to mock me? When you threw me
this heather and bade me take hope, was it to deceive
me?"
"It was," she said, and her face blanched like his
own.
He flung her hands from him, and hiding his face,
groaned aloud in his misery. The tears came slowly
dropping from Audrey's eyes, and she could not help
laying her hand on his bowed head.
"Mr. Dynecourt, pray do not give "
He started up. "Do not touch me!" he cried pas-
sionately. "What! you have tears too at your com-
mand? You can play at pitying your victim? Oh, you
1 82 DOROTHY FOX,
are a cunning sorceress! Are you satisfied with your
power? Shall I delight your heart further by telling you
how your charm has worked? that before I knew you I
was only sore at heart because I had lost the place
where I and all my race were born; saddened because
strangers had a right to the house in which my mother
died, and my father reared the only thing he had left to
him. When I worked and toiled, hope was yet alive
within me that some day I might have a loving woman
to make me forget these trials. I met you. You know
how you made me forget everything but your presence.
I dreamt I had found the noblest, best, truest-hearted
being ever permitted to bless earth with her presence.
If you had not returned what you saw I was obliged to
offer you, I should have gone from you humbly, know-
ing I was not worthy of you, and all my life you would
have been my ideal of perfection. Now you have stranded
hope; it lies dead within me, and with it faith, and trust
in womankind. Let your heart rejoice, for you have left
me nothing to live for. Go on to bewitch and cozen
other dupes. Oh, you must have a happy life!"
Audrey's spirit was roused. "You have no right to
speak to me as you have done," she said; "if I have in-
jured you, I am sorry; but how was I to know you were
different from other men? I met men who played with
me as you say I have played with you, and then laughed
at the ignorant simplicity which made me suppose they
meant anything serious to a girl without a penny. In
the world, poor peoj^le such as we are, cannot afford to
love. We may play at love, but we must marry for
money. I am of the world, brought up in its ways,
versed in its deceits. How could I think you looked
upon me as a fresh loving girl] Every one in the house
could have told you what brought me here."
PLAYING WITH EDGE TOOLS. 1 83
"They have told me that you intended to marry Mr.
Ford, and I have laughed the idea to scorn."
"You need not have done so; it is quite true: and
whenever he chooses to ask me, it is my intention to ac-
cept him."
"No! Audrey, not that; anything else. I could bear
to see you happy, but not to degrade yourself."
"Degrade myself, Mr. Dynecourt!" she said bitterly;
"according to your showing, it is the man who marries
me will bear the degradation. Mr. Ford has wealth;
that is all that such as I can possibly desire."
"Then tell me one thing: if we had met under other
circumstances, and I had possessed what former Dyne-
courts did, and had asked you to be mine, would you
have said yes"?"
She hesitated a moment, and then fixing her eyes
upon him, answered, "With all my heart."
"Then I thank God for having taken it from me. I
rejoice that I am as a beggar in your sight. Had all
England been mine, I should have pleaded my cause as
humbly as I did to-day; but now that I find your love
is only a thing put up to the highest bidder, I am grate-
ful to Fate for compelling me to stand aloof from such
barter. The old lands of Dynecourt have indeed changed
hands, when they are to be reigned over by such a mer-
cantile mistress. Farewell, Miss Verschoyle; your sex
may thank you for having so effectually taught me their
true value. I hope when you are the wife of Richard
Ford, you will find happiness in the riches you so de-
voutly worship; as for your husband that is to be, I am
sorry for him; the good old man deserves a better fate."
He was gone, and Audrey stood motionless where
he had left her; the echo of his bitter parting still ring^
ing in her ears, and falling like a dirge upon her heart.
1S4 DOROTHY FOX-
CHAPTER XVIII.
Harry Egerton's Advice.
John Hanbury and Captain Verschoyle parted at
the Shoreditch Station, the former going off to his busi-
ness, the latter to Madame Roget's to inquire after the
commissions from his mother.
Not caring to be stuck down in the country with "a
lot of stupid people," as he called them, he had made
up his mind to run down to Darington to see his old
friend and godfather; and as a preliminary to this he at
once wrote, informing him of his being in London. To
Captain Verschoyle's surprise, Mr. Egerton presented
himself at his club the next afternoon.
The satisfaction it gave the old gentleman to see his
godson again safe and well, and the evident pleasure it
was to the young man to meet him, prevented Mr.
Egerton from giving way to his usual acerbity, beyond
his saying in the gruff voice which made those who did
not know him think him in a furious passion
"When the mountain wouldn't come to Mahomet,
Mahomet went to the mountain; and I am fool enough
to do the samel" Then, thinking this speech had rather
betrayed his genuinely warm feelings and real motive,
he added, "But don't think j'ou've brought me up. No,
no! I've come to give that vagabond shoemaker a little
of my Queen's English; and, by the great Mogul's im-
perial cat's eyebrows, if he makes me another pair of his
nigger-cut boots, with as much heel as toe, I'll I'll "
and here he brought down his fist upon the table, mak-
ing the very furniture rattle "kick the fellow round his
own shop with 'em, sir!" Then he put his arm into
Captain Verschoyle's, saying, "Come along with me to
HARRY EGERTON'S ADVICE. I 85
Conduit Street, and tell me what you're up to for the
next few days."
"Why, when I have despatched that box and a letter
to my mother, I am entirely at your service."
"Humph! then you're precious hard-up for money or
companions, I know. Well, stop and do your business,
and I'll go to Conduit Street by myself; and after that
we'll try and be jolly, though I don't know what's the
way in these days, when everybody is hedged in on all
sides, and you can't drive a coach, and you mustn't fight
a duel. My stars! what a set of Lady Fannys you men
have been turned into!"
Harry Egerton as, in spite of his seventy years, all
who knew him still called him was what people term a
character. Those who met him for the first time always
asked what made him so brusque and cynical. Why did
he sneer at everything and everybody, and why had he
never married? His oldest friend could not have given
a satisfactory answer to one of these questions. In his
day, he and Lascelles Verschoyle Charles Verschoyle's
father had been young sprigs of fashion, sworn friends,
and constant companions. Then they parted for two
years saw nothing of each other; and when they met
again. Colonel Verschoyle had married, which altered
him considerably to all but his old chum. Harry Eger-
ton had perhaps met with a disappointment. Certain it
was that something had soured his temper, altered his
manner, and somehow changed his whole life. He never
married, spoke in cutting terms of womankind in general,
and year by year became more peculiar. Withal, how-
ever, he retained his old friends, and was looked up to
by the younger men, who could generally bear testimony
to the liberality of his heart and purse, notwithstanding
the sharpness of his tongue and temper.
lR6 DOROTHY FOX.
Charles Verschoyle was his especial favourite, his
godson, and his future heir; not that the old man had
much to leave beyond the inconvenient, old-fashioned
house, some few miles out of York, where he lived up
to, and, as he said, beyond, his income; and where he
gave a hearty welcome to the men who chose to come
and stay there without bothering him, or expecting more
entertainment than a day's shooting or hunting, and a
plain bachelor-dinner when their sport was over.
Many had tried to find out the secret which had
seemed to influence his life; but all had failed. If
there was any story connected with it, he kept strict
guard over it, until many believed that his eccentricity
lay in his peculiar disposition, and his great love of ease
and quiet.
Of course, he wanted to know all about Captain
Verschoyle's personal experience of the war. Most of
the afternoon was spent in answering questions and de-
scribing actions, until, when dinner was over, Mr. Egerton
said
"Well, Charlie, and what are you going to be after
now?"
" Why, my last idea was to get married, sir."
"Married!" exclaimed the old gentleman, in a tone
of the greatest contempt. "What! are you tired of peace
already?"
"Hardly that," laughed Captain Verschoyle: "but if
a man intends to take a wife, it's time he did so, at
my age."
"Oh, certainly. Don't you prove an exception to the
rule that 'there's no fool like an old fool.'"
"Come, that's not fair, and won't do," said Captain
Verschoyle; "besides, an old fool wants somebody to
take care of him; and, remember, although 'woman in
KAi^Rv egerton's advice. rP,y
our hours of ease' may be 'uncertain, coy, and hard to
please' "
"According to your own account , _yci?! haven't found
'em so," rephed the old man. "And, as for the rest, it's
all bosh; for, if 'pain and anguish wring the brow '
hang the women! Get a bottle of soda-water and a wet
towel; but what's the good of me talking? Out with it;
you've found an angel, of course, and you're in love.
Ha, ha! while the flame's burning you don't smell the
brimstone; that comes after matrimony."
"No, no, you're wrong; I am not one bit in love;
and the young lady is far better than an angel; she is
an heiress with ^'50,000 of her own, besides expecta-
tions. My mother is most anxious for the match, think-
ing it the last chance I may get, and not a bad one
either, for she is a pretty, lady-like girl; young, and not
bad-tempered."
"Why don't you have her, thenT'
"Because I can't make up my mind that she and her
money would make me happier than I am at present. 1
want your advice about it."
"Oh, you do? very well, then, I'll give it. My opinion
is, that any man who marries at all is a fool; but a man
who waits to get advice first is worse; particularly when
he spends his time in putting the woman on one side of
the scale and her money on the other. Don't do that,
Charlie, my boy, or I'd rather see you married to a
housemaid than to the richest heiress in England. If
you must marry, marry a woman you love, and who
loves you, or else keep single all the days of your life."
Captain Verschoyle took his companion's hand, laugh-
ing heartily, as he shook it.
"There," he said, "I knew you'd tell me what to do,
I have fdt all this myself; but you know how that
]88 DOROTHY FOX.
cursed money tempts one. I won't go to Dyne Court
again. It's rather a dull place; and later on, if I wish
it, I shall have lots of chances of meeting the young
lady in London; then, if I get to like her better, all
right, I'll try my fate; and if not, I well, I shall have
done better than if I were to go down now, when we
would be constantly thrown together, and I might get
philandering, and thinking I meant more than I really do."
"Come to me at once, then," said Mr. Egerton. "I
am going for my yearly visit to Harrogate, with old Bob
Constable; and, after that, I shall be home."
"Very well, I will. Stapleton and some fellows have
asked me down for some shooting, and when I have
finished there I'll come on to you."
So this was decided, and, a few days after. Captain
Verschoyle went down to Harrogate with Mr. Egerton
and remained until Sir Robert Constable arrived. He
then took his departure, and came back to town, intend-
ing to join Colonel Stapleton's party as soon as he had
made the necessary arrangements.
CHAPTER XIX.
Dorothy's Blush.
In the mean time Nathaniel Fox had joined his wife
at Fryston Grange. As he could only stay a few days,
he had been making the most of his time: and now that
the visit was nearly over, he would hardly confess to
himself how thoroughly he had enjoyed the change.
"I do wish you could stay longer, father," said Grace.
"There are so many things I should like you to see,
which I know would interest you. Now, when will you
come again 1"
Dorothy's blush. i8g
"I wish," put in John Hanbury, "that we could in-
duce your father to move Londonward altogether."
Nathaniel shook his head as he said, half comically,
"I find that I have been wisely dealt with, in not having
been set down to spend my life within reach of pleasures
which are very engrossing. I begin to fear that in my
nature lies a love of excitement, of which hitherto I have
been ignorant."
John and Grace laughed at Nathaniel's ideas of dis-
sipation which meant several meetings at Exeter Hall,
and visits to the Crystal Palace.
"No, no, John," he added, "Patience and I will return
home; and in spite of all we have seen, it will not be
hard to renew our quiet life, will it, wife?"
Patience smiled her reply. "No; and we shall have
much to talk about," she said.
"That is true," said Nathaniel. "Dear! dear! the
world progresses with rapid strides. I feel more like a
spectator, than one who is born to take a share in all
this;" adding, with much gravity, "I fear I have perhaps
been unduly severe towards those who are desirous to
keep pace with the times. Remember, now, I do not
excuse them, but I see more reason for it than I ever
did before."
John was too sensible to be drawn into any discus-
sion with the old gentleman, knowing that once off on
his hobby they might not part quite so amiably; besides
which, this remark from Nathaniel was a wonderful con-
cession, and, after making it, he relapsed into silence,
fearing he had been carried away into saying rather too
much.
During that same morning, Grace and Patience had
been left at home together, and the former took occasion
to ask if Dorothy's dress, while she stayed with them,
I go DOROTHY FOX.
might not be a little modified. "I fear her present cos-
tume would rather attract attention; and if you and
father did not object to her having a simple white dress
for evening wear, and a plain grey silk, with a straw
bonnet, rather more fashionably made, for out-doors, I
really think it would be better."
"I was going to speak myself of this," said Patience.
"I have already mentioned the subject to her father, and
he has consented; only she must not wear colours,
Grace."
"Certainly not. You may depend upon me, mother.
After what father said last night about the confidence he
reposed in John and me regarding Dorothy, we shall
both be most particular that she goes nowhere, and sees
no one but such as we feel you would entirely approve
of. There is one thing which I was going to ask you
about this young Crewdson is he an accepted lover of
Dolly's?"
"Oh no!" returned Patience. "Thy father and Stephen
Crewdson always desired this union of the two families,
but the fulfilment of the wish is left entirely to Josiah
and Dorothy."
"He has been visiting you lately, has he not? How
did you all like himl"
"Very much indeed," said Patience. "I think him
an excellent young man. But, Grace dear, Dorothy will
never care for him; it is easy to see that. He has none
of those ways which win a girl's heart."
"I hope he is not like those dragonesses of sisters.
I remember them; they were the terror of my childhood;
and Aunt Caroline tells me they have stood still, and
not altered in any way since."
"Oh no! Poor Josiah is painfully bashful, and rather
homely in manners and appearance. Thy father still
Dorothy's blusit. igi
holds to it, that Dorothy will learn to love him, but I am
convinced she never will; and this made me, as I told
thee in my letter, particularly anxious that, before she
would be called upon to decide, she should see a little
of the world."
"Of course," replied Grace. "Why, the poor child
has never had an opportunity of seeing anybody at King's-
heart; and she is so pretty, mother, and sweet, that she
might win any man's love. I shall try and sound her as
to how she feels disposed towards Josiah."
"Do," said Patience. "With thee she may be more
open."
So, a few days after Patience and Nathaniel had
taken their departure, Grace approached the subject by
saying "Oh, Dolly, how did you like Josiah Crewdson?"
"Very much. He was with us a week."
"Yes, so mother said. Is he good-looking?"
"Oh no," replied Dorothy, laughing at the idea, "not
at all! He is short and fat, and his cheeks are very red,
and go out so." And she puffed out her own, to give
Grace some idea of Josiah's rotund countenance. "He
made me laugh every time I saw him going up a hill
he used to puff and pant like an old man. But he is
very good-tempered, and he never minds what any one
says."
"For 'any one' read 'I,'" said Grace, smiling. "Per-
haps he thinks all you say is perfect."
Dorothy laughed.
"He says he is very fond of me. His sisters are so
cross to him, poor fellow they never laugh or are cheer-
ful and his father would not allow him to speak, par-
ticularly at dinner; and do all thou canst, nothing will
make him say more than 'Yes' and 'No.' Of course he
has finished long before anybody else, and then he is so
192 DOROTHY FOX.
uncomfortable at having nothing to do, that he ea':s
twice as much as he wants."
"Not a very romantic description of a lover, Dolly;
for I suppose I am to consider him in something of that
light?"
"Oh no, Grace; at least, I have only promised father
to try and like him; and I told Josiah the same. But,
for all that, I do not think of him as a lover not that I
know anything about lovers," she said, her face getting
suddenly very red. "I often wonder," she went on with
a sigh, "if anybody else would like me. I mean some
one who who was not like Josiah."
Grace laughed at the simplicity expressed in Dorothy's
words. "Indeed, Dolly," she replied, looking at the
blush on the lovely face turned towards her, "I think
you may make your mind quite easy on that point. But
by being not like Josiah, do you mean not a Friend?"
The colour which had died away from Dorothy's
cheeks now returned with double force as she replied
very gravely, "Grace dear, I hope always to uphold our
principles, and to marry out of our own society would
not surely be consistent. John is a Friend."
"True; but had he been of any other persuasion,
Dorothy, I should have married him. A higher law drew
us together a closer tie bound us than the mere fact
that we two had been brought up to call our religious
opinions by one name. But while I am sermonizing
about him I am forgetting it is time to go and meet
him; so put on your bonnet quickly, dear. I dare say
we shall find he has brought the things we ordered on
Wednesday."
Mr. Hanbury had the boxes with him; and as soon
as they reached the Grange their contents were displayed,
to Dorothy's great delight.
Dorothy's blush. 193
"Oh, Grace!" she exclaimed, after they had under-
gone minute inspection, "are they not pretty? I hope I
am not unduly set upon them."
"My dear child," answered Grace, "don't think of
such things; look upon the enjoyment of such trifles as
small womanly pleasures, allowable to beings who can
set their aims and affections on higher things."
Mr. Hanbury's return put a stop to further conversa-
tion between the sisters, especially as Grace wanted to
hear the news of the day from her husband, who at
length said,
"By the way, I had a note from Captain Verschoyle,
asking me to dine at his club with him on Friday. Shall
I accept?"
"Oh, do," answered Grace; "I should like you to go;
you took a fancy to him, did you not?"
"Yes; I think we both liked him."
"Very much: I do not know when I have met such
a thoroughly agreeable man."
And the next day, when she and Dorothy were sit-
ting together, she referred to the invitation, saying, "I
am so glad John is going to dine with Captain Vers-
choyle; I have told him to ask him down here again."
Though Dorothy only gave a grave little nod of as-
sent, she was by no means indifferent; her heart beat
quicker, and she seemed to be suddenly filled with a
joyousness that made all around her look bright and gay.
"I wish thou couldst see his sister, Grace," she said, after
a pause, "she is so beautiful; her name is Audrey is it
not pretty?"
"Yes, it is an old-fashioned, quaint name. What an
odd thing your meeting with them was, and then my
mistake, and his coming here, altogether a complete
Vofoiliy Fo.i, I 'I
I(-)4 DOROTHY FOX.
a.dventure. But how was it that j'ou happened to be In
the shopi"
"I was waiting for Judith;" and Dorothy began to
give a minute description of the event. She had for-
gotten everything, so interested was she in the story,
when the door was opened, and a servant announced
"Mr. Josiah Crewdson."
CHAPTER XX.
Doubtful Progress.
Surprised at this unexpected arrival, Dorothy started
up, but stood still; while Grace advanced to meet her
visitor. All Josiah's courage had forsaken him, and he
was unable to utter a word. He stood at the drawing-
room door apparently in great danger of blushing him-
self into an apoplectic fit. He certainly did not present
himself in a favourable aspect; and Grace thought, "The
idea of any girl falling in love with him is preposterous;
we must put an end to this;" but nevertheless she held
out her hand to him, saying
"I am very glad to see you, Mr. Crewdson; our
families have been friends for so many years, that we
cannot be strangers to each other."
By this time Dorothy had recovered herself, and ex-
pressed her great astonishment at seeing him.
"Did father know that thou wert coming"?"
"No," said Josiah; "I had some business at least, it
was not exactly business; but I heard that thou wert
here," Then, seeing a smile on Grace's face, he added
in confusion, "Not that I came up for that, thou knowest;
but I very often come to London at least, not very
often but I have been once before."
Dorothy was vexed at his awkwardness, and wished
DOUBTFUL PPsOGRESS. 1 95
that he had appeared to more advantage before her
sister. Grace, however, did not seem to observe it, but
commenced to relate what the journey from Leeds to
London used to be, and how well she remembered hear-
ing Josiah's father speak of being attacked by highway-
men on the road. By the time she had finished, Josiah
felt somewhat more at his ease, although he still sat in
a most uncomfortable position on a chair just inside the
door, under which he had deposited his hat.
"I hope you will have luncheon with us," said Grace.
Josiah looked at Dorothy, and Grace added, "Dorothy
will show you the garden and the forest, which are very
pretty."
"Thank thee; I should like to stay very much, if I
am not putting anybody to inconvenience."
"Not in the least. I am sure I can answer for Doro-
thy," and Grace gave her a significant look to say some-
thing, for, as she said afterwards, she pitied the poor
young man.
"Oh, I shall be very glad!" said Dorothy. "Do stay,
Josiah."
Josiah's face beamed with satisfaction, and he gave
a litde sigh of relief.
"And come nearer the fire," Grace continued; "it is
rather chilly to-day. Take my place, for I must speak
to nurse before she goes out."
So she went off and left them together.
Dorothy did not speak for a litde; then she looked
up and saw that Josiah's eyes were fixed upon her.
"Why dost thou stare at meV she asked, looking
straight at him with a half-saucy expression.
"Because I cannot help it. Oh, Dorothy, thou must
not be vexed with me; but I cannot help thinking of
13*
Iq6 DOROTHY FOX.
thee all the day long. I try to forget thee, but It's of
no use."
Dorothy Fox had naturally a great deal of the co-
quette in her; and though she could not return Josiah's
affection, it was not unpleasant to her. She had been
taught to set no value on personal appearance, and to
disregard every attention to dress which was not neces-
sary to neatness and order. She had been taught to
look upon fashion as the worldly name of an engrossing
sin invented by the devil ''to lead captive the fancy of
silly men and women;" and as for gay colours, they
were the badges of slavery to this tyrant, who drew his
victims step by step into a vortex of frivolous gaiety, in
which they spent their youth in folly and their old age
in regret.
Notwithstanding this teaching, Dorothy was truer to
her nature than to her education; and the girl looked
on her fair face and rejoiced, and could not check the
desire to wear the pretty colours which the flowers, the
sea, and the sky suggested to her.
Josiah Crewdson, assuredly, was not her ideal of a
lover, still it was very pleasant to hear him say that he
could not help thinking of her; to know, as she did,
that he loved her, and that this love had brought him
from Leeds to see her. These reflections caused her
to look down for a moment, and then to answer de-
murely:
"I am sorry that I should engross so much of thy
thoughts, Josiah; and I am puzzled to understand the
reason. What makes thee think of me?" and she gravely
regarded Josiah, whose whole energies seemed bent upon
endeavouring to pull off separately the fingers of his
black-and-white silk gloves, which he had previously
held so tightly in his hands.
DOUBTFUL PROGRESS. 1 97
"Because I love thee so much, and I want thee to
love me, Dorothy! Thou wilt try? If only a little, I shall
be so happy. I don't know what I am about now; I
keep on doing all sorts of foolish things. I forget to
send letters, and I add up figures wrong, and I don't
order the things sisters ask me to bring with me from
town."
"Oh, Josiah! how wrong! Thy sisters have a right,
then, to be displeased with thee, and there is some ex-
cuse for them when they are cross."
"I don't care whether they are cross or pleased," ex-
claimed Josiah, throwing down his gloves, and coming
nearer to Dorothy. "If thou wilt only say, some day
thou wilt marry me, Dorothy, I will do everything that
thou wishest, and never forget a single thing thou tellest
me. But, when I think what an ugly, stupid fellow I
am, and thou so clever and so beautiful, oh! I could
do anything then! Why, I went into the Cloth Hall
with my umbrella up the other day. Don't laugh at me,
Dorothy; it was because I was thinking of thee, and how
I should manage to see thee before the time thy father
named."
Dorothy gave full vent to her merriment, and when-
ever Josiah attempted to renew his protestations, he was
interrupted by a fresh burst of laughter.
"How fortunate it is that thy business has obliged
thee to come to London!" she said at length.
"Ah! thou knowest thou wert my business. Kezia
and Jemima did all they could to find out why I Avas
coming, but I wouldn't tell them; I said that I had to
settle some money matters."
"Josiah, I fear thou hast not been truthful; deceiving
thy sisters is not acting up to our principles."
"Well, but I can settle some money business," replied
igS DOROTHY FOX.
Josiah ruefully. "And if thou wilt only say that thou art
trying to care for me, I will tell them that I saw thee, or
anything that thou thinkest is proper."
Dorothy looked down hesitatingly, and pinched up
the frill of her white muslin apron; while Josiah kept his
eyes fixed upon her with eager anxiety.
"I told thee I liked thee, Josiah," said Dorothy at
length; "but, of course, that is not saying I could marry
thee."
"But," gasped Josiah, "thou dost not say thou won't,
Dorothy"? Do say that perhaps one day thou mayest. I
have never had anybody to love me, and I do love thee
so much. I didn't know what love was; but, since I was
at King's-heart, I have been so miserable."
"Then, I am sure thou must be very sorry thou went
there."
"No, I am not. I should not be sorry even if thou
couldst never care a bit for me; because, somehow, I am
different. When I am by myself, I am not dull and
stupid, such as I was before I knew thee. I can think
about thee, and what I would do for thee, and how I
would love thee; and, instead of being wearied, I am
quite happy, and glad when nobody is near to distract
my thoughts. Dorothy, only say thou wilt try!"
"Yes; I will try. I told father I would try. But thou
must not take that as an assurance that I mean to marry
thee, Josiah, because I don't feel at all like that. Indeed,"
she added, with a little air of despondency, "I am not
certain that I shall marry at all. Sometimes I think I
shall be an old maid, like Dorcas Horsenail."
Josiah shook his head. "Thou wilt never be like
her," he said.
"Why not?"
DOUBTFUL PROGRESS. IQQ
"Because," answered Josiah, simply, "those good
women have not got faces and ways like thine."
At this moment, Grace tapped at the window, saying,
"Dolly, the children want you to have a romp with them
in the garden, and perhaps Mr. Crewdson will come out
with you. We shall have luncheon soon, and after that
we will go for a drive."
So, until luncheon was announced, Grace took pos-
session of Josiah, walking round the garden with him,
and asking him about her old friends, and his relations,
and making him forget for the time his awkwardness and
bashfulness. She perceived the truth of her mother's
remarks about Josiah. He was very amiable, but quite
unable to inspire love in such a girl as Dorothy.
The drive went off so successfully that Josiah was
too happy even to think about those personal deficiencies
which generally formed a barrier to his peace of mind
when in company. The children were friends with him
at once, and Dorothy laughed, and talked to him without
reserve, and to his great delight said she would like to
visit his sisters. So in another month there was every
prospect that he would meet her again.
Mrs. Hanbury watched them until she had grave doubts
whether, after all, Dorothy would not become Mrs. Josiah
Crewdson. She certainly gives him encouragement,
thought she; and the poor fellow has evidently lost his
heart to her.
During the drive home Dorothy laughed, and teased
Josiah until Grace thought that she had a very decided
regard for him. She was still engrossed with such thoughts
when the carriage drove up to the door, where, instead
of the servant, stood Captain Verschoyle.
Had Dorothy known that she was going to see Captain
Verschoyle she could not have desired to look better.
200 DOROTHY FOX.
The fresh air and her cheerfulness had heightened her
colour, and made her eyes brighter even than usual.
Captain Verschoyle thought he had never seen any one
so lovely; and, though he addressed his first greetings to
Mrs. Hanbury, he could hardly divert his attention for a
moment from Dorothy. While Josiah was standing wait-
ing until Dorothy should give some sign that she required
his assistance. Captain Verschoyle walked round to the
other side of the carriage, and, quite ignoring him, took
her hands, and, though it was not necessary, almost
lifted her out, and accompanied her to the drawing-
room.
For some time, the conversation was entirely about
Captain Verschoyle, and how he had been spending his
time since they last saw him at Fryston. Grace begged
him to stay to dinner, but he said he had an engagement.
"You will have a cup of tea with us, then?" she said;
and perceiving that Josiah had been overlooked, she
asked him to ring the bell; saying to Captain Verschoyle,
"Our friend Mr. Crewdson is obliged to return by the
six train, so I can drive you both to the station, when I
go for John."
Captain Verschoyle bowed to Josiah, who, to Dorothy's
vexation, took no notice of him. Very soon tea was
brought in, and then poor Josiah, whose star had been
gradually waning ever since this dazzling sun had made
his appearance, was suddenly extinguished. Captain
Verschoyle walked about, attending and talking to the
ladies, and finally took his cup of tea, and drank it stand-
ing, as Dorothy thought, in the most graceful manner,
while Josiah, made doubly awkward with a cup of tea
and no table, and a piece of bread and butter without
a plate, sat silently eating and drinking, his coloured
silk handkerchief spread over his knees.
DOUBTFUL PROGRESS. 201
Captain Verschoyle, after the momentary glance he
gave Josiah when introduced, took no further notice of
him. But, to Dorothy's imagination, he was looking at
and remarking upon every small peculiarity which her
unfortunate lover possessed; and she felt so vexed and
annoyed with Josiah, that she longed to say something
cross to him. But no opportunity occurred; for except
when he was particularly addressed, Josiah was dumb;
and besides. Captain Verschoyle was constantly including
her in the conversation, and thus attracting her attention
to himself. At length, the subject of art being introduced,
he asked Mrs. Hanbury if she had seen some celebrated
paintings at Spencer House? -and finding that she had
not, he said, "Would you like to see themi I know I
can get admission, and I should so like to show them
to you and Miss Fox. Will you come on Saturday? Mr.
Hanbury is to dine with me to-morrow, and then we can
arrange it."
Grace said she would be delighted, and Dorothy
looked so radiant, that Captain Verschoyle felt inclined
to offer to take them to every gallery in London. He
turned to Grace, saying ruefully, "Is it not too bad?
here I am in London, wanting to see all the sights, and
nobody will accompany me. Have you been everywhere.
Miss Fox?"
"No, indeed," replied Grace. "We have been nowhere
yet, but John has promised to take us. I want Dolly to
see all she can while she is with us."
"Then, Miss Fox, will you have pity on me, and get
Mrs. Hanbury to include me in some of her excursions?"
"Yes," said Dorothy, looking at him shyly; "but thou
hadst better ask Grace herself."
"Oh! I shall be very happy," laUghed Grace; "but I
20:2 DOROTHY FOX.
fear our jjleasures will be rather tame to Captain Vers-
choyle."
"Nothing of the kind, Mrs. Hanbury; I really mean
what I say. I want to see some of the London sights,
and I cannot go alone. You forget how long I have
been away from England."
Josiah here took out his watch, giving Grace an op-
jiortunity of speaking to him.
"What is the time?"
"A quarter-past five."
"Too soon to be thinking of going. The train does
not start until five minutes after six."
"I was just about to propose, if you are not too tired,
that you and Miss Fox would honour us by walking to
the station, and your carriage could follow and bring
you back," said Captain Verschoyle.
"Oh! that would be much nicer," exclaimed Dorothy.
"Wilt thou do it, Grace?"
"I am afraid I can't, as I am a little tired; but you
might go, dear. I would be at the station before the
train leaves."
While Dorothy went oif to get ready. Captain Vers-
choyle continued talking to Grace; and Josiah dolefully
thought that now he should have no opportunity of saying
another word to Dorothy. Perhaps at the station she
might say something to him; but on the way this man,
towards whom Josiah had taken a great dislike, would
doubtless monopolize her. Then he could not stay beyond
the Sixth-day. He had not courage enough to come again
the next day, so he should not see her. How provoking
that this person should have come! But she had been
kinder to him, and had promised to visit them. Still his
heart had lost its lightness; she seemed more beautiful
DOUBTFUL PROGRESS. 203
than ever, and he more stupid, by comparison with this
stranger.
Grace was not in the room when Dorothy returned.
Josiah arose, took his hat from under his chair, and stood
waiting to accompany them. But Captain Verschoyle,
who had decided against a third person accompanying
them in their walk, turned to him as they were following
Dorothy, and said
"I think Mrs. Hanbury will expect one of us to take
care of her; so we shall see you at the station."
Josiah was thus left alone in the drawing-room, where
Grace found him, and to his astonishment said, "I am
so sorry you thought it necessary to wait for me, you
should have gone with Dorothy; I drive down alone al-
most every day."
When they all met Josiah found no opportunity to
say more than "Farewell." Grace gave him a general in-
vitation to come and see them whenever he came to
town. Captain Verschoyle stood talking until the train
was just starting; then he said, turning to Josiah, "Do
you smoke 1 No? Then, good-bye!" and got into
another carriage, and the long-looked-for meeting was
over.
When Mr. Hanbury returned from business the visi-
tors were mentioned, and also the invitation given by
Captain Verschoyle.
"Hast thou accepted, Grace 1" he asked.
"Conditionally, dear that thou hadst no engagement."
"No, if Dolly and thou would like to go, I shall be
at your service."
"Then we will decide upon going," said Grace.
"Oh! I am so glad," exclaimed Dorothy. "Is it
not fortunate, Grace, that I have my new dress and
bonnetl"
204 DOROTHY FOX,
"Oh, woman, woman!" laughed John Hanbury,
"What matters it whether thou art a strict Friend, a
Parisian belle, or an Indian squawl nature has im-
planted in thee a love of adornment and dress, which
no sect can overcome, and no training extinguish."
CHx\PTER XXI.
Art and Nature.
"Well, Audrey, you may be a very entertaining
companion to some people, but certainly you never give
your mother any opportunity of judging of your talents.
I thought I would just see how long you would remain
silent, and it is twenty minutes since you last spoke. Per-
haps had I not said anything it would have been twenty
minutes more before you would have uttered a word."
"I beg your pardon, mamma; I was thinking."
"Thinking, indeed!" echoed Lady Laura. "I wish
you would think a little of me; but I am the last person
my children ever consider. I have ruined my health,
and toiled and slaved all my life, and my devotion is
rewarded with contempt and ingratitude. I know I cannot
stand it much longer; and it is very hard to bear;" and
here Lady Laura applied her handkerchief to her eyes in
a manner that threatened a scene.
"Mamma, you have no right to say such things of us.
I am sure I always try to do what pleases you."
"Indeed! do youl and I suppose I shall hear next
that your cruel heartless brother does the same."
"Well, Charlie would be very sorry to vex you; but
if he knew he couldn't like Miss Bingham "
"Now, Audrey, if you are bent upon irritating me, I
desire that you will leave the room; my nerves can't
stand it. Like Miss Bingham, indeed! I should like to
ART AND NATURE. 205
know how long you have taken to consider matrimony
in this new hght? Charles knew that I used every effort
to introduce him to a nice-looking girl with ^50,000 of
her own, besides expectations. She immediately fell in
love with him, received his very pointed attentions most
graciously, and then, when everything was going on
smoothly, suddenly he takes some ridiculous idea into
his head that he is afraid he cannot love her, and he
must go away to prove his passion. Well, all the time
he is absent I entirely sacrifice myself to his interests,
never leaving her; and let me tell you it's not so very
agreeable to be tied down to a namby-pamby girl from
morning till night: no one but a mother would do it."
"But, mamma, you forget you wanted Charlie to take
this same girl for life."
"I want no argument, Audrey; and it is only your
perverse temper that makes you defend him. You know
perfectly well what I mean. The idea of a man in his
position throwing away such a chance; and really thirty-
two is rather late to begin to have these romantic feel-
ings. I'll never believe that his want of love is his only
reason the idea is too ridiculous. No, I am certain
that he has some horrid entanglement, or infatuation,
which will burst upon us suddenly. I am quite prepared
for anything; perhaps it's a housemaid or a cook."
"Oh! mamma, don't be so absurd."
"I don't see that it's at all absurd, Audrey. After the
pointed manner in which he made every one believe he
was going to marry Miss Bingham, I feel ashamed to
meet the people."
"You need not, I am sure. I never saw any of this
pointed attention you speak of; he was polite to her, but
not more so than I have seen him to dozens of girls."
"Then all I can say is, you have gone about with
2o5 DOROTHY FOX.
your eyes shut. If people had been so blind as you,
how was it that Mr. Dynecourt, who was dying to get
her, should go off the very day he heard Charles was
coming backl"
"Do you think that was the reason of Mr. Dynecourt's
leaving]"
"I don't need to think about it; it was quite apparent
to every one. Mr. Ford, in his good-natured way, asked
young Dynecourt here to meet Miss Bingham. No doubt,
when Charles went away, he thought everything was in
his own hands, but he had sense enough to know that
he had no chance when your brother returned, and so
gave it up. I never saw any one behave more absurdly,
for, of course, by going away so suddenly he made every
one aware of his design."
"As Charles does not intend to possess himself of
this coveted treasure, it is a pity that Mr, Dynecourt
should also be disappointed," said Audrey in a scorn-
ful voice. "Would it not be only fair to send him a
recall"
"It is quite immaterial to me whether he returns or
not. I said to Mr. Ford that I feared his young friend
was a litde disappointed, and he asked me if I had any
reason for supposing so. He evidently did not wish it
to be mentioned, as he pretended to be amazed at me
for thinking that Mr. Dynecourt admired Miss Bingham."
"Who, then, did Mr. Ford think he admired?" asked
Audrey quickly.
"I couldn't make out," returned Lady Laura. "By
the way, I think it is time you settled matters there."
"So do I," returned her daughter.
"Then why don't you do so? Surely the matter lies
with yourself, and I shall be very glad to have it de-
ART AND NATURE. 20"^
cided, for this disappointment about Charles has quite
upset me. I feel nervous about everything."
"Yes, it would be very hard upon you if my scheme
turned out to be a failure. But there is no fear of that,
mamma; I cannot afford to let likes and dislikes inter-
fere with my settlement in life, can 11"
"Nobody with proper sense ever would allow such
feelings to overrule their judgment. I am not afraid of
you there, my love; but I think it is time to have the
offer made formally, for, with that exception, I look upon
it as settled. I do not see how he could draw back now
if he wished, and I am sure that that is not likely."
"I wonder if he will ever repent of marrying me,
jiiamma?"
"Well," returned her ladyship, with a shrug of her
shoulders, "once married it does not matter; but if he
does he will be very ungrateful, I think. I do not know
where he could have done so well. We have unexcep-
tionable connections, and every opportunity of being in
the best set, and you are very handsome, and wonder-
fully fascinating when you please, although you have not
looked at all well this last week."
"Have I not? but what does it matter? When I
am Mrs. Ford I shall even be able to indulge in look-
ing plain."
"That's quite a mistake," replied Lady Laura. "There
is no reason why you should not have as many admirers
then as now."
"Wouldn't that be rather a dangerous luxury, which
even money had better forego?"
"Of course you know, Audrey, no one can be stricter
than I am; I make a point of never forgetting a slur on
any one's reputation. But when an old man marries an
elegant woman young enough to be his daughter, he
2oS DOROTHY FOX.
cannot suppose she is going to shut herself up with him,
and never speak to an}^ other."
Audrey sat silently looking out of the window for
some minutes, then she suddenly exclaimed, "Oh, money,
money, what a curse it is! I wish with all my heart I
was that farm-girl outside!"
"Gracious me! what for?" asked Lady Laura, sur-
prised at this sudden outburst.
"Because, perhaps, I should win the affection of some
country bumpkin, and we should love each other with all
our vulgar hearts, and, knowing no more refined motive,
marry and be happy."
"Happy! with a dozen children in a hovel, eating fat
bacon, and at last dying in a workhouse! Really, for a
girl brought up as you have been, that is an odd notion
of happiness. My dear, these speeches are very telling,
when well said in private theatricals; but in real life they
are too weak and absurd."
"So they are, but so am I, just now."
"Then have a little wine, or sal-volatile; but pray
don't lead people to suppose that you are mad."
Audrey started up, and said abruptly, "I think I shall
take a walk in the grounds for an hour; by that time
Mr. Ford will have returned, and I shall be better able
to make myself agreeable to him."
"Do so," answered Lady Laura, with a relieved look.
"Will you take Marshall with you?"
"No, I shall go alone."
"Take care to be back in time for Mr. Ford, or I shall
have to go to him; and I want to write another letter to
Charles: he said he should leave Harrogate to-day, but
that was only to prevent me writing. I shall direct my
letter to him as usual, and show him that I see through
his pretext."
ART AND NATURE. 209
Audrey was soon dressed, and walking rapidly along
the paths, which, all new to her as they were a week
before, were now quite familiar. She bent her steps to
the "Saint's Well," sat down on the wooden seat, and
gave a great sigh of relief. "Now," she said to herself,
"I can dismiss my smiles, and be as miserable as I
please."
"Gone!" in that word lay her grief. Gone! in anger,
in sorrow, in contempt of her, in hatred by this time,
thinking with loathing of her; and she, alas, poor
Audrey! what storms and tempests of love had swept
over her! She had tried to reason with herself, to ask
why she loved him? What demon had cursed her with
this sudden passion. All to no purpose: she had no
answer to give. She had seen for some time her danger;
but being convinced that she stood upon a rock, she had
braved it, even courted it, until at her last meeting Avith
Geoffrey Dynecourt, his great love, his withering scorn,
his passionate farewell had undone her. Instead of a
rock, she saw too late that she had been standing upon
sand, which the tide of love had suddenly swept away.
How she now revolted from marrying Mr. Ford! Still,
she battled with herself; and after indulging in some wild
delicious dream, in which she and Geoffrey Dynecourt
lived only for one another, she would start up and declare
it could not be, she must be mad. Did she not know,
had she not said all her life, that when she married it
should be for money? Nothing else could give her hap-
piness. Was not this the temptation of some fiend 1
Would she not awaken from the spell, to find she had
thrown away all real pleasure and secured nothing in
its stead 1 She must overcome it; but could she only
have seen him again, talked to him calmly, told him of
her feelings, it would not be so hard, so l:itter. She was
Dorothy Fcx. 1.^
210 DOROTHY FOX.
resolved she would put retreat out of her power; she
would meet Mr. Ford, and settle her fate that very after-
noon, no matter how she suffered afterwards. Was it
not enough to know that marriage with Geoffrey Dyne-
court was impossible? They would both be wretched.
And she half started up, and then sank back again, and
sat with closed eyes and softening mouth, until a blush
suffused her face, which she hid in her hands, while her
lips pressed hard against them then she rose quickly,
saying, "Oh! why is love so cruel, and hard, and bitter?"
She then hurried on until she came to a part of the
grounds which commanded the road along which Mr.
Ford would return.
She had not waited many minutes before the sound
of wheels told her he was near; so she walked down to
the gate, and stood leaning on it. Mr. Ford was delighted
to see her, and proposed that they should go back
through the fields.
"Just like your thoughtfulness, my dear Miss Vers-
choyle, to come and meet me. When one has been
worried, and busy all day, it is very refreshing to find
somebody expecting you, and waiting to welcome you."
Audrey smiled, and asked if he was tired.
"No, not tired, only glad to get back. This country
life unfits one for a day's business, and I begin to think
it quite a journey to London now; there was a time
Avhen seventy or eighty miles was a mere nothing to
me."
"We will walk slowly," she said, "and the air will
soon revive you."
"My dear, the sight of you has revived me more
than anything else could. You must not think I am
past being delighted and proud to see a beautiful young
ART AND NATURE. 211
lady taking the trouble to come and meet me. T know
of no young fellow who wouldn't envy me."
"Oh! you are wrong there. The young men are not
very gallant in our day."
"Now, I am sure you have no reason to complain of
them, whatever their general conduct may be."
"No, they behave very well to me," said Audrey,
"and give me quite as much attention as I wish."
"Ah! I wish I were only one of them."
"Why?" she said, looking at him smilingly.
"Because I would soon enter the lists as one of )''our
admirers; and, if devotion and attention could win your
favour, I would certainly carry off the prize."
"I fear," she answered gravely, "the prize would
hardly be worth having."
"I cannot permit you to say that, though, perhaps,
you scarcely know t^ie value it possesses in my eyes.
Take my arm, my dear Miss Verschoyle, and oblige me
by listening to something I have for some time desired
to say to you."
Oh! it was coming at last she would have to say
"Yes," and her fate would be decided for ever. A sharp
pain seemed to stab her, and she caught her breath
almost in a sob.
Mr. Ford stopped; then, seeing how pale she looked,
he became alarmed.
"My dear, what is the matter? are you ill? do you
feel faint? Lean on me rest a moment."
"It is nothing," she answered. "Such a sudden pain
seized my side; I am better now."
"Yes; but I see you are suffering still," said the old
gentleman anxiously. " You have been doing too much."
"Indeed, I have been very quiet all day, but I have
not been well for the last week."
212 DOROTHY FOX.
"I noticed you were looking pale. We must have
Dr. Morcambe to see you: he will soon put you right.
It would never do to allow the flower of our party to
droop. I dare say it is the weather," continued the old
man; while Audrey strove with her rebellious heart, and
tried to bring it to obedience. "These changes at the
end of autumn are very trying, and the past week has
been as hot as July. You may be sure it has affected
many people. Why, only to-day I saw our friend Mr.
Dynecourt; and really he was so altered, I scarcely knew
him to be the same man who left us only a week ago -
his face was thin and haggard, and he looked wretched,
just as if he had had no sleep for a month. I was quite
concerned, and begged him to see a doctor. Still he
declared there was nothing wrong with him; but that is
nonsense. Why should he suddenly break down in this
way? Besides, he was evidently depressed; said there
was no chance of his dying just yet; that he wished he
could go to sleep for a year; and things of that sort.
Whenever I hear that from a young person, I know there
is something wrong with the mind, or the body."
It was of no use, Audrey's will was strong, but this
new feeling was stronger; and, in spite of all her efforts,
forced the hot tears from her eyes.
"My poor child," said Mr. Ford, moved to pity by
the look of suppressed agony in the white face before
him.
His sympathy broke down the last frail barrier, and
Audrey burst into a passion of tears.
Mr. Ford tried to console her by saying, "Now, never
mind, my dear, this will relieve you; you are a little
hysterical."
After a time she recovered sufficiently to apologize,
paying, "I am really quite ashamed of myself. I do not
ART AND NATURE. 213
know what can be tlie matter with me. I felt very well
when I came out. Oh! I am much better. I can walk
back now, and perhaps if I lie down quietly, I shall be
all right again."
"I hope so. I am very glad I was with you; this
might have seized you when alone."
"I don't wish to alarm mamma, she is so very nervous,"
said Audrey; "so I think we will go in by the turret
door, and then I can reach my own room without being
seen. Marshall will look after me."
"Very well, my dear. Now do try and get a little
sleep, and then after dinner you may be quite well; and
if not, you must let Dr. Morcambe visit you. Dear me!
this is a sad ending to our pleasant little conversation,
but it is only deferred. All in good time, I hope."
She endeavoured to say something polite in reply,
but what it was she could not tell. She only longed to
be alone, to wrestle with despair, to cry out in her agony,
to cherish in her heart the hope that he Avho had con-
quered her had not conquered himself, that he loved
her still and could not forget her. And then she rained
bitter tears over his grief, his pain, his disappointed
hopes. "Oh! my love, my love!" she sobbed. "What
can I do? I cannot go to you, I cannot tell you to come
to me. I am powerless." After a time she became calm,
and thought, "One thing is certain; we must leave this
place. If I stay here I shall refuse that man; it was all
I could do to-day to restrain myself from telling him
that I could never care for him. Perhaps when I go
back to the old dingy house and shifting ways this mad-
ness will leave me. What will mamma say? Whatever
she says, I must tell her beg her to save me from my-
self. She will think I have gone mad; sometimes I think
so too. It is so unaccountable so sudden. Will it die
2 14 DOROTHY FOX.
out in like manner? Oh! I wish it would but no, I
cannot say that, for at the bottom of my cup of misery
and bitterness lies a drop so sweet that it is life to taste
it, and death to destroy it."
Then, hearing some one enter the room, she said,
"Marshall, is that youl"
"Yes, miss. Are you unwell 1"
"Yes. I shall not go down to dinner. You can bring
me some tea, and tell mamma not to come up, as I
have a bad headache, and wish to rest. Say I have
seen Mr. Ford, and he knows that I do not feel well.
They are not to send for Dr. Morcambe, as I am sure
to be better in the morning."
"Very well, miss."
Marshall brought up the tea, gave it to her mistress,
undid her hair, and put on her dressing-gown.
"Now you will feel more comfortable," she said. "I
dare say it's the hot weather. I heard Mr. Ford telling
Mrs. Winterton how ill Mr. Dynecourt was looking."
And here she gave a sharp look of inquiry. "I was so
.sorry when he left," she continued, brushing softly
Audrey's beautiful dark hair; "he is such a nice gen-
tleman. Sometimes I used to think he was, as you said,
quite handsome. It's a thousand pities he had to give
up this place. Do you know, miss, I believe, if he'd
been master of it still, you would have been asked to
be mistress, quite as much as you will be now."
"What makes you say sol"
"Because, the morning he went away, Jane that's
the upper housemaid, she's a very superior young woman
saw him come into the breakfast room, take the photo-
graph book, and look at your likeness for a long time;
then he tore it out with such force that it split the paper:
and when he turned and saw her, he gave her a half-
A RETREAT. 215
sovereign, and shut the book, put it in the 'whatnot'
drawer, and went out without saying a word."
"She had no right to speak of it," said Audrey,
huskily.
"I am quite sure that she has never breathed a word
to any one but me; and of course she didn't suppose I
was going to tell you. Miss Audrey. But as I generally
do tell you all that happens, I told you this."
Her mistress was silent for a minute or two, then
she said: "The woman did not touch the book, you
say?"
"No; and she has never touched it since."
"Then go down, and, while they are at dinner, see
if you can find it, and bring it up to me. Don't open
it, Marshall."
When Marshall returned with the book, Audrey took
it from her, saying, "I shall not want you again to-night,
I think. Tell mamma, before she goes to bed, to come
to me, I have something to say to her."
CHAPTER XXII.
A Retreat.
Lady Laura was in excellent spirits when she entered
her daughter's room. She had for the time forgotten all
her troubles and vexation.
It was late; for Mr. Ford had detained her by enter-
ing confidentially into his plans for the next year. She
could not quite make out whether he had proposed to
Audrey or not; but in any case it was now a settled
thing, "and my only wonder is that we've secured him,"
thought she, "for his fortune must be colossal. I am
very glad now that Audrey did not have that stupid,
heavy young Granton. I never really cared for him,
2l6 "DOROTHY FOX.
though he was thought such a catch. This man could
buy and sell him twice over. Dear Audrey, I am sure
now she will be happy. I must tell her what he said
about the diamonds, and a town-house. I can see we
shall be allowed to manage matters just as we please,
and that he is a very sensible person, and contented to
take his proper place. I shall ask Spencer to pay him
a little attention. If he's in town before the marriage,
he might ask him to luncheon, and take him to a com-
mittee, or something of that sort. Mr. Ford would think
a great deal of it; people of his class always like to talk
about 'what the earl said to me;' it naturally gratifies
them."
These pleasing anticipations and reflections softened
Lady Laura's voice, as approaching the sofa she said,
"Are you sleeping, love? if so, don't let me disturb
you. I thought you had gone to bed, or I should have
been up before. How is your head now?"
"Better."
"I am glad of that. Mr. Ford has been so anxious
about you; he wanted to send for the doctor, but I told
him you frequently suffered from nervous headaches,
and begged he would not do so. He thinks you are
very weak and delicate. It is amusing; but when men
are in love, there is no saying what they may think. Has
he proposed to you?"
"No."
"Well, then, he intends to do so at once, for he has
been talking to me of his plans for next year, and in-
quiring about a desirable situation for a town-house,
which he said must have good reception rooms; that
sounded well, I thought. He also spoke of buying dia-
monds, which in the future would be considered family
jewels, showing me in every way that money is not of
A RETREAT. 2 I 7
the slightest consequence to him. So, my dear child, let
me congratulate you on the brilliant prospect before you.
You are quite sure to become a leader in society, and
you will be one of the happiest women in London. I
am longing to see the envy and disappointment of all
the people we know. Won't I snub those Dacres now?
and I shall not be so very particular with your Aunt
Glanville. I do not see that they can help us in any
way. Why, how pale you are looking! I won't say an-
other word, but send Marshall to you. I did not know
you were suffering still; and I had so much to say to
you."
"Don't go," said Audrey, sitting up and looking at
her mother, "I want to speak to you. Mamma, you
know how I value everything you have been speaking of,
how all my life my one idea of happiness has been to
have as much money as I wanted?"
"Yes," answered Lady Laura, v/ith a rather surprised
look at her daughter's face.
"You know how we have tried and schemed that I
might make a good marriage."
"My dear, don't say that now."
"Well, I will leave you out; but I have always used
every art I possessed to attract any man I knew to be
wealthy. You know I came here with the one object that
I would, if possible, marry Mr. Ford."
"Well, my dear, and you will do so. What do you
mean?"
"I mean that I shall not do so!"
Lady Laura started up: but, before she could say a
word, Audrey stopped her.
"Mamma, don't waste your time in reproaches, only
help me save me from myself. I want to marry Mr.
Ford I want to have his money but I am possessed
2 I 8 DOROTHY FOX.
with some madness, I think. I went out this afternoon,
intending that Mr. Ford should ask me to be his wife,
and he would have done so, but, at the very moment, to
prevent me saying No to him, I had to feign illness.
Mamma, we must go away from here; all I beg of you
is, not to leave me alone with him; when I am away
perhaps this feeling will go, and reason will come back.
Invent something make any pretext for taking me home,
only do so. Remember, I am not a child no wilful
girl whose head is turned, and who does not know her
own mind. I am a woman conscious of my danger, and
of the only possible way of escape from it. Oh! I am
so wretched. I cannot think or do anything. You must
help me," and Audrey buried her face in the cushions
and sobbed bitterly.
Poor Lady Laura sat for a few moments aghast.
Every hope, every plan vanished, the future seemed sud-
denly blotted out. Was the girl mad? Was this the symp-
tom of some terrible illness 1 She did not know, she
seemed stunned; she waited until the sobs ceased, and
then she said very quietly,
"Audrey, do you think you are going to be ill?"
"No."
"And you know of no reason why this extraordinary
feeling should have suddenly come to you, for I presume
it is sudden."
"Yes, as I told you, only this afternoon; after talking
with you I went to meet Mr. Ford, intending to settle
my fate, and I I found I could not, and if it were to
happen again I know I should refuse him."
"Then you have not done so?"
"No, and, mamma, let me yet have a chance; don't
let him write or speak; say I am veiy ill, say anything,
only take me away from here."
A RETREAT. 2IQ
I.ady Laura's worldly wisdom did her good service
now, and showed her that this was no time for reproach
and recrimination. Audrey would not have asked her
aid unless she had sorely needed it; so the present v/as
the time for action. She must tell Mr. Ford that Audrey
was ill, that her anxiety was aroused, that she was dread-
fully nervous, and that she must see her own doctor.
Their sudden flight must seem to proceed entirely from
her fears for Audrey.
So she said, "Go to bed now, Audrey, and I wilf
decide upon some plan by to-morrow; at all events keep
your mind easy. We will go to London as soon as it
is possible. Now try and get some sleep, or I shall have
you really ill upon my hands. Good-night, my dear."
And in another moment Lady Laura's arms were
round her daughter, who laid her head against her
mother's breast as she cried, "Oh! mamma, what shall 1
do'?" and then, nature being stronger than art, the
mother ti'ied to soothe her child, saying that things,
would be well yet.
Audrey did not dare to confide all her sorrows to her
mother, but the loving words and caresses did her good,,
and calmed her troubled heart; and the two parted that
night more affectionately than they had perhaps ever
done before.
When, however, her ladyship reached her own room,
and threw herself into a chair, the weary, old look in
her face told Marshall that something moie tlum usual
had happened, and she said,
"You look dreadfully tired, my lady; ain't you
welir'
"Yes, Marshall, quite well," answered Lady Laura,
with a sigh; "but I think the world is coming to an
cud."
220 DOROTHY FOX.
"Oh! if that's all, I shouldn't put myself out, my lady,
for I heard Dealtry and Burgess fix the day full twenty
years ago for it to come that day week, and nothing has
happened yet. The world will last our time, I dare
say."
"I'm sure I hardly care whether it does or not, for I
am weary of it sometimes, Marshall."
Marshall did not reply, neither did she enter into
further conversation; but in her own mind she speculated
on what could have happened, until, after she had bid-
den her ladyship good-night, a sudden thought struck
her, and she inwardly exclaimed, "Good gracious me!
Miss Audrey can never have refused old Ford that's
impossible. Perhaps her ladyship has found out his
money isn't so much as she thought. It's something to
do with the money market, which with her means the
marriage market. Well! that's one thing which reconciles
me to getting my own living; you're independent, and
where you give your hand you give your heart."
Lady Laura certainly deserved great credit for the
manner in which she effected her retreat from Dyne
Court. When she made her appearance the next morn-
ing every one noticed her anxious, weary look, and gave
her credit for the nervous fears she expressed for her
daughter. They begged her to allow Dr. Morcambe to
be sent for, as, perhaps, after all, a few days' quiet would
restore Miss Verschoyle to perfect health.
"And you may depend upon it, my dear Lady Laura,
that it is only this change of the season," said Mrs.
Winterton; "it is not probable that anything serious
would come on so suddenly."
"Ah! but you do not know how delicate dear Audrey
is. I know she does not look so; and she has such
spirit and energy, that I have known her do the most
A RETREAT. 221
wonderful things while she has been really suffering then
all at once she would break down. This morning, I be-
lieve, she would have tried to come down, but I insisted
upon her remaining quietly in her room; and I find
now that she has been very unwell for more than a
week."
Here Mr. Ford, who was of course very much con-
cerned, repeated, with certain reservations, how very
anxious he had been made the day before by one of
Miss Verschoyle's sudden attacks of indisposition how
she had begged him not to alarm her mother; "and it
was only because slie assured me that by to-day she
would be perfectly recovered, that I gave up the idea of
sending for Dr. Morcambe. But we must have him at
once; and I will send Williams off with instructions to
bring him back."
"Mr. Ford is very kind," said Lady Laura, as soon
as their host had departed. "But, you know, I could
not be at rest till Dr. Kenlis has seen Audrey; he has
always attended her, and knows her constitution, and I
have a horror of country practitioners. I do not know
how to tell him he will think me so unkind but I
must take Audrey to London. I am in such a nervous
state, that I could not remain here another day on any
account. There is Mr. Ford: I shall go and speak to
him."
When Mr. Ford heard from Lady Laura that she
thought she must return with her daughter to London,
he tried every means in his power to dissuade her from
doing so. He assured her of Dr. Morcambe's talent,
and of his own, conviction that a few days' rest and
nursing would restore Audrey; and finally offered, that
if things should not turn out quite as they hoped, they
would send to town for Dr, Kenlis.
222 DOROTHY FOX.
"Thanks, dear Mr. Ford, but he wouldn't come for
less than a fortune; he had a hundred guineas for going
to see my niece, Lady Westfield, and their place is not
so far from London as yours."
"Well, my dear lady, if he wants two hundred guineas,
and can do Miss Verschoyle any good, I shall be only
too pleased to write my name to the cheque. I think I
need hardly tell you, Lady Laura that is, you must have
seen that my very great desire is to have the pleasure
some day not a distant one, I hope of having a right
to be as careful of your dear daughter, madam, as you
are yourself And I am sure, until I am so fortunate,
you will not object to my gratifying myself by expend-
ing upon her a trifle of that money which soon I hope
to spend in procuring for her every comfort and luxury
that she may desire."
The tears now stood in Lady Laura's eyes. Oh! to
think that here was this man making the very offer she
had so much longed for, and yet she could not secure
it. What was to be done? She would not give up hope,
however; it might be managed yet; so, after applying her
handkerchief to her eyes, she answered,
"I dare say you will think what I am going to say
very odd, dear Mr. Ford, and perhaps very few mothers
would be so candid; but I cannot tell you how greatly
I have desired to see dear Audrey's happiness intrusted
to your keeping. Audrey, you know, is very peculiar in
many ways, and different from girls in general. She
could never endure men of her own age, and has often
said, when I have remarked upon this peculiarity, 'No,
mamma, the man whom I marry I must esteem and re-
spect; these qualities are of more value to me than love,
and will always secure true affection.' I am sure, Mr.
A RETREAT. 22^
Ford, you will win her heart, but you must promise me
one thing."
"What is that, my dear lady?"
"Not to breathe one word of this for the present. If
you do, I shall be wretched; for Dr. Kenlis has always
said, that the slightest excitement when Audrey's nerves
are in this state might produce the most fatal conse-
quences. You know her dear father suffered from heart
disease. Now, my dear Mr. Ford, I may rely upon your
not speaking to her at present? Believe me, it is only
deferring it, though I have no right, perhaps, to say so;
but dear Audrey and I are more like sisters than mother
and daughter; our hearts are open to each other. Now,
I have your promise?"
"If you insist upon it, certainly yes; but I hardly see
the necessity myself, and she may be quite well in a
few days."
"True, but after what has occurred, I cannot but
think it would be better for us to return home at once.
One never knows how these things get abroad; yet, when
people are together, they do; and I could not bear that
a remark should be made upon our remaining. All things
considered, I think it will be best for us to go to town
at once. Audrey's health will be sufficient plea. You
will be coming up in a few weeks, and then I trust she
will be quite strong. Many of our relations will be in
London; and the engagement can be announced formally.
In the mean time, I shall look upon it as a settled thing,
and on you, my dear Mr. Ford, as one of the family. It
is very strange, but in talking of intrusting my dear child
to you, it does not seem to be like parting with her;
hitherto, although I should never have tried to influence
her where her affections were concerned, I have shud-
dered at the thought of her marrying. Is it to be won-
224 DOROTHY FOX.
dered atl My children are all I have left to me in the
world, and the securing of their happiness has been the
sole aim of my life. Now I shall consider dear Audrey
only my trust, to be guarded until I can give her to the
man who will be the choice of her mother, as well as of
herself. That is the General coming. I feel unequal to
conversing with any indifferent person; so, for the pre-
sent, adieu. I shall go and prepare Audrey gently for
returning to London. I know it will be a dreadful trial
for her to leave Dyne Court, and I shall be sorely tempted
to comfort her by saying it is only for a time. Soon
she will be here never to leave, unless by her own wish;
but that we must leave now, I feel to be only right, and
acting for the best."
Mr. Ford watched her depart, hat in hand; then, with-
out waiting for General Trefusis, he turned into a side
walk, saying, "I wonder if this is her motive for leaving.
There seems to me a little air of mystery about the pro-
ceedings of the last day or two; perhaps it is only my
fancy, these fashionable ladies have such wonderful ways
with them. What a humbug that woman is! Fortunately
the daughter does not resemble her mother, or she would
never be asked to be my wife. You're sharp, too, my
lady, and you've got your wits about you; you wouldn't
make a bad wife for a huckster, in spite of your blue
blood and your long pedigree."
CHAPTER XXIII.
Off and On.
When Josiah Crewdson got home he received such
a frigid greeting from his sisters, that he was afraid to
say anything about his visit to London. But when the
sharp edge of their displeasure had worn off, he said that
OFF AND ON. 225
Dorothy Fox was coming to York to stay with her Aunt
Abigail; that she had also accepted the invitation which
he had given her at their request when in Devonshire,
and it only remained for them to write, naming the time
which would be most convenient for her visit.
The Miss Crewdsons had been grimly satisfied that
day by hearing that the unruly son of a somewhat lax
cousin had disregarded his parents' wishes, and utterly
frustrated their hopes. Kezia and Jemima had always
said that Samuel Snow would turn out badly, and had
remonstrated with his mother on the excessive fondness
which had made her foolishly blind to her son's failings.
Others had said the boy would come right, but Jemima
and Kezia knew better; and now it had turned out just
as they had predicted. They were not glad at the boy's
downfall, but it was pleasant to be so much more shrewd
and far-seeing than their neighbours.
At dinner they were more gracious to Josiah, and
this change in their manner at once determined him to
seize the opportunity, and broach the subject nearest his
heart. So, after a little attempt at finesse, he said,
"Grace Hanbury told me she remembered you both."
"And why should she not?" demanded Jemima. "She
was one of the most forward girls I ever saw. I sincerely
hope Dorothy does not take after her."
"No," replied Josiah, vainly endeavouring to keep
down the colour which would fly to his face whenever
that name was mentioned. "They are not at all like
each other. Dorothy is like her mother. She said she
had her father's permission to spend a little time with us
on her way to or from York: would it not be best to
have her before she goes to Abigail Fletcher's?"
The sisters exchanged glances; and then Kezia said,
Dorothy Fox. IC
rr6 DOROIIIY FOX.
"Did she propose coming herself, or didst diou ask her
again 1"
"I invited her in Devonshire; and when I saw her
again in London I asked her if she were coming. I
thought thou and Jemima would wish me to do so."
"Thy sisters would wish thee to fear lying lips, Josiah,"
said Jemima, sternly, "and to speak the truth as thou
hast been brought up to do. As we once asked Dorothy
Fox here, we still expect her to come; but it would have
better become thee to have consulted us before thou
didst renew our invitation."
"I cannot see why you should both be so changed
towards her," exclaimed Josiah, now bristling up in de-
fence of Dorothy. "Before I went to Devonshire you
were always speaking in praise of the Foxes."
"And now we have nothing to say against them or
her; but it is only fair to tell thee that Kezia and I have
observed a change in thee, not for the better; and we
fear that Dorothy is in some way to blame for it. In
our Society it is not considered modest or becoming for
young men and women to be talking of loving each
other; a higher principle than mere human affection
should be the motive for a consistent marriage."
Josiah was silent. It was impossible for him to argue
with his sisters, or to defend his love, about which he
often had sore pricks of conscience, not knowing if he
were right in cherishing the passion which was daily
growing stronger within him.
Jemima's face relaxed; she saw she had touched the
boy, as she always called him. So she seated herself
more firmly on her chair in order to carry on the good
work and improve the opportunity. For the next hour
Josiah listened patiently, and with apparent attention, io
a jobnlion, in the form of a duet; for when Jemima
OFF AKD O^r. 221
Stopped, Kezia took up the discourse. Each sister per-
formed her part with such satisfaction to herself that,
when they had finished, Jemima extended her hard bony
hand to Josiah, telling him to be thankful that he had
those about him who would never see him go astray
without speaking words of reproof, prompted only by
anxiety for his welfare. Kezia afterwards wrote to Dorothy
that they would be glad to see her, if convenient, on her
way to York.
When the letter reached Dorothy, it suddenly recalled
her to a sense of what was expected of her: that she
should not unasked give her love to any man; and that
if she were asked, she should firmly deny it to one op-
posed in every way to those principles which she held
dear.
Of late, Charles Verschoyle had come frequently to
Fryston, and though, when Grace and John were present,
he only paid Dorothy the attention demanded by courtesy,
when they were alone, by many an expressive look and
word he showed her who it was that drew him constantly
there, and why he was never contented to be absent.
Perhaps, had Dorothy been more honest with herself, she
might have effectually battled with the temptation. But
the idea of her caring for a man who was not a Friend,
and worse still, who was a soldier, was so repugnant to
her that she would not face the difficulty. She was con-
fident in her strength, and certain that nothing could
make her disobey her father, or forget her principles.
And, though her heart was heavy at the thought of leav-
ing Fryston, she persuaded herself it was so because of
her fondness for Grace and the children.
So without allowing herself time for reflection she
wrote accepting Kezia Crewdson's invitation, and replied
to a letter from Josiah, telling him she was sorry not to
15*
2 28 DOROTHY FOX.
have seen him again, but that when she came to Head-
ingley she hoped they would be a great deal together.
Then she ran down-stairs and asked Mr. Hanbury to
post the letters, returning to her room to weep the most
bitter tears she had ever shed in her life.
Captain Verschoyle could not understand what was
wrong with Dorothy. That evening he dined at the
Grange, and had a tete-h-tite with her while Grace went
for John, but though he repeated all the sweet sayings
which usually made her lovely eyes look shyly into his,
Dorothy continued in her most staid manner, until he
was tempted to say more than was prudent in his eager-
ness to get one of the glances which now seemed to him
the most desirable thing in the whole world. Of course
he could not marry Dorothy, that was out of the
question. In the first place, she was a Quaker, and
Quakers always marry Quakers; here he winced a little,
as if his first argument was not particularly pleasant to
him; secondly, he could not afford to marry without
money; and, thirdly, her father kept a shop. The whole
affair was absurd: nobody would expect him to do such
a thing. His mind then reverted to her prim manner,
and he wondered what could be the matter with the
child, she had been so different of late. Perhaps some
one had been speaking to her about him. "More than
likely," he said: "what an extraordinary thing it is that
some people can't let others alone; they must suggest,
or warn, or interfere! I call it unwarrantable imper-
tinence;" and Captain Verschoyle continued to abuse
these imaginary persons, until he resolved to frustrate
their designs by going down the next day to Fryston,
and driving it all out of the pretty creature's head.
And when he went, the pretty creature had suffered
so much from the fear that she had offended him, and
OFF AND O^^r.
229
that he would not come again, that she threw prudence
to the wind, looked more bewitchingly at him than ever,
and resolutely salved her conscience by saying to her-
self, that while she was here it was of no use, but when
she went to Headingley she would really try to like Josiah
Crewdson,
All in vain, therefore, did Mrs. Hanbury ask eligible
Friends to luncheon or dinner. Dorothy made herself
very agreeable during their stay, but was quite indifferent
whether they ever came again or not.
At last, in her disappointment, Grace confided to
John that she believed in her heart that Dolly really
cared for that gawky-looking Josiah Crewdson.
"Oh! I dare say," replied her husband stolidly.
"Thou dare say!" repeated Grace; "why, John, thou
hast never seen him; thou dost not know what he is
like."
"Thou hast given me a very full description of his
peculiarities," laughed John, "ending with the invariably
expressed opinion of his worth and goodness which
usually finishes the portraiture of a plain and awkward
person."
"I really do not think that I have dealt hardly with
him," said Grace, with a rather rueful face, "and I be-
lieve in his kind disposition; but it does seem a sacrifice
to marry Dolly to him, and bury her in that dull house
at Headingley."
"Well, my dear, but if it be her pleasure, why annoy
thyself? She is not compelled to marry Crewdson."
"But father wishes it so much: he has set his heart
upon the match."
"Ah! a great many fathers and mothers set their
hearts on matches that never come off, my dear."
"Yes, but Dorothy is different from most girls, John;
230 DOROTHY FOX.
she would never marry any one of whom father did not
approve."
"Hum!" said John, screwing his mouth in a comical
way. "If Fate had decreed that I should be the man
upon whom your sister had set her affection, I should
not fear the disapprobation of fifty fathers. Where that
young lady bestows her love, she will not keep much
back for anybody else; and she's too much her father's
daughter to give up easily what she has set her heart upon."
"Josiah Crewdson is wealthy, I suppose?" said Grace.
"Yes, he is said to be a rich man. His father left
him a considerable amount of property, besides the busi-
ness, which I hear is rapidly increasing. Josiah Crewdson
is considered a very shrewd, safe fellow."
"However, that need not influence Dorothy," an-
swered Grace, "for she is sure to have a good fortune.
Besides her mother's money, all Aunt Abigail's is certain
to come to her."
"Rich, young, and beautiful! What more can man
desire?"
"Why, that she should desire him; and I have seen
no sign of that yet."
"Well," said John, laughing, "do you know that it
has struck me that there has been a considerable amount
of philandering lately, under our very sharp noses, with-
out our taking much account of it."
"What dost thou mean?" asked Grace, in a tone of
surprise.
"I mean, my dear, that, notwithstanding my firm be-
lief that we are two of the most interesting and at-
tractive people to be met with in the United Kingdom,
yet when Dorothy leaves us, we shall not be quite so
frequently favoured with visits from our friend Captain
Verschoyle."
"all that is rioht."
231
"Nonsense. What is there to make thee imagine
such a thing '2"
"Well, for one thing whenever we are out walking
tliey always manage to fall behind."
"That is only because we are talking together, and
they wish to keep at a little distance from us."
"Yes; but there is a limit to most people's distance.
But, unless it's out of sight and hearing, I have not dis-
covered the limit to theirs. Then, when we are in the
house, they are in the garden; and if we are in the
garden, the objects of interest to them in the opposite
direction are really surprising. Why, Grace, it is not so
long since our own love-making days that thou shouldst
forget all its cunning devices."
"I have not forgotten one of them," she said, look-
ing at him tenderly; "but I cannot believe that what
thou art thinking of is true. However, I shall now take
care to watch them narrowly."
"Quite right," said her husband, preparing to leave;
"for I have a suspicion that Grace, as well as Love, is
sometimes blind."
CHAPTER XXIV.
"All that is Right."
It was the last week of October, and the last week
of Dorothy's visit to Fryston. On the following Thursday
she was to leave for Headingley. Captain Verschoyle still
remained in London. At first he said business detained
him, but the business was no more than the ordering of
a shooting suit. Then he overstayed Colonel Stapleton's
invitation; and after disappointing Stapleton he couldn't
go anywhere else; so he decided to stay now until Harry
Egerton returned to Darineton.
232 DOROTHY FOX.
Mr. Egerton had been at Darington a weekj still his
godson lingered in town, until a letter from Audrey an-
nounced Lady Laura's intention of returning home, to
which was added, as a bit of sisterly advice, that unless
he was equal to squalls he had better disappear at once.
"That decides me," thought Captain Verschoyle after
reading the letter. "I must not encounter her ladyship
at present; so to-day I shall tell the Hanburys I have
been called away suddenly. I wonder how Dorothy will
take it. Of course we both knew the time must come
for saying, 'Adieu, my love, for evermore adieu;' but it's
none the more pleasant for that. If I saw much more
of her I verily believe I should make an ass of myself
as it is, we are neither of us at all compromised. I
believe the child loves me, and I never felt it so hard to
give up any girl before. Ah! I was always an unfor-
tunate beggar. I never met a girl yet that I liked but
she was sure either not to have a penny, or to belong
to a family beyond the pale of the magic circle."
Here Captain Verschoyle looked at his watch, and
resolved to catch the early train, Mrs. Hanbury having
annoiniced to him her intention of not returning from
London until five o'clock.
Of course he could not see the sweet picture that
Dorothy made as she stood half-way up the hedge-bank,
holding back the nut branches in a strained, eager,
listening attitude, trying to make sure that she heard
the coming train in the distance, while with every rapid
beat her heart seemed to cry aloud, "Will he come I
Will he cornel"
Captain Verschoyle got out of the train and walked
to the house. He hoped that he would find Dorothy
alone, for then he knew he should see the soft colour
leap into her cheeks, and die away so slowly; he knew
"alt, that is right. 2^^
that he should feel her little hand tremble in his like a
frightened bird; and he knew that the shy eyes would mei.c
his, and be dropped again before he had taken in half
of their beauty, making him determine to have them
lifted again and again. And yet he could say they both
"meant nothing," and that they were not in the least
committed to one another.
Dorothy remained in her elevated position until she
saw the smoke of the train puffing on and aAvay. Then
she scrambled down and tried to stay patiently, beguiling
the tedious waiting by many a youthful device. At length
she felt so certain that more than the given time had
elapsed that she determined to run in and look at the
hall clock. Turning quickly out from the nut- walk, she
found herself face to face with Captain Verschoyle, who
took both her hands in his, and bending towards her,
said: "Were you running to meet mel I shall keep you
prisoner until you tell me."
"Yes no that is, I was going to see if thou hadst
come."
"Then you expected me?"
"No, I did not quite."
"Not expect me, and yet tell me you were going to
see if I had come!" he said in a disappointed tone.
"I did not expect thee, but I hoped that thou wouldst
come."
Oh! the coy sweet eyes that met his, how lovely tliey
were! He could have taken her in his arms that very
moment.
They walked back through the nut-walk, he express-
ing much surprise at hearing that Mrs. Hanbury was in
London.
"Grace thought she had told thee/' exclaimed Doro-
234- DOROTHY FOX.
thy; "she said it was just possible thou mightst come
down by this train, and if so, I "
"Well?"
"Was to amuse thee until she came."
"What a shameful task to impose upon your young
shoulders!" said Captain Verschoyle. "You will require
to exert yourself to your utmost."
"Indeed, no," she replied, laugliing, "for it is thou
who wilt amuse me. I like to listen when thou art
talking."
"Dorothy I may call you Dorothy, may I noti"
"Oh yes!" and her quick colour told how sweet the
name sounded.
"Of course," he continued, "all your friends call you
Dorothy. Then, Dorothy, when we are parted will you
think of me sometimes 1"
"Parted!" Ah, she remembered, in a week she would
be away from Fryston; she was looking very grave now.
"Think of thee?" she repeated.
"Why," he said with affected impatience, "is it impos-
sible for you to do so'? Will you forget me at once for
some other who will amuse you? Oh, Dorothy!"
"Thou knowest well I do not mean that," she said,
looking straight at him. "I could not forget thee," she
added, while her voice came with a tremor which she
endeavoured to suppress by saying, "but I am not going
for a week yet."
"But I am."
"Thou!"
"Yes, I must go to see my godfather."
His heart reproached him when he saw how pale
she became; poor darling, she, too, would feel the
parting. In spite of his pity, however, an exultant feel-
ing of joy came over him. But his voice was most
"all that is right. 2;^^
desponding as he said, "You will have gone before I
return from York."
York! that was where Aunt Abigail lived; suppose it
should be near, and they were to meet again.
"My Aunt Abigail lives near York," she said; "I am
going to see her before I return home."
Captain Verschoyle's heart gave a leap, and his blood
tingled in his veins, as he exclaimed
"My dear child, is it possible that you are going to
York? How delightful! we shall be there together, i)er-
haps."
"I I was thinking of asking to be allowed to go home
instead; I have been away from my mother so long that
I do not care about visiting any more."
"But not now; you will go to York nowT' he said
eagerly; then bending close to her, he repeated, "You
will go now; I am sure you would say yes if you could
understand how happy it would make me."
Dorothy did not answer; her colour changed, her
eyelids quivered, and her mouth tightened one moment
to relax the next, and gradually open like a fresh rosebud.
Several times during their interview Charles Vers-
choyle's conscience had asserted itself, giving him sharp
pricks, and asking if he were acting up even to his own
code of honour; but he would not listen now. What
cared he at that moment for anything but the certainty
that the girl loved him with all the warmth of her heart ?
He had laid his love at the feet of fair ones before; had
vowed and sighed, and had been met on equal ground.
He had been courted, flattered, caressed, but never loved
by a girl who artlessly betrayed what she strove to con-
ceal. When she looked at him she did so because she
was drawn to him irresistibly; when she blushed, it was
the shy blush of girlish innocence, with no thought of the
230 DOROTHY FOX.
effect produced. Sucli a woman was a novelty to a man
like Charles Verschoyle. He enjoyed Dorothy's tell-tale
face and the sweet secret it betrayed, without a thought
of anything beyond the present moment. Time enough
for reflection when they were apart from each other.
"Dorothy," he almost whispered, "will you not say
that you will go now?"
No answer.
"Ah! it is nothing to you that we are parted," he
said, turning from her with a discontented sigh. "You
want to be back in Devonshire with your mother; and
you do not care if I suffer."
There was a pause, and then he felt a little hand
laid upon his arm, and Dorothy's sweet eyes looked be-
seechingly into his, as she said timidly, "Say, would it
really make thee more happy if I went?"
Who could resist if? The temptation was too strong
for Charles Verschoyle, so he framed the sweet face in
his hands, and said, "Dorothy, do you love meV
"Yes," said the glad eyes; "yes," said the soft mouth;
and "yes" seemed to be echoed by the tluobbing of her
heart.
"With all your heart?"
"Yes," and the eyes looked straight into his.
"Better than all the world?"
"Yes." . . .
And the autumn winds sighed softly, and rustled
among the leaves overhead, but Dorothy heeded not;
and the roses shed their leaves despairingly at her feet,
but she saw them not. For love held back the sands of
Time, and flooded all around with his golden light.
"My darling! I hear some one coming."
"Coming here?" she said in a terrified voice; "what
shall I do?"
"all that is right." 2^y
"Turn down the path and go into the house by the
other way, and I will meet them and say all that is right."
She did not wait for another word; and Captain Vers-
choyle sauntered along the nut- walk, until the footsteps
came near, and Mrs. Hanbury exclaimed
"What, by yourself? Where is that naughty sister of
mine? I expected to find her politely entertaining you."
"So she has been; but her anxiety to ascertain if you
had arrived overcame her politeness, and she ran into
the house a few minutes since."
"And, now, how are you?" said Grace. "I am so
glad you decided to come; for John is bringing a friend
to dinner. I have never seen him; but he says we shall
all like him. You came down by the three-o'clock train,
I suppose?"
"Yes. I looked for you at the station, but did not
see you. Had I been quite sure you were coming by
this train, of course I would have waited for you."
There was a pause; and Grace thought something was
wrong with her friend; for do what he would. Captain
Verschoyle was not at ease, and could not provide small
talk as usual.
Grace observed this restraint, as well as the nervous
way in which he twisted one end of his moustache. So
she told him where she had been, what purchases she
had made, and smiled internally to think of poor Dolly's
state of mind when sustaining the conversation by her-
self. She did not wonder now at her running in to see
if the train had brought her to the rescue.
When they got in-doors, Dorothy was not to be seen.
Mrs. Hanbury announced her intention of going at once
to look for her; but Captain Verschoyle asked her a
question, which, he said, had been puzzling him, about
one of Leslie's pictures.
238 DOROTHY FOX.
This entailed another half-liour's conversation, and then
the children came in; and it was dusk before Dorothy
made her appearance, stammering out something about
thinking they were in the garden.
"Bless the child," laughed Grace, "We have not
taken leave of our senses yet. We came in-doors nearly
an hour ago. I only went out to look for you, and we
returned at once. Now it is time we did a little adorn-
ment; for John is bringing a friend with him." Turning
to Captain Verschoyle, she added, "He is a gentleman
with whom John is very much pleased, for the manner in
which he conducted a troublesome lawsuit in which the
firm was lately engaged. He has a somewhat romantic
history too."
"Indeed!" replied Captain Verschoyle, in such a tone
that Mrs. Hanbury knew that she might as well reserve
her story, for to-night it would fall on very dull ears. So
she arose, saying
"But while I am talking, I am forgetting how the time
is going. Come, Dolly, we must go and dress;" and the
sisters left the room.
Captain Verschoyle stretched himself, and gazed into
the fire for fully twenty minutes. Whether his thoughts
were happy or not, his face did not indicate; only at the
end of that time he started up, and said
"Well, I cannot help it now; and if it were all to
come over again, I would act in exactly the same way.
But what's to be the end of it, or what I mean, I really
cannot tell."
He then rang the bell, and desired Cannon to show
him his room, determining not to worry himself more
that night with such reflections.
Notwithstanding, it was not the amount of cpre he
bestowed upon his personal appearance that detained
*'all that is right. 2^()
him at his toilette so long that when he ippcarccl in
the drawing-room all were assembled.
John Hanlmry was showing his wife a new photo-
graph. By Dorothy's side sat Geoffrey Dynecourt. The
blood rushed into his face as Captain Verscho3'le ex-
claimed,
"Why, Dynecourt, when did you come back? I
thought you were out in the country."
"I might echo your words, for you were expected
the same day that I left Mr. Ford's."
"Ah, but, you see, I never turned up," aiid Captain
Verschoyle laughed, for Lady Laura had been very care-
ful not to inform her son of his rival's flitting.
"Ah! you are friends already," said Grace; "that is
delightful."
"Yes, we were staying together in a country-house
the other day, and a very jolly time we had. You stayed
a week beyond me, Dynecourt. What did you all do?
Poor old Ford got ill, did he not?"
"Yes, but he soon recovered."
It cost Mr. Dynecourt an effort to appear at ease,
and to speak in his usual tone of voice. He longed to
ask Captain Verschoyle if his mother and sister were in
London, but to mention Audrey in an indifferent voice,
and with a careless manner, was simply impossible.
"By the way, did that second picnic come off?"
"The second picnic! Oh yes."
"I wonder," thought Captain Verschoyle, "if he was
sweet upon Miss Bingham; it looks like it; he seems to
shirk talking about the party."
Just then dinner was announced, and the conversa-
tion passed to other subjects, until Captain Verschoyle
said, "My mother is coming to London in a day or two
2J^O DOKOTHY FOX.
with my sister, who has been ill and laid up at Dyne
Court for more than a week."
There was an awkward pause, and then Mr. Dyne-
court rephed, "Indeed! has she?"
Grace, with a woman's tact, saw that all was not
plain sailing, so she contrived to direct the conversation
into another channel.
Captain Verschoyle was too much occupied with his
own affairs to be much impressed by any one's manner;
he only wondered for a moment if his mother had been
talking too much about Miss Bingham and him, and so
had offended Dynecourt.
Grace, in her own mind, came nearer the mark.
Dorothy, who had hardly spoken during dinner, asked
Mr. Dynecourt, when Grace and Captain Verschoyle
were at the piano, if he did not think Audrey Verschoyle
\ery lovely.
"Do you know her?" he asked.
"I met her once in Devonshire; and I shall never
forget her."
Mr. Dynecourt recalled the evening that he and
Audrey had spent in Mr. Ford's room, and the descrip-
tion which she had given of the lovely young Quaker
and her mother. Surely this was the girl Audrey had
longed to be like. Oh, if she had been like her, how
different his life might have been! He knew now that,
in spite of the bitterness of his words at parting, and
the determination he formed then to forget her and to
learn to hate her, it was impossible. She would occupy
a deeper place in his heart than any woman he should
ever meet again. Often, when he sat in his chambers,
weary and worn by his hard work, he recalled the in-
justice she had done him; and then, after enumerating
her faults, her worldliness, her coldness of heart dwell-
IN DOUBT AND GRIEF AND HOPE. 24 1
ing on every soft seduction as a trick he would almost
grind his teeth, as he exclaimed "And, knowing all this,
I can love her still! Fool that I am!"
A thousand wild thoughts filled his mind when he
heard that Audrey had been ill he was glad, sorry.
Could she have been thinking about him? Had she re-
fused Mr. Ford? This simple girl evidently knew no-
thing of her; would, perhaps, never see her again; he
might indulge in speaking of Audrey, and hear her
spoken of, where there was no chance of his secret being
discovered.
So Dorothy tried to arouse herself from her own
dream, to talk to her grave-looking companion. She did
not tell him what had brought Audrey and Charles Vers-
choyle to King's-heart. She only described their visit,
and praised Audrey so much, that Mr. Dynecourt was
delighted with her. He sat listening so earnestly that
Captain Verschoyle was quite annoyed. Further on in
the evening, when Dorothy went to fetch something for
her sister, and Geoffrey turned to Mrs. Hanbury, saying,
"How lovely your sister is! I have not been so charmed
with any one for a long time," Captain Verschoyle
thought "What can the fellow mean?"
CHAPTER XXV.
In Doubt and Grief and Hope.
Though Grace Hanbury told her husband that she
still believed his suspicions concerning Dorothy and
Captain Verschoyle to be entirely unfounded, she con-
sidered it prudent to err on the safe side: by which she
meant, that the two should now have as few opportunities
of meeting each other as possible.
"Dorothy will leave us in a few days," she said, "and
242 DOROTHY FOX.
Captain Verschoyle told me he was soon going out of
town to visit his godfather. So, John, dost thou not
think it is as well to try and keep them apart?"
"Certainly," answered her husband, laughing; al-
though I am forcibly reminded of the Chester saying,
'When the daughter's stolen, lock the Pepper gate.'"
"Nonsense," said Grace, a little vexed. "If Dorothy
zs struck by him, I am quite sure it is no serious wound;
and as for him, I believe it is his nature to pay attention
to any woman he happens to be near. You may de-
pend upon it he has no intention but that of making
himself agreeable."
"He is very well connected," said Mr. Hanbury; "it
comes out every now and then. His uncle is Lord Ton-
mouth, and his mother is a lady of title."
"Just so; and that makes the notion of any engage-
ment between them absurd. I hope I have not been
careless. I don't really think I have only I have taken
fright now."
"Don't do that, dear," said John kindly. "There
may be nothing in it; but next time he writes, say thou
hast an engagement, and fix a day when Dolly will have
left us."
In accordance with this decision, when the next day
a letter came from Captain Verschoyle saying that he
hoped to see them on Tuesday, Mrs. Hanbury wrote to
inform him that they were all going to spend that day
with John's mother at Hampstead. But she asked him
to come on the following Saturday instead.
Captain Verschoyle in his heart felt relieved at not
having just then to face Mrs. Hanbury; he wrote in reply
that he was compelled to leave London immediately,
and hoped to see them on his return. He requested
her to convey to her sister his adieux, and expressed his
IN DOUBT AND GRIEF AND HOrE. 243
regret at being unable to make them in person. He
thought this was really cleverly managed. Dorothy
would, of course, understand the plan, though she would
not perhaps see the motive which prompted it. Here,
however, he was mistaken.
Mrs. Hanbury had more tact than most women, but
she would never have made a diplomatist. At the very
time when there was need for concealment, stratagem, or
finesse, Grace turned out a decided bungler, showing by
her awkward manner how foreign chicanery was to her
frank and open nature. Captain Verschoyle's first letter
having been kept secret from Dorothy, the arrival of the
second, with its message, rather put her out. She felt
Dorothy would suspect something because of the awk-
ward manner in which she blurted out the intelligence
without looking at her. Dorothy murmured something
in reply which Grace did not catch. When she did cast
a furtive look at her young sister, she saw that her face
was white and her lips tightly pressed together.
"Poor child!" thought Grace, "I fear there is some-
thing in John's suspicions. I should have been more
watchful, but I had better take no notice now." There-
fore, though her kind heart prompted her to say some
sympathetic words, she refrained, and allowed Dorothy
to leave the room.
It must not be presumed that since the evening when
Dorothy and Charles Verschoyle parted in the garden,
she had thought nothing more of their interview. But
no one who knew Dorothy would have believed her
possessed of such strength of mind as made her appear
to others the same happy and contented girl she had for-
merly been. Of the tears which regret and unconquer-
able love drew from her eyes, no trace was visible in the
morning, though half the night was spent in imaginary
i6
244 DOROTHY FOX.
interviews with her lover, in which he pleaded vainly
that she would renounce her principles and become a
soldier's wife.
Dorothy firmly resolved never to marry any man but
Charles Verschoyle; yet marry him she could not. What!
forget her father, her mother, and all the lessons they
had taught her! And for a stranger, too! Impossible!
Yet Dorothy's happiest dream was that Charles Vers-
choyle might forsake his profession, and become of like
mind with Friends in every other way. She never
doubted that she should see him again. But she re-
solved that this interview should be their last, and that
she would tell him they must part. It was only when
the news of his departure came, that she knew how
much hope had hitherto sustained her. Now, as she sat
gazing vacantly, she could only repeat to herself the
word "Gone!" gone without seeing her, without a
word! What could it mean? Then the hot blood
rushed to her face, as the terrible thought flashed upon
her that she had acted in an unmaidenly manner in so
openly betraying her love, and thus had lost his respect
for ever. "Oh, but to see him again, only once again!"
rose from her heart.
Dorothy knew well that she had no right to go to
the Crewdsons; that her duty was to return home, and at
the very least tell her father that she could not marry
Josiah. But her feelings led one way and her duty the
other, and she argued that it would be better that Josiah
should get her adverse decision from her own lips. Then,
her aunt expected her, and it would be selfish to disap-
point dear Aunt Abigail. While all this passed through
Dorothy's mind, she endeavoured to give no heed to the
-whispered hope, "Perhaps at York I shall see him
again;" a hope prompted by a newly-awakened feeling
MISS BROCKLEHURST SPEAKS HER MIND. 245
more potent than early prejudices or principles. Hence
her fits of penitence of horror that she was deceiving
her parents, and of shame that she was disregarding the
rules of the Society had their sway for the moment, and
then died away. This hope, however, lived on, smoulder-
ing sometimes, fiercely burning at others, but ever there
to comfort and sustain its sweet com.panion, Love.
Therefore Dorothy did not speak of returning home;
and it was finally arranged that under the care of one
of Grace's servants, who was going to York for her holi-
day, she would leave Fryston on the Thursday following;
for Leeds.
CHAPTER XXVI.
Miss Brocklehurst speaks her Mind.
Lady Laura Verschoyle and her daughter had
again taken possession of 27A, Egmont Street. Their
departure from Dyne Court had been delayed by Au-
drey's real illness. Her anxiety had induced a feverish,
nervous attack which rendered her removal impossible;
and for ten days she had been in reality an invalid.
Since then they had been living at Hastings, in the hope
that the sea air would recruit her health.
Miss Brocklehurst, who was Lady Laura's cousin,
had a house there, and during their stay they were her
guests.
Lady Laura, for the first time in her life, felt great
anxiety about Audrey's health. She made up her mind
to consult a physician whenever they returned to London.
She was quite certain that there was something seriously
wrong with Audrey, else why this unusual and extraordi-
nary conduct? To Miss Brocklehurst alone did she con-
fide her fears, hoping that her cousin might suggest some
solution of a mystery which puzzled her greatly.
246 DOROTHY VO'^.
"And now, my dear Maria," said her ladyship, as she
concluded her statement, "can you suggest any motive
or reason for such unaccountable behaviour?"
"Not if you are telling me the whole truth," answered
Miss Brocklehurst. "But are you sure that you are not
keeping in the background some good-looking penniless
young man to whom Audrey has lost her heart of
which I should say she had very little, by-the-by as
well as her head, which is her strong point, for I do not
think your daughter a beauty, Laura, and I have always
told you so."
"Disgusting old maid!" thought Lady Laura to her-
self; "when Audrey is married to Mr. Ford I really think
I'll tell her my mind." But she answered blandly, "So
you have, dear cousin; but still, she gets an immense
deal of attention."
"Ah, so did I when I was young."
"Your fifty thousand pounds may have," her ladyship
thought to herself as she continued aloud "I am sure
you did. But you were asking about young men. Well,
there was not one there, save Charles and a Mr. D}Tie-
court, who was dying for Miss Bingham, the girl to whom
Charles behaved so shamefully."
"Shamefully!" echoed Miss Brockleliurst contemptu-
ously; "with you, Laura, that depends on the amount of
money the girl has. You defended him warmly enough
in that affair with Constance Stanmore."
"Now, my dear Maria, I assure you, you were quite
mistaken in that girl; she was as artful as could be, and
laid a trap for poor Charles."
"Poor Charles, indeed!" laughed Miss Brocklehurst;
"he's a fit subject for pity, certainly. Nonsense, Laura, I
have no patience with you. Charles is a favourite of
mine. Like his poor father, he has a deal of good in
MISS BROCKLEIIURST SPEAKS HER MIND. 247
him if it only got a chance of coming out; but I am not
bhnd to his being as selfish as he can be, and if some-
body or something does not alter him he'll be a self-
indulgent middle-aged man, if not a thoroughly wicked
and disagreeable old one."
"I am sure," began Lady Laura in an aggrieved
voice, "I don't know why you should say such things of
my poor children. I am sure Audrey and Charles are
devoted to you, Maria."
"No, they are not," replied Miss Brocklehurst, with
an amused smile on her face; "and better still, they don't
pretend to be. Whenever I get a bit of toadying from
them it comes with a bad grace that all your drilling
cannot hide. I am not speaking against them, for in my
way I am fond of them both; but you and I are rela-
tions, you know, and relations can afford to say what
they think, and speak the truth to each other. Fou
always do, I hiow, so you must allow me the same pri-
vilege. I can tell you that I consider your children's
bringing up would have spoiled the finest nature ever
bestowed on a human being. Now don't begin about
the sacrifices you have made, because every time you
have wanted to borrow a hundred pounds I have heard
all about them. I am not blaming _yci?^, Laura; for though
they are your children they are no more like you than
I am, and I dare say you understand them just as little."
By this time Lady Laura had made very free use of
that valuable accessory, her handkerchief. Whether her
tears ever did really flow no one knew, but from the dis-
play she made of her handkerchief, the effect generally
produced was good.
"Of course," she answered in a subdued tone, "I can
say nothing; but it is rather hard to have done all a
mother could do for Audrey, and then, because she takes
248 DOROTHY FOX.
some idle whim, to have it said to me that I have been
negligent, and have allowed her to compromise herself
with some penniless adventurer."
Miss Brocklehurst could not forbear laughing at I^ady
Laura allowing the hard knocks to go by, and settling
upon an imaginary grievance. "Oh, make your mind
easy on that score," she said; "I do not suppose poor
Audrey's character will ever come forth with such
strength that she will refuse a rich, vulgar old man,
because some fascinating fellow of her own age and
condition has taken her heart captive. If she did so I
should be proud of my god-daughter, as I am of Charley,
if want of love was his true motive in this Bingham affair."
Even Lady Laura's patience had its limits. This
was too much for her. And she rose, saying angrily
"I really believe, Maria, if my children married beg-
gars, or the very trades-people's belongings, you would
be delighted, and triumph over me."
"No, I should not, Laura. I should be sorry; al-
though, perhaps, it would be better for them than many
matches which the world calls splendid and eligible.
Don't be angry; remember I have had fifty years' rivalry
with money. To it most of the lovers I ever had
paid their court; and so I glory over every defeat of
Mammon, and rejoice when mine ancient enemy gets
the worst of it. There, there; sit down, and don't look
so mournful. If, as you say, there is nobody else to in-
fluence her choice, of course it must be an idle whim,
which will soon pass over; so that, before the end of the
season, Croesus will doubtless be your son-in-law."
Could Audrey have heard this conversation, it might
have given her a grain of that comfort she just now
stood so sorely in need of. She longed for some one to
talk to about this care which was destroying her peace
EQUAL TO THE OCCASION. ^49
of mind. She thought of the women she had known
women who had undoubtedly married for money or
position. Had they gone through such struggles and
temptations'? Had they fought, and conquered, and come
forth victorious, wreathed with triumphant smiles? Night
and day the conflict seemed to go on within her, and
from it there was no rest nor respite;, she could make
no decision, and arrive at no conclusion. She had great
dread of meeting Mr. Ford before her mind was fully
made up. At Hastings she was safe; but once back in
Egmont Street, he might present himself to her at any
moment.
Miss Brocklehurst looked at her earnestly, as they
stood waiting for the train; and, while Lady Laura was
asking Marshall some questions, she said, "Audrey, if
you want another change at any time, remember you
can always come to me. Nonsense, my dear, it is only
right; you are my godchild, you know."
After they had gone, Miss Brocklehurst, meditating
on the care-worn look on Audrey's face, said to herself,
"There's something on that girl's mind, I am certain.
There's more in this sudden change than meets the eye.
I wonder what it can bel Her mother said she had not
seen any one; but then Laura's a fool, and never speaks
the truth. On my way home I'll propose to stay in
Egmont Street for a few days, and then I shall find out
more about it. She looks very ill, and altered. It may
be some hopeless love affair. Poor Audrey!"
CHAPTER XXVII.
Equal to the Occasion.
When Lady Laura Verschoyle left Dyne Court she
promised to write to Mr. Ford on their arrival in Egmont
250 DOROTHY FOX.
Street, and said that she should then expect to hear
"when they might see him there. They had now been at
home more than a week, and although she feared that
Audrey was not yet in a state to receive her eligible ad-
mirer, she could not longer delay writing to Mr. Ford.
"Now," thought her ladyship, "I must so word this
note that his fears will not be unduly excited, for his
anxiety might bring him to town at once. But I should
like him to know that Audrey is too unwell to bear any
agitation. Dear me, how thankful I shall be when it is
all settled, and she is married! I cannot stand these
worries as I once did." She sat thinking thus for some
time, and then wrote:
"My dear Mr. Ford, I have been wanting so much
to write to you ever since my return home, which was on
Saturday." ("Perhaps," she said, "he'll think that means
the day before yesterday.") "I know you are very anxious
to hear about our dear Audrey. What a comfort it is for
me to remember that now I have some one who has a
right to share all my troubles on her account! Dear girl,
I wish I could give a more satisfactory account of her.
Her nervous system continues in such a sensitive state,
that Dr. Kenlis says the slightest excitefnent might bring a
relapse. Still, he assures me there is no cause for anxiety.
By the end of another month, if his directions are attended
to, and she is kept perfectly quiet, she will be quite her
former self. Of course I feel bound to comply with his
injunctions, although, I confess, I am greatly tempted to
disobey them, and ask you to come and see us. I do not
think she will put up with this restriction much longer.
She is constantly speaking of your promised visit. I dare
not tell her that I am writing, for she would insist on
seeing the letter, and she has no idea of her own weak-
ness. This is the reason why you have no message from
"EQUAL TO THF. OCCASION. 25 I
lier. I cannot tell you, dear Mr. Ford, how eagerly I look
forward to certain coming events, or how sure I feel that
in intrusting my beloved child to your keeping I am
securing her happiness, and the happiness of her mother
as well.
"Yours most truly and affectionately,
"Laura Verschoyle."
"Now I don't think I have said so much as will lead
him to come; nor so little that he will fancy we don't
want him. I think I shall have another conversation
with Audrey. She must be brought round, of course. I
cannot think what madness has seized her. She gives no
reason, but, like a parrot, senselessly repeats, 'I cannot
help it. If you let him come here, I know I shall refuse
him.' It is really more than human nature can endure.
Job, indeed! I never read that he had a trial of this
kind. However, she shall have no new dresses; and I
am determined that I shall neither ask any one here, nor
take her anywhere. I think if I can carry out this plan I
am sure to succeed. I have put forth every effort to find
out what she means, and I have tried Marshall in every
way, but I don't believe she knows anything either,
although she's as artful as can be."
Never during the whole course of her life had her
ladyship been so much puzzled. Audrey had tried by
every means to avoid being left alone with her mother,
as she was sure the conversation would turn upon the
one subject. At Hastings these manoeuvres were com-
paratively easy; but now opportunities were constantly
occurring, and she had to listen to long dissertations on
the impossibility of their continuing to live in the same
style; Lady Laura urging that she must give up her
carriage.
252 DOROTHY FOX.
After despatching her letter to Mr. Ford, her ladyship
went into the dining-room, where her daughter was writ-
ing. She meant to try her skill once more.
"What a dismal day this is, to be sure! November in
London is quite unbearable; one ought to be in excellent
health to endure this continual fog and rain."
"I don't think we have had much cause to complain
of the weather yet, mamma: yesterday was a lovely day."
"Well, my dear, perhaps you are able to enjoy things
more than I can. My spirits are so bad, that it makes
little difference to me whether the day be bright or
gloomy. The disappointments I have had have been
rather too much for me. But I am foolish to talk of
them, for only sensitive people have any feeling for the
sufferings of others. I often think of dear Lady Lascelles.
She used to say I was the only one who could give her
any comfort, because I so entirely sympathized with her.
Poor thing! what a martyr she was confined to her
room for years, and often for months not able to see
one of her family! Ah! Mary had a great deal to an-
swer for."
"Why?" said Audrey; "what had Mary to do with it?"
"What had Mary to do with it!" returned Lady Laura
in an injured tone. "Why, everything. Until she gave
up Sir Henry Skipwith, and disgraced herself by running
away with the tutor, her poor mother was as well as
I am."
"Nonsense, mamma; Lady Lascelles was not taken ill
for more than two years after Mary's marriage. Besides,
she had rheumatic gout."
"Excuse me, Audrey. From the time when that un-
grateful girl left her home, Lady Lascelles never knew a
moment's peace of mind. Though the world chose to
say she had rheumatic gout, those who loved her knew
EQUAL TO THE OCCASION. 253
she died of a broken heart. Of course it was two years
before her family noticed it. Just as it is with me. I
might be walking into my grave, and until I was on the
very brink of it neither you nor Charles would imagine
that I was weaker than yourselves. However, that does
not much matter. When I am gone you may see differ-
ently. But I have not much to live for. I used to think
that I should see my children settled and well established.
I was foolish enough to think they would be pleased to
see their mother happy; but all that is gone now. The
one pretends that he cannot marry because he does not
feel a proper amount of affection for a pretty girl with a
handsome fortune. The other has not even that poor
excuse; to an offer of every luxury and refinement that
money can procure a country seat, a town house, horses,
carriages, diamonds, and carte-blanche to spend what-
ever she pleases her only reply is: 'Don't let me see
him. I cannot help it: I know I shall refuse him.' I
never knew there was madness in the family, but this
looks exceedingly like it."
"Don't say any more, mamma," said Audrey. "All
the bitter things you could say would not equal my own
surprise. If I do not marry Mr. Ford, it will be because
I cannot, not because I will not."
"If you would give me some reason, I could listen
more patiently to these ravings. You must know the
cause. Is there any one else you think of marrying?"
"No. I do not suppose any one else will give me
the opportunity."
"Well!" laughed Lady Laura scornfully, "I am glad
to find you have so much sense left. I quite agree with
you there. For the last three weeks you have looked
five-and-thirty your eyes are dull, not half their usual
size, and the lines under them are worse than mine.
- 254 DOROTHY FOX.
Your hair has lost its gloss, and has just that look hair
always has before it falls off. Begging that Mr. Ford
may not see you, indeed! I am not quite sure that you
need alarm yourself. There are not many men who
would care to ask you to sit at the head of their table
as you are looking at present." Then, finding Audrey
made no answer, she continued, "Sometimes I think you
must have a hopeless fancy for some one, or have fallen
in love with a ynauvais sujet."
"Had I done so you would certainly have found it
out," replied her daughter bitterly. "See how very soon
you discovered that Mr. Dynecourt was dying to marry
Miss Bingham."
"So he was," said Lady Laura; "and I have no doubt
that he will effect his purpose now. I saw him yesterday
talking to her in Bond Street. He was leaning in at the
brougham window, devouring every word she said. He
turned to see who she bowed to, turned crimson, and
gave me the stiffest salutation. I am sure he need not
have troubled himself to be so distant. He may marry
the niece, and the aunt too, for aught I care."
Audrey closed her desk, and walked out of the room.
She went slowly upstairs, and, locking the door after her,
sat down before the mirror pale and care-worn! Would
he care for her now? The tears dropped one by one
until they fell in a thick shower. So soon forgotten; his
love transferred to another! "Devouring every word she
said." It could only be her mother's exaggeration; it
could not be true. But the thought rankled, and she
found herself hating the girl who could look upon his
face and hear his voice, while she sat hungering there as
helpless as a prisoner bound hand and foot.
Soon afterwards her mother tapped at the door. "I
have just had a letter from your Aunt Spencer," she said;
"the exception proves the rule." 255
"she wants us to go to Beauwood on Thursday for a few-
days. The Delvins are there. She is sure to be offended
if we refuse; and yet I do not care about taking you
from home just now."
"Why do you not go by yourself? My illness is suffi-
cient excuse for me. Nobody you care about need know
you have gone."
"I should be back on Saturday," said Lady Laura.
"But how will you get on alone?"
"Oh! I shall do very well. I would rather not go,
but I think it may do you good."
"Well I really hope so," replied her ladyship, "for I
require some change. So if you think you will not be
very dull alone, I shall accept. She only asks me until
Saturday, so I shall be sure to be home then."
CHAPTER XXVIIT.
"The Exception proves the Rule."
Next morning, when the letter-bag was brought 'to
Mr. Ford, he disposed of all his correspondence before
he opened the letter from Lady Laura. Having care-
fully read it twice, he slowly folded it up, and said to
himself
"I believe this woman is playing me false in someway;
and I can't help thinking that young Dynecourt is con-
nected with it. I knew something had gone wrong in
that quarter when he left in such a hurry; but I thought
it was all on his side. The girl has been too well drilled
into the idea of making a good match to allow her
feelings to carry her away. Still, things don't look clear.
I am very fond of Audrey, and, as I must marry, I would
prefer her to any woman I have seen. There's a great
deal of good in her which that Lady Jezebel hasn't been
256 DOROTHY FOX.
able to root out. I know if she married me of her own
free will she'd try to make me happy; but I don't want
her to be forced into it if she is attached to somebody
else. During the day I'll think how I had best act to get at
the truth. Before I see her I shall just call upon Mr.
Dynecourt, casually mention her name, and then enter
into a little conversation about the Verschoyles. In this
way I am likely to see if there is anything underhand
going on not that I think it's likely. I can trust the
young folks, but not her ladyship; she's a slippery cus-
tomer, and could wriggle herself in or out of anything."
The result of these reflections was that Mr. Ford
determined to go to town on the Thursday morning,
and stay a few days. Arrived in London, he went first
to the Temple, apparently on some business. Finding
Geoffrey Dynecourt much occupied, he secured his com-
pany for dinner that evening, and then made some other
calls. From Mrs. Winterton he heard that Miss Verschoyle
seemed quite recovered. The Verschoyles had been in
town about a fortnight, she thought; and she had met
them driving, but they had not yet called upon her.
When Miss Bingham came in, she could speak of no-
thing but an afternoon party her uncle was going to give.
"It is an idea of mine, Mr. Ford, and you must tell me
what you think of it. You know, my uncle has an im-
mense conservatory, which can be beautifully lighted. I
proposed that he should invite a number of people; en-
gage some musicians, give us some tea, and after that let
us go about, and talk, you know. Aunt declares it will
be a failure, but I am sure it won't. The conservatoiy
can be nicely warmed, and some of the plants removed,
and others grouped about. I think it is charming, and
people will be delighted to come, because they have no-
Nvhere to go at this time of year."
"the KMCEPTION PROVES THR RULE." 2 5 '7
"It sounds very nice," said Mr. Ford. "I am sure if
you look after things it will go off well."
"That's just it," said Mrs. Winterton; "Selina always
talks a great deal beforehand. When once she gets
there, she will sit down with two or three of her friends,
and never so much as think how the rest are getting on."
"Now, aunt, I am sure I shall do nothing of the
kind. You must promise to come, Mr. Ford; and, oh! I
wish Miss Verschoyle would come, .she talks so well.
You might persuade her."
"My dear Selina," said Mrs. Winterton, "you forget
that Lady Laura has not called upon us yet."
"Oh! but I don't believe Miss Verschoyle would mind
that, and Lady Laura told us she intended to call."
"I'll tell her how much you wish it," replied Mr.
Ford, smiling at Miss Bingham's unusual enthusiasm. "I
dare say I shall manage something. When is it to be?"
"This day week. I do not want the invitation to
be a long one, because it is to appear quite an im-
promptu affair. My uncle is not married, you know, so
I am sending out the invitations for him."
"Well, then, as I am likely to see Miss Verschoyle
to-day or to-morrow, shall I take her a card?"
"Thank you, that would be much nicer than sending
it; and you could explain matters to her."
Mr. Ford did not intend to call at Egmont Street
imtil the next day. He had determined, before seeing
Audrey, to have a little conversation with Geoftrey Dyne-
court. So that evening, as they sat together over their
wine, the elder gentleman introduced the subject in a
very easy manner, although he saw that his companion
tried to evade the subject and change the conversation.
"I shall call at Egmont Street to-morrow, and then I
must tell Miss Verschoyle that you dined with me, and
Dorothy Fox. 17
258 DOROTHY FOX.
chatted over the days we all spent together," said Mr.
Ford.
At that moment Geoffrey Dynecourt hated the old
man. Why should Mr. Ford be his successful rival al-
ways? Why should he possess the old lands, and like-
wise come between him and the woman he worshipped?
Dynecourt could not command his voice to reply, fear-
ing he might utter some of the bitter things it seemed
so hard to keep back.
"I saw Miss Bingham to-day," Mr. Ford went on,
taking no notice of his guest's silence. "She is a nice
girl, and I think would make a very nice wife. You
should have tried your hand there."
"Should IV answered Geoffrey. "Well, it's not too
late yet; I have promised to go down to some party
her uncle is giving at Ealing. How much money has
sher'
"What! is f/uii to be the charm for you, Dynecourt?
You see I don't expect you to be like most of the young
men of the present day."
"I don't see how one can help it," said Mr. Dyne-
court bitterly. "Some one says, 'God made the woman
for the man;' the world rather makes the man for the
woman. Only fools fall in love, and they are laughed at
by the very idols they bow down to. Money is the
charm by which a man can win a woman's heart. Per-
haps Miss Bingham, having a fortune, way be willing to
barter it for something else. Dynecourt is not a bad
name, although it is threadbare. It and the family
pedigree might weigh a little in the scale of an heiress,
whose blood is not of the purest blue."
"Don't talk like that, my dear fellow," said Mr. Ford;
"there are true-hearted women as well as true-hearted
men."
"the exception proves the rule.' 259
"Are there'?" he replied. "I don't believe it. They
died out with our mothers. Women now teach us to
have no faith in anything. If we are selfish, who is to
cure us? If we are hardened, and worn by the world,
who is to redeem us? The friends of a reckless man
look forward to marriage as his salvation, his last hope;
and if women have no higher aims than we have, are
our superiors in cunning, and at least our equals in
want of heart, in greed, and in love of self, what is there
but hopeless misery for bothi"
Mr. Ford shook his head. "You are too hard," he
said; "you must remember, women are human."
"Yes; and let them be true to their nature, and their
very faults become dear. If you love a woman with
your whole heart, and she loves you in return; and if,
because of that divine bond, she is willing to make the
best of you, and of herself, and of the life she hopes to
spend with you, to others she may be stupid, weak, and
frivolous, but she is the Eve of your Paradise. I believe
clever women are a snare to lead one on to destruction.
Miss Bingham has not that drawback, so wish me suc-
cess, sir."
"Not I," said Mr. Ford gravely, "because I do not
believe success would bring happiness."
"Happiness!" replied Mr. Dynecourt, laughing; "I
blotted that word out long ago. But it is getting late,
and I am keeping you up, sir. Good-night," he said;
but he could not help adding, "When you repeat our
tete-a-tete to Miss Verschoyle, do not omit the latter
part. I feel quite safe in her knowing my opinion of
her sex, as, of course, the exception proves the rule in
her case."
17^
26o DOROTHY FOX.
CHAPTER XXIX.
Best for Both.
About two o'clock next day Mr. Ford presented
himself at 27A, Egmont Street, and inquired for Lady
Laura Verschoyle. He was told that she was out of
town, staying at Beauwood for a few days. Miss Vers-
choyle was at home, however, would he see her?
"Certainly," said he, very much pleased that he had
timed his visit so well; and he was ushered into Audre/s
presence.
"Mr. Ford!" she exclaimed, starting up, "this is quite
unexpected; I had no idea you were in town."
"Well, I am only paying a flying visit," he answered;
"and I was anxious to see if you were looking stronger."
"Oh yes! thank you. I am quite strong now." Then,
trying vainly to regain her usual composed manner, she
went on nervously, "Mamma isn't at home; she will be
so sorry not to have seen you; she is staying with my
aunt. Lady Spencer. Have you had luncheon r'
"Yes, thank you, my dear. I did not look forward
to having the pleasure of seeing you alone. Are you
not ver}^ dull in this house all by yourself?"
"I! Oh no, I rather like it; though I am almost well,
I am not quite strong yet, so I do not take kindly to
gaiety."
Mr. Ford then asked Miss Verschoyle various ques-
tions about her health, and the benefit she had derived
from the sea-air. While seemingly engrossed by her
account of herself, he was noting her unusual nervous-
ness, her heightened colour, and an evident struggle to
be at ease. These things were very new to the usual
self-possession and repose of Audrey's manner. After a
time she began to recover herself, and to direct all her
BEST FOR BOTH. 26 1
tact and energy to keeping the conversation from any
but general subjects.
Richard Ford was a keen observer. During his busy
life he had been accustomed to watch men and their
motives narrowly. From the time he began to take an
interest in Audrey, he had gauged her and her mother
with tolerable correctness. He formed an opinion not
wide of the mark, when he thought, "I believe for some
reason that this girl does not want me to propose to her
yet. Well! I will leave that to circumstances. But as I
may not get such another opportunity as this, I will
sound her about Dynecourtj" so he said suddenly,
"I have a message for you from Mr. Dynecourt."
Audrey's blood seemed to withdraw, that it might
rush back with greater force to her face and neck, and
dye them crimson. To meet Mr. Ford's gaze was im-
possible; so she gave a little nervous laugh, and said,
"Indeed! how odd!"
"Odd!" echoed Mr. Ford; "why"? I thought you were
great friends. Are you not sol"
"Oh! I liked Mr. Dynecourt much; but one does
not always keep up acquaintanceships formed Avhen
visiting."
"No, but I thought he was going to call here often,
and that you took a kindly interest in him."
"But he has not called yet."
"I am surprised to hear that," answered Mr. Ford;
"I shall tell him you have been alone, and expected him."
"Oh, thank you, Mr. Ford," said Audrey; adding, "I
would rather you wouldn't say anything, but leave it to
himself."
Audrey never looked up while this was being said;
for she felt Mr. Ford's eyes were upon her. And she
\:as correct; he was watching her narrowly.
262 DOROTHY FOX.
"I am afraid," he said, "there has been some little
misunderstanding between you that you will not tell me
about. I am sorry for this, as I wanted your assistance
about him. He is a great favourite of mine, and I fear
he is going to do a very foolish thing."
"What is that?" said Audrey eagerly, forgetting her-
self in her anxiety for him.
"I need not say I am only telling this to you, Miss
Verschoyle."
She nodded in assent.
"Well, then, last night, over our cigars, he told me
that he thought of marrying." Though he paused, Audrey
could not say a word; she seemed as if turned to stone.
"Of course, that is quite as it should be. The thing I
object to is, that having apparently had some disappoint-
ment, which has made him bitter, he intends to propose
to a certain young friend of ours, not because he thinks
she will make him happy, but because she has a fortune.
Many circumstances may make a man or woman marry
for money, and as long as they have no other attach-
ment I should not blame them. But if some other per-
son possessed their heart, I should consider them to be
acting wrongly. What is your opinion?"
"Why do you ask mel" replied Audrey coldly.
"For two reasons: I should much like to hear your
ideas on the subject, knowing they would be mature
and sound. Then, Mr. Dynecourt made some very bit-
ter remarks about women last night, especially as to their
want of love and faith. He said that they would sacrifice
every feeling for money, and that it was the true elixir
by which alone their hearts were touched. He after-
wards bade me repeat his sentiments to you, saying that
'you might safely hear them, as you had proved your-
self an exception to the rule.' "
nEST FOR EOTIT. 263
"Then tell him from me that it was mean and
cowardly of him," said Audrey, flashing up; "I am nei-
ther better nor worse than most other women. I devoutly
wish I were;" and so saying, she rose abruptly and went
to the window.
"My suspicions were correct, then," thought Mr. Ford.
"I believe she loves him; at least there is something be-
tween them that is hidden from me. Should I be wise
in asking her to be my wife? I think I could trust her,
it may be only a passing fancy she is struggling to
overcome. But what if it should be morel I believe I
might trust her still."
In a minute Audrey turned round, saying, in her old
gracious way, "Pray forgive my irritability, Mr. Ford;
a little more allowance is made for invalids than for
other people."
"My dear, don't speak of it. I do not want you to
be vexed with our good friend Dynecourt, for I am sure
he had no intention of offending you. Perhaps, poor
fellow, he is only halting between two evils. When I
saw him, he was determined to try for an appointment
in India, a horrid, unhealthy country, and complete
banishment. I suppose it is not decided yet, but I hope
he'll not get it."
"Oh no," said poor Audrey eagerly; "beg him not
to try, Mr. Ford. You may ask him, from me, not to go
there."
"I think it would have much greater weight with him
if you asked him yourself. I am the bearer of an invita-
tion to you, similar to one which Mr. Dynecourt has al-
ready accepted;" and Mr. Ford told Audrey of the after-
noon party, at which Miss Bingham was so anxious
Audrey should be present.
Audrey was strongly tempted to accept the invita-
r:64 dorothy fox.
tion. Her one longing now was to see Geoffrey Dyne-
court again. Love had almost proved victorious. She
knew what her decision would be had the choice to be
made again between love and money. She had aro-ued
and taken herself to task in every possible way. Some-
times she had fancied her worldly wisdom had convinced
her of the folly of her passion. But some trivial circum-
stance, some passing thought, would bring it back with
renewed strength. There had been times, too, when she
felt she must write to Geoffrey, and ask him to come to
her. She would tell him how she repented, how she
suffered. But what if he had ceased to love her, if he
hated, scorned her? No! she could not write. In times
gone by she had not hesitated to show her preference
openly, but now she could not make an advance, al-
though the happiness of her life seemed to depend on it.
But at a word or a sign from him, she could lay her
very heart bare. No wonder, then, that any chance of
a meeting seemed to her like hope revived.
Mr. Ford saw her hesitation, and said, " Your mamma,
I believe, intends to call upon Mrs. Winterton."
"I hardly know how to do, but I think I will write a
note and say I should like very much to go, but as
mamma is from home I cannot positively accept, not
knowing what engagements she may have made. When
do you go back?"
"To-morrow; but I shall return next week, when I
hope to make a longer stay. I feel rather dull at home,
now that all my friends have left me."
"I am sure you must; a large house like yours al-
ways seems to need a large party in it," replied Audrey.
"Yes," said Mr. Ford; "and yet I could be very
happy and contented with a companion who would let
EEST FOR BOTH. 265
mc take a great interest in all she did, and in return
kindly take some interest in my favourite pursuits."
Audrey gave a faint smile; they were nearing danger-
ous ground. Still she made no effort to change the
subject, as she would have done at the beginning of Mr.
Ford's visit. The conversation regarding Geoffrey Dyne-
court had stirred within her a host of conflicting feelings
bitter anger, tender love, and dread of Geoffrey's mar-
rying or of his going abroad. She knew now that when-
ever Mr. Ford's offer came she had but one answer that
she could give to him.
Mr. Ford greatly wished to have the matter settled.
He knew that if Miss Verschoyle said "No," he would be
disappointed. He did not for a moment expect such an
answer. He thought he would at all events broach the
subject, and then let things drift on or not, according
to circumstances. After a pause he continued, "I am
often tempted to be bold enough to ask some lady to
marry me; I think that is, I would try to make her
happy."
"I am sure you would," said Audrey encouragingly.
It was so much easier for her to speak now.
"My dear Miss Verschoyle, I dare say you will think
it very foolish of an old man like me not to many some-
body of my own age. But I am ambitious enough to
wish my wife to be a very beautiful young lady."
"Indeed," said Audrey.
"Yes. Do you think it shows great want of sense?"
asked the old gentleman, somewhat nervously.
"I do not," replied Audrey. "I am sure many young
ladies would be very pleased to accept you."
"As young as yourselfl"
"Yes. I would rather marry you, Mr. Ford, than many
young men I know."
2 66 DOROTH\ FOX.
"Then, my dear Miss Versclioyle, will you accept
me"? for I have been bold enough to hope I might see
you mistress of Dyne Court."
Audrey waited for a moment, and then said, gravely,
"Mr. Ford, you have done me an honour of which I
am very unworthy. If I were to accept it, I should be
still more unworthy of it. You know I value your wealth,
and I think you know that I truly value your many good
qualities. If I married you, I should wish to make you
happy, and it is because I feel that I could not do it
that I say No."
Mr. Ford was silent. At length he said, "Miss Vers-
clioyle, you must not be offended at my asking it, but
are not your feelings altered in some way since you left
Dyne Court? I think I should have had a different answer
there; your mother wished me to consider your accept-
ance as certain."
''I believe mamma very much wished it; and at one
time I greatly desired it myself. Even now I very much
regret that it is best for both of us that I must decide as
I do. I have not dealt quite fairly with you, and I am
sorry you feel it. I fear I shall fall in your estimation,
and lose a friend I truly value."
"One question more, Miss Verschoyle, and pray don't
think it impertinent. Are you going to marry any one
else?"
"No."
"Then your heart is still free?"
"I think my answers have come to an end, Mr. Ford.
I am very, very sorry I have misled you, but I do not
refuse you in order to secure my happiness with another."
Audrey rose, as if to intimate that the interview had
best terminate. The old man took her hand, and said,
"My dear, I have no wish to pry into your secret;
"l SHOULD HAVE TOLD THEE." l(^']
you have acted honourably towards me, and in keeping
with the character I always gave you credit for. If I
could do anything to secure your happiness, believe me
I would do it. I have had too many trials in life for
disappointments to have the keenness and bitterness they
have in youth. Yet this is a disappointment to me. But
I shall strive to overcome it, so that I may rejoice v^ith
all my heart when I see you the happy wife of a worthy
husband."
Audrey could not speak. The tears were falling from
her eyes, but she tried to smile on the kindly old man,
who, she felt, had more goodness of nature than she had
before discovered.
"I shall come again," he said, shaking her hand.
"Not just immediately, but soon; until then, good-bye,
my dear, good-bye."
And he hurried away, saying to himself as he went,
"That girl has a noble nature, in spite of her up-
bringing! I believe now it's something about Dynecourt."
After pondering for some time, he sighed, thinking,
"Well, it's all for the best, I suppose; but oh! if it had
but pleased God to have spared my poor Patty! It is
hard at my age to be trying to begin life afresh, as it
were ! "
CHAPTER XXX.
"I should have told thee."
During the week the fashionable chronicle of the
day announced that Lady Laura Verschoyle and Miss
Verschoyle had arrived at their residence, 27A, Egmont
Street, and that Captain C. Egerton Verschoyle had taken
his departure for the north. But it did not intimate that
Miss Dorothy Fox had left Fryston Grange for Holberton
Hall, Leeds.
268 DOROTHY FOX.
Still, SO it was; and on the day fixed Mrs. Hanbury
went to the Great Northern Railway Station to see Doro-
thy depart.
Grace had observed with anxiety that there was a
change in her sister. Her spirits had been uneven, her
gaiety forced, and there was a nervousness in her ap-
pearance quite foreign to her nature.
"I am so sorry to leave thee, Grace," she said.
"And I, dear, am sorry to part with you. We shall
miss you dreadfully. You must write me all the north-
country news. And, Dolly, after you have visited the
Crewdsons let me know what they are like; and," she
whispered, laughing, "you must tell me whether you in-
tend to marry Josiah or not."
'I can tell thee that now," said Dorothy, with a
tremor in her voice. "I have made up my mind I can-
not like Josiah."
"Then, my dear child, why are you going to Leeds'?"
But there was no time to answer, the train was
already in motion, and in a few minutes it was out of
sight.
Dorothy's words added to Grace's perplexity. "I
have been wrong," she thought, "to let her see so much
of Captain Verschoyle. But it never occurred to me she
would take any fancy to him. Perhaps he may have
seen the impression he was producing, and so have hur-
ried his departure. I am sure he is too honourable to
take any advantage. But I am certainly to blame; I
ought to have been more careful. Poor little Dolly!"
And all the way home, and during the day, Grace was
anxiously thinking thus about her young sister.
Nor was she the only person whose mind seemed to
be filled and possessed with thoughts of Dorothy.
Every day since his arrival at Darington Captain
"I SHOULD HAVE TOLD THEE." 2 6g
Verschoyle had gone into York to meet the train by
which he expected that Dorothy would come, and each
day he had been disappointed. He made up his mind
to go once more, and then to call upon her aunt, and see
if she had arrived without his seeing her. All the re-
flections and workings of Charles Verschoyle's mind at
this time it would be simply impossible for us to in-
dicate. Sometimes he told himself that if he did not
offer to marry the girl he would be an abominable vaga-
bond, a blackguard who deserved to be kicked by every
honourable man, and to be "cut" by every honest
woman. At other times he said to himself that he was
the greatest fool in the world. Who could believe that
the grandson of an earl, and an officer in a crack regi-
ment, would give up everything and everybody to marry
the daughter of a country shopkeeper? The whole thing
was absurd; and he must simply get out of the mess in
the best way he could. When Dorothy did not arrive
he worked himself into a fever, and finally made up his
mind to call upon Miss Abigail Fletcher, who, to his
surprise, was from home "staying at Malton." The
maid told him that she thought she had heard some-
thing about Miss Dorothy being expected. Jane would
be sure to know; only Jane had a holiday, and wouldn't
be back until Monday. So until Monday Captain Vers-
choyle had to wait, chafing in fear that something had
happened which would prevent him from seeing Dorothy
again.
To Josiah Crewdson, Dorothy's visit was an event
such as had never before occurred in his lifetime. As
he stood waiting for the train he felt quite sick and faint
from excitement, oppressed with a nervous dread that
something unforeseen had detained her. But in another
minute Dorothy arrived, and soon Josiah was wildly
2/0 DOROTHY FOX.
dashing against passengers and porters in order to pos-
sess himself of her luggage. After the first greetings
were over, Dorothy was silent. Oppressed by the feeling
that she had nothing to say, she excused herself on the
plea of being tired, and Josiah, in his delight at seeing
her, readily forgave her taciturnity.
Holberton Hall was a heavy-looking, square, stone-
built house. Josiah thought it had never before pre-
sented so dull and gloomy an appearance, and he re-
marked, apologetically,
"My sisters don't care for flowers, but the place
might be made much more cheerful-looking. There is
no occasion for my living here at all. We might get
another house if thou liked, Dorothy."
Dorothy looked in the opposite direction, "from coy-
ness," as Josiah thought, but in reality to prevent him
from seeing the tears with which her eyes were filled.
Her deception seemed to come before her in all its
force, and she felt that she should be miserable until she
had told Josiah the real state of her mind.
The Miss Crewdsons came out to meet Dorothy, and
delivered themselves of a set speech of formal greeting.
They seemed to regard htr engagement as a settled busi-
ness; so that Dorothy felt herself to be an impostor, felt
as if she had come into the family upon false pretences.
Oh, how many times before the dreary evening came to
an end did she wish that she had gone direct from Fryston
to her own home!
Josiah did all he could to amuse her, making, as
Jemima afterwards said, a "complete mountebank of him-
self." But it was all to no purpose. The gloomy house
and the sombre room oppressed the girl; and the two
stern, hard-featured women made her shy and timid.
More than all, the consciousness that she was acting de-
"l SHOULD HAVE TOLD THr.F.." 27 t
ceitfuUy filled her with misery. She rejoiced, therefore,
when it was time to retire to her own room, although
only for the satisfaction of indulging her grief, and
sobbing herself to sleep.
Dorothy's chief perplexity was about the Miss Crewd-
sons. She felt she had the courage to kill Josiah's hopes
and crush his dearest wish; but how could she face
Jemima and Kezia, after they knew that she did not in-
tend to marry their brother? Yet what was to be done?
She could not stay a week there deceiving everybody.
No, it would be better to have it over as soon as pos-
sible, and then go to Aunt Abigail's at York. There she
had fixed her longing hope of meeting Charles Verschoyle
once more only once. Dorothy was too young and un-
worldly to have any doubt of the man who knew that he
had her heart in his keeping. If it were not for those
dreadful sisters she would tell Josiah the very next day.
But how would they take it? what might they not do to
her?
It was a pity that Dorothy could not have overheard
the opinions which at that very time the sisters were ex-
changing with each other on their brother's choice. Her
appearance they regarded with pious horror. She was
a child, a baby-faced doll; and they charitably inferred
that if she had any sense, she took care that nobody
should give her credit for it. They quoted the Proverbs
of Solomon so freely concerning her, that had any one
overheard them he would have felt dubious as to Dorothy's
moral character. Finally, they agreed in declaring that
they would not leave a stone unturned to prevent the
entrance into the Crewdson family of such a lackadaisical
creature.
Next day, when Josiah had left, Jemima began to
speak about Dorothy's dress. She said they were sur-
2 7^ DOROTHY FOX.
prised to find that Dorothy had departed from that plain-
ness of apparel which it so much became Friends to
adhere to. Surely her parents could not approve of it.
When Dorothy said she had her parents' sanction, both
the sisters elevated their eyebrows with an air of in-
credulity and astonishment. With no little emphasis,
they said that such vanity would not be permitted in
their brother's wife. She must be consistent, and wear a
cap and bonnet suited to women whose aims were higher
than the adornment of a miserable body which worms
would soon destroy.
Dorothy was silent. Only in this way could she keep
down the tears which threatened to come in a torrent.
At another time her spirit would have been roused, and
she would have done battle bravely with the Miss Crewd-
sons for presuming to lecture her for doing what she had
her parents' authority to do. But "conscience makes
cowards of us all," and Dorothy knew that she was acting
wrongly. She felt she should never have placed herself
in this position. She could not defend herself without
speaking of a decision which, until Josiah knew it, she
had no right to mention to any of his family.
Josiah was to return at five, and Dorothy thought
that hour would never come. About three the sisters
proposed to take her with them to visit the sick and
poor. They said it was their day for ministering to the
wants of their district. Dorothy, however, plucked up
courage to refuse. This gave rise to many remarks on
her want of charity and slothfulness. But the clock
warned them that unless they went off speedily they could
not return by the time Josiah would be home, and they
left her. She was not long by herself, for the thought
of Dorothy being at home to welcome him had given
such impetus to Josiah's usually slow and methodical
"I SHOULD HAVE TOLD THEE." 273
movements, that his business was over by three o'clock.
Before another hour had elapsed he was in his own
dining-room, anxiously inquiring of Dorothy the cause
of her tearful eyes and weary looks.
"Indeed, it is nothing," she answered, with quivering
mouth; for even his tenderness touched her now. For a
moment there was silence, then with a sudden effort she
said
"Josiah, I want to speak to thee very seriously. If
we may be disturbed here, take me somewhere else."
A sickly fear crept over Josiah. "She does not like
Jemima and Kezia," he thought to himself, "and she is
going to tell me that she cannot marry me."
"Come into the garden, Dorothy; there is a summer-
house there nobody ever goes to." On the way he said
to her, "Thou mustn't mind sisters; they have not ways
like thine. But then thou needst not see them often,
and I would take care they should never worry thee."
Dorothy did not answer.
"It would be quite different," he continued. "Here
they are the mistresses, and they feel as if everything
belonged to them. But when they only came as visitors
it wouldn't be so, or if they were cross and cranky thou
needst not mind them. Oh! Dorothy, don't let them
make any difference about me."
Still she did not say a word until they reached the
square formal summer-house, with the bench along its
sides, and the round table in the middle. When they
were seated she said,
"Josiah, I am going to tell thee something which will
make thee think very poorly of me."
"No, Dorothy," said Josiah, with a shake of his head,
''nothing can make me think poorly of thee."
"Thou knowestj" she continued, "that I like thee very
Dpiothy Fo.f. 18
2 74 DOROTHY FOX.
much indeed. From the first time I saw thee I thought
thee very good and kind, but I " and here she paused.
"Do not love me," he said, finishing the sentence.
"I know that. I don't expect it to come all at once.
Sometimes I fear that thou wilt find it impossible, I am
so awkward and stupid; but, Dorothy, thou said thou
wouldst try."
"Yes, I did; but, Josiah," and she leaned her arms
on the table that she might cover her face with her hands,
"I cannot even try now."
There was silence for several minutes, and then Josiah
said in a husky voice, "I ought to have known it. An
uncouth fellow, not able even to tell thee what I feel
what else could I expect from thee'?"
"This thou might have expected," said Dorothy,
looking at him fixedly, "that having given thee and my
father my word that I would try, I should have avoided all
temptation that might lead me to break that word. When
I felt that I could never do as thou wished, I should have
told thee, and not acted deceitfully by coming here
among thee and thy relations."
"Are sisters making thee decide thus? Thou hadst
not made up thy mind before thou came here?"
"Yes, I had."
Josiah's face seemed to become suddenly sharp and
old. Taking hold of her arm in his newly-awakened
fear, he said, "Dorothy! Dorothy! it isn't somebody
else?"
She gave him no answer.
"Oh!" he groaned, resting his face upon the table,
"I didn't think of that, I didn't think of that."
"Josiah, don't give way like that," exclaimed Dorothy,
surprised and alarmed at the sight of his misery. "Oh!
"I SHOULD HAVE TOLD THEE," 2/5
what shall I do?" she continued, as her tears fell thick
and fast upon his hands.
Josiah immediately tried to recover himself. "I shall
be all right in a minute," he said. "Thou must not
mind me onty it came on me so sudden."
"Josiah, if I could only tell thee how sorry I am to
grieve thee! I I thought it would disappoint thee, but
I did not know it would pain thee like this."
"Didst thou noti" he said, trying to smile. "Ah, I
have been a sad bungler, Dorothy. My love for thee
made me dumb when I most wanted to speak to thee.
Does thy father know of this]"
"Father! Oh no!"
"But thou wilt tell him soon?"
Dorothy looked down as she answered slowly, "I
do not think I shall. I I do not intend to marry
anybody else."
"Not marry any one else," repeated Josiah in
amazement. "Then have I misunderstood theel Thou
wouldst not willingly give me pain, I know but, please
Dorothy tell me the truth at once. Dost thou love
some one, not only better than me but so well as to
prevent thee from ever becoming my wife?"
Dorothy hesitated, but seeing his anxious face, she
answered, "Yes; but, Josiah, oh! do listen. It is some
one whom my principles forbid me to marry. I may
never see him again, and if I do, I shall part with him
for ever;" and at the thought Dorothy's firmness gave
way, and she sobbed aloud.
Josiah did not ask the name of his rival, but he
rightly guessed who he was. Forgetting his own troubles,
however, he now tried to soothe and comfort Dorothy.
Thinking that she would feel more happy away from
his family, he suggested, and she agreed, that it would
i8*
2yb DOROTHY FOX,
be better for her to go to Aunt Abigail as soon as she
could. Not the next day perhaps, because Aunt Abigail
was still at Malton, but the day after. Her aunt would
then be at home, and aware of her movements. Jemima
and Kezia were to be told nothing until after Dorothy's
departure, so that they miglit not tease and worry her
with their cutting remarks.
It was now considerably past five o'clock, and they
prepared to return to the house.
"Josiah, say that thou forgivest me," said Dorothy.
"With all my heart."
"And that thou wilt try to forget me?"
"Never, I shall always love thee, Dorothy. Thou
wouldst not wish to deprive me of that comfortf"
"No," said Dorothy; and she felt, for the first time,
that if she had never seen Charles Verschoyle, it would
not have been quite impossible for her to have cared for
Josiah Crewdson.
CHAi:^TER XXXI.
Kezia plays the Spy.
Notwithstanding all that Dorothy had said to Josiah
at their recent interview, he felt it impossible for him to
abandon all hope. Might she not yet overcome this fancy
which was never to be gratified, and then after a time
get to like him? She had been so kind and gentle to him
since their meeting in the summer-house, that such a
supposition did not seem to be entirely chimerical.
Aunt Abigail had written to say that she would ex-
pect her niece on the day mentioned, and the day had
now aixived. Josiah, to save Dorothy annoyance, had
offered to tell his sisrers that she wanted to return home
sooner than she had at first intended, and wishing to
KF.ZIA PLAYS THE SPY. l"]"]
spend as much time as possible with her aunt, she thought
it best to shorten her visit to them.
"Oh, certainly, by all means," said Jemima; "as she
did not come here on our account, we have no wish to
detain her: although it is paying thee a very poor com-
pliment, Josiah."
"It's quite what I expected," said Kezia, with the
smile of infallible intuition. "Ours is no house for the
frivolous and worldly; it is a pity that Dorothy came
hee at rail.,,
"It is a great pity," replied Josiah, feeling himself
getting more angry than he cared to show them. " Thou
and Jemima seem to forget how young Dorothy is. As
to her being frivolous and worldly, she is nothing of the
kind; she is cheerful and gay, as a girl should be.
When she is as old as either of you she will be sedate
enough."
Now, few women can bear to be told they are old in
comparison with other women whom they know to be
young. They may own their age, even boast of it, but
they never care about being reminded of it by other
people. Therefore, though the Miss Crewdsons were
quite innocent of trying to make themselves more juvenile
than they really were, Josiah could not have cut his
sisters more surely, or raised their indignation more
speedily, than he did by this taunt, which was all the
worse to bear as each of them would have died before
she would have acknowledged her annoyance.
"The train leaves at 2.40," added Josiah, "and I will
meet Dorothy at the station. I must see Stephenson
this morning, so I shall walk into Leeds, and Dorothy
can have the carriage."
"Certainly," returned Jemima: "hast thou any further
278 DOROTHY FOX.
orders to leave? for I suppose it has come to thy con-
sidering it to be our place to obey thee."
"Nonsense, Jemima, don't take such fancies," said Jo-
siah, fearing that unless he tried to mollify them a little,
his sisters might vent their vexation on Dorothy. "She
cannot walk, and I thought it would save a cab."
Waiting for no further argument, Josiah went out
through the back way into the garden, at the end of
which, according to appointment, he met Dorothy.
"Hast thou told them? What did they say?" she
asked excitedly.
"Nothing; but I see they are a little vexed; so if
they speak somewhat sharply, thou must not mind it.
They do not mean ill."
"Thou only saidst that I was going?" said Dorothy
timidly.
"Yes, that was all. Need I say more at present,
Dorothy? Perhaps some day thou mayest get to like me
a little; that is, if thou art sure that thou dost not intend
marrying the the other one," he blurted out.
Dorothy shook her head: "I will not deceive thee
again; and thou wouldst not wish to marry me if I had
no love for thee, Josiah?"
"No: only sometimes, after many years perhaps, when
people don't meet they forget their love."
"But not what love is like," she said sadly.
"Dorothy, forgive me only one more question. Art
thou quite sure thou hast no intention to marry him?"
"Quite sure."
"And dost thou think thy strength is sufficient for
thee to say No?"
"I think strength will be given to me," she answered;
"for I am trying very hard to do my duty."
Josiah took her hand in both of his, and looking at
ILEZIA PLAYS THE SPY. 279
her his honest, every-day face lit up by love he said,
"God bless and help thee, Dorothy!" and Dorothy's
voice failing, she tightened her grasp, and tried to smile
on him through her tears.
Twelve o'clock had struck, and still the Miss Crewd-
sons sat puzzling over and speculating about the cause
of this sudden departure. They were certain that there
was something more in it than met the eye; but what
that something could be they failed to discover. Dorothy
had been in and out several times during the morning,
but meeting with no other response to her remarks than
"yes" or "no," she had betaken herself to her own room,
where she was sitting lonely and dispirited.
For the twentieth time had Kezia asked Jemima,
"What can it be]" for the twentieth time she had re-
ceived from her sister the answer, that time would show,
when a loud peal at the bell startled them both. Before
they had run through their category of probable visitors,
the maid opened the door, walked up to Jemima, and
put a card into her hand, saying, "He's asked for Miss
Dorothy Fox, and please, he's waiting." Jemima looked
at the card and read aloud, "Captain Charles Egerton
Verschoyle, 17 th Lancers."
Jemima Crewdson boasted that she was "never taken
aback." Seldom had she had greater reason to pride
herself on this than when, without any exclamation or
comment, she said, "Take this to her, and tell her that
he is waiting to see her."
The girl took the card to Dorothy, who breathlessly
demanded where the visitor was, and whether any one
was with him. Concluding from Dorothy's excitement
that the good-looking young man was her real sweet-
heart, and not being devoted to the house of Crewdson,
28o DOROTHY FOX.
the servant smiled grimly as she descended the stairs,
saying, "And I for one shouldn't be sorry neither."
How Dorothy managed to fly down-stairs, pass the
dining-room door, and get into the room where Charles
Verschoyle stood waiting for her, she did not know; it
seemed to her as if one minute she were reading his
name, and the next that she was sobbing sweet and jjitter
tears in his arms. The joy she felt at seeing the man
whom she now knew to be far dearer to her than she
had hitherto dreamt of, the conflicts she had gone through
for his sake, and the misery she had endured for the
last few weeks, broke down all her firm resolutions, and
drove from her mind everything but the glad thought
that '^he" was with her, and nothing now could harm her.
Captain Verschoyle was at a loss to understand the
meaning of this outburst. He only saw that something
had gone wrong and distressed "his darling," as he now
called her, and that the sight of her tears made him feel
more pitiful and tender than the griefs of all the women
he had ever known before. He soothed and caressed
her, and called her every endearing name which falls
so sweetly from the mouth of a lover, until Dorothy's
tears ceased falling, and she began to awaken to the
realities of her position.
"How didst thou know that I was here?" she asked.
"They will be so angry. Oh! thou oughtst not to have
come."
"Why noti and who are they who will be angry?" he
said. "Are these people your relations?"
"No."
"Well, then, there can be nothing so very extra-
ordinary in my calling to see you. Say I am a friend
of your sister's, and wanted to know if you had any
message to send to her; that I went to your aunt's, and
KEZIA PLAYS THE SPY. 28 t
not finding you I came here. No one coii/d be angry
about that."
"But thou art a soldier," said Dorothy, shaking her
head in dissent to his arguments.
"Suppose I am, I am not going to fight them; but tell
me, dear, why were you so distressed at seeing me?"
"Because I have been so miserable of late."
Feeling that he was probably the cause of her misery,
Captain Verschoyle should have looked less pleased, as
he put his arm again round her and tried to draw her
towards him. But Dorothy had recovered herself, so she
turned from him and sat down in a chair, while he
stood looking at her. "I have been so unhappy," she
continued, "because I ought never to have spoken as I
did to thee in the garden."
"Why notl" he exclaimed hurriedly. "Was it not
true? Dorothy, tell me, do you love me?" He was
kneeling by her side, with his face close to hers, so that
she looked into his eyes with her own full of truth and
love.
"Yes," she said slowly, "I love thee with all my heart;
but I ought never to have shown it to thee."
"And why?"
"Because I knew it was wrong. When I began to
think so much of thee, I ought to have gone home."
"Oh! don't say that, darling."
Matters were beginning to look a little brighter now,
and Captain Verschoyle almost smiled as he remembered
the sharp pain he felt when he thought Dorothy was
going to say she did not care for him.
"But it is true," she continued: "all this time I have
been disobeying father, and deceiving Josiah Crewdson."
"Josiah Crewdson! What has he to do with it?"
Dorothy looked down abashed. "Josiah wanted me lo
282 DOROTHY FOX.
many him, and I promised father I would try to Hke him,
and I told Josiah the same, and now "
. "Well!"
"Of course, I cannot."
Captain Verschoyle was silent; not because he did not
love the girl, but he was suspicious, and not without
cause, for the world had taught him two or three rather
bitter lessons. Was she trying to entangle him into mak-
ing her an offer of marriage? Perhaps her sister had
prompted her to do it. Well, if she had told the Han-
burys there was no backing out of it, and, after all, he
should have to marry a shop-keeper's daughter. So he
said, very coldly, "Why? Is it your intention to marry
some one else"?"
Dorothy looked up; his voice grated upon her ear,
but in a moment she dismissed the suspicion. Her love
told her knowing as she did that they could not marry
what his pain must be. Her heart seemed to give a
great surge, and, laying her head on his shoulder, she
hid her face and cried, "Oh! Charles, if thou hadst been
the poorest man in all the world I would never have
ceased to entreat father; but I know if I disobeyed him
and forsook my principles, we could expect no blessing
and no happiness."
"What do you mean, child?" exclaimed Captain Vers-
choyle, puzzled by Dorothy's words, certain of her love,
liowever, and at rest regarding her duplicity. "You say
you will not marry this Crewdson, but surely if I ask
your father for you, you will marry me?"
"No. Thou art a soldier, and for that reason father
would never give his consent. It would be against our
principles, and though I feel that were I called upon I
could willingly die for thee, I could not disobey my
parents when I know they are acting rightly."
KEZIA PLAYS THE SPY. 283
"Such love as this is not worth having," he said,
pushing her from him. "I am offering for your sake"
and he thought he was speaking the truth "to give up
my friends, position, and all hope of advancement in
life; and you tell me that you love me very much, but
if your father says 'No,' you could not think of disobey-
ing him. Do you suppose that I expect my mother
ever to give her consent? Very likely neither she nor
my sister would ever speak to me again. But if I had
determined to marry you I would not be deterred
though every relation I have turned their backs upon me."
"But / feel that God's face would be turned from me."
Captain Verschoyle gave an impatient shrug. "I know
nothing of such bigotry," he said contemptuously. "If
you think me such a Pariah, why did you lead me to
suppose that you cared for meV
Dorothy sat with her face in her hands rocking her-
self to and fro in hopeless misery such a picture of
heart-broken despair, that all Charles Verschoyle's anger
gave way, and kneeling down before her he said,
"Dorothy, my own, my darling, don't listen to me. I am
a brute to say such things, but I did not know how I
loved you; look at me, dear, I'll give up everything in
the world for you. I'll sell out, and we'll go and live
in the country. That's right, smile at me again, dearest.
I'll turn Quaker, and then my Dolly won't say No. Will
she?"
But Dorothy had no power then to reply, and when
she had, Captain Verschoyle jumped up suddenly, ex-
claiming, "Confound that woman!" and walking to the
window called out, "Do you wish to come in this way,
madam?"
To Dorothy's unspeakable horror, the figure which
turned away was Kezia Crewdson.
28-j. DOROTHY FOX.
CHAPTER XXXII.
Loving and Losing.
When young Love has been suddenly put to flight,
he is very shy of settling down again. Therefore, al-
though it was nearly half an hour before Captain Vers-
choyle left Holberton Hall, the interval was taken up by
a comparatively sober and business-like conversation.
Dorothy was in a great state of trepidation about
Kezia Crewdson. Captain Verschoyle declared, however,
that she could not have been at the window two minutes
before he saw her, although, had she stood for two hours,
he said, she could not have seen them. He said this, not
really believing it, being certain that Miss Crewdson's
curiosity had been gratified by a very romantic tableau.
But then, it was not likely she would say anything about
it, as that would be telling upon herself. However, the
thing was done, and they must make the best of it, and
carry it off as circumstances demanded.
He was delighted to hear that Dorothy was leaving
for York; and began to speculate if they could not travel
in the same carriage.
"Josiah is going with me to the station, and Aunt
Abigail will meet me at York," said Dorothy.
"Oh, that is just the thing. I want to be introduced
to your aunt, so that I can call and see you. You Avant
to see me again soon, Dorothy, do you not?"
"Yes."
"Well, then, we shall meet at the station. I shall look
out for you. 2.40 you said? All right, and don't fidget
about that old Tabbyskins, dear; whatever she accuses
you of, deny it."
"Oh, Charles! but I could not."
"Oh, Dolly! yes, you could," he whispered, laughing
LOVING AND LOSING. 285
at her grave face. Then givhig her a most courteous
bow in case they should be watched, he walked away,
and Dorothy shut the door, her heart sinking with every
retreating step he took.
Try as she would, she could not persuade herself that
Kezia had not seen them. If she had all Dorothy's
senses seemed to forsake her at the thought. What might
she not do? Write to her father, perhaps; and then
she should die of shame. While she was striving to con-
vince herself that they had been unseen, Ann came to
announce that luncheon was ready. Dorothy, unable to
look at any one, and feeling it required all her resolution
to keep her teeth from chattering, found herself in the
dining-room before the sisters, who, by practising the
feminine habit of ignoring an offender, and finding an
immense deal to say to each other, gave Dorothy time
to recover herself. She felt it was needful for her to say
something about a visit to her in a house where they
were mistresses and she was a guest. So, when she was
able to command her voice sufficiently, she took an op-
portunity of saying, "It was Charles Verschoyle who
came here this morning; mother knows him, and he is
a friend of Grace's."
"So I should think," replied Jemima, but without
more sharpness in her voice than usual.
"He had been to Aunt Abigail's, and they told him
I was here," Dorothy went on to say. "He is going back
to London soon, and will tell Grace he has seen me."
"It was very fortunate that thou hadst not gone," said
Kezia, "but perhaps he knew the hour when thou wert
going. I suppose thou expected himT'
"No, I did not," and Dorothy found courage to look
up and meet Kezia's eyes. They looked at her as they
usually did; there was no terrible light in them as if they
286 DOROTHY FOX.
had witnessed an awful secret, which would soon be com-
municated to all whom it might and might not concern.
Indeed, Kezia was particularly gracious in pressing her to
eat more, fearing that she had lost her appetite, and re-
minding her that she had a journey before her. So Doro-
thy drew breath, and began to think that Charles Vers-
choyle was right, and that Kezia had seen nothing. So
great a calamity being averted, caused her spirits to rise
at once, and she left Holberton Hall smiling and gracious,
and thanking the sisters for the kindness they had shown
to her.
Josiah was at the station waiting for her, smiling, that
she might see no trace of his flagging spirits and heavy
heart. They were in good time, but Josiah was restless,
and kept going backward and forward to see if the lug-
gage was labelled, or if the ticket office was open. Doro-
thy wished he would sit quiet for a few minutes, as she
w^anted to tell him that Charles Verschoyle had been to
see her. But whenever she was about to begin, Josiali
started off; and now, unless she made haste, she feared
the subject of her communication would arrive before
she could announce his advent.
When Josiah sat down again, Dorothy said, quickly,
"I had a visitor this morning; Charles Verschoyle came
to see me."
Josiah only grasped his umbrella tighter, and answered,
"Oh! did he?"
Then there was a pause until he was sufficiently calm
to ask, "Are you going to see him again 1"
"Yes, he said he was going to York by this train,
and he would see me at the station."
Here Josiah jumped up in a great hurry, saying he
was quite sure the ticket-office must be open by this
time; and without another word he went off. When he
LOVING AND LOSING. 28 7
returned, some five or six minutes later, he found that
Captain Verschoyle had joined Dorothy, and was carry-
ing on a most animated conversation with her.
The Captain condescended to remember that he had
met Mr. Crewdson before, and to bestow on him a formal
shake of the hand. He then announced that, thinking
Miss Fox might have some parcel or message for Mrs,
Hanbury, he had taken the liberty of calling upon her
at Holberton Hall, To which Josiah replied, "Thank
thee." Why he should be thankful he did not know,
however, for never had he felt greater animosity towards
any one than towards this man, whose soldier-like ap-
pearance, handsome face, and easy manner, made hira
feel his own defects a hundred-fold more keenly than
ever.
"I think we may as well take our seats. Miss Fox,"
said Captain Verschoyle, relieving Dorothy of her cloak
and travelling-bag. Josiah, thus excluded, walked after
them up the platform, watched Captain Verschoyle make
all the arrangements for Dorothy's comfort, and then
stood uncomfortable and ill at ease at the carriage door.
Here he was rather unceremoniously pushed aside by an
old gentleman, who jumped in in a great hurry, and, re-
gardless of the cloak and umbrellas ostentatiously spread
out to guard it, took the seat opposite Dorothy, shut the
door, and then looked out of the window, and said,
"Ah, how d'ye do, Crewdson? This young lady a friend
of yours? Going to York? Very wrong to send her
alone might meet some impertinent fellow on the way.
I'll take care of her. Introduce me."
Josiah, taken aback by this unusual familiarity in a
bowing acquaintance, stammered out, "Thou art very
good. Dorothy Fox "
"Oh!" said the old j^entlemaii; interrupting him. Then
205 DOROTHY FOX.
taking off his hat, he repeated, "Dorothy Fox, and my
name, for our journey entirely at your service, is Harry
Egerton. Now, Miss Fox, society permits us after this
to be as polite or as rude as we please to each other."
"I hope I shall not be rude, and I do not think that
su( li is thy intention," said Dorothy, laughing.
"You are ignoring me altogether, sir," said Captain
Verschoyle, touching him on the arm.
"No, I am not," answered the old man, gruffly, turn-
ing round; "but I've seen jyou before this morning; I
came up in the same train with you." Though he in-
tended to be very severe, at the sight of the expression
on his godson's face, Mr. Egerton could not refrain from
winking his eye.
"Thou wilt let us know of thy safe arrival, Dorothy?
und perhaps while thou art at thy aunt's I shall be at
York on business, and come and see thee," said Josiah.
"Oh yes, do," said Dorothy. Then seeing a frown
on Captain Verschoyle's face, she added, "that is, if I
am there; but I shall not stay long. Farewell, Josiah!
F)o be careful; don't stand on the step the train is mov-
ing, thou might be thrown down."
As the train went off, Josiah, in the bitterness of his
heart, wished he had been thrown down, and that it had
gone over him. In spite of what he told Dorothy about
being glad they had met even if she could never care
for him, he asked himself now why he had ever seen
her, if seeing her was only to make him hopeless and
wretched. Had his father only brought him up differently
- taught him to say what he thought like other men
made him feel certain that the thing he was doing was
the right thing to do, matters might have been different.
But what chance had he with a man like Charles Vers-
choyle'? None. Telling his clerks that he was particu-
LOVING AND LOSING. 289
larly engaged and could see no one, Josiah went into
his office, flung himself down upon his chair, and de-
clared to himself that he did not care what became
of him.
In the mean time his sisters were anxiously awaiting
his return, full of the importance of the awful disclosure
which Kezia had to make. She had no intention of
prefacing her revelation with "Happening to be passing
the window," or, "Not having an idea that any one was
in the room." No, Miss Crewdson gave her unvarnished
testimony to the truth. Considering it was her duty to
know what her brother's future wife could have to do
with a man belonging to a profession abominable in the
sight of a peace-loving community, she had walked into
the garden, and stood at the window of the room, look-
ing at them until she had attracted their attention. If
what had passed before her eyes did not stagger Josiah
and make the scales which blinded him fall from his
eyes, the sisters considered it would be their duty to lay
the matter before the Society. And here they were only
acting according to what their consciences dictated. No
malice or dislike to Dorothy in any way impelled them.
For had she been entirely "after their own hearts," the
last few hours would have lowered her so much in their
estimation as to make them think her unworthy to be
the wife of any man bearing an honest name.
Josiah at length arrived, hot and breathless, having
walked very quickly, to prevent his being more than half-
an-hour late for dinner. He expected to be met with
black looks and angry faces, instead of which, Kezia
only remarked that he looked very warm, and Jemima
reproached him mildly for hurrying when there was no
occasion to do so.
Had Josiah been quick-witted and sharp, he would
290 DOROTHY FOX.
have been certain that something was about to happen.
The sisters had agreed that he should have his dinner
in peace; and during the meal they made themselves so
unusually pleasant and agreeable, that even Josiah won-
dered what could be the reason of this sudden change.
"I dare say," thought he, "they want to show me how
glad they are that she is gone;" and he heaved a sigh
so deep that Jemima remarked, "One would think that
thy mind was ill at ease, Josiah."
Josiah denied the assertion most emphatically; where-
upon Kezia exclaimed mournfully, that she wished his
sisters could say the same; but it was best to prepare
himself, for they had a blow in store for him, a blow
dealt him by a hunnan hand, and a hand too that they
had once thought to see joined with his own. Josiah
being somewhat obtuse as to metaphorical allusions, did
not grasp Kezia's meaning, and sat silently staring first
at one and then at the other, hoping to get some ex-
planation. Jemima, who was in all her dealings essen-
tially practical, said,
"Kezia, Josiah doth not understand thee; thou hadst
best be plain with him, and in as few words as possible
tell him what thou hast discovered."
So urged, Kezia commenced, and soon the plain truth
was made known to Josiah, who listened with an un-
moved countenance.
"Thou art quite positive that thou saw all this? Thou
fancied nothing?" he said.
Kezia allowed this imputation on her veracity to pass
unnoticed. She merely stated that she stood looking in
at the window until the man walked up to her and asked
if she wanted to come in.
"And did Dorothy know that it wab thou?"
"Certainly she did,"
LOVING AND LOSING. 29 I
"And she made no remark upon it afterwards?"
"No."
Josiah relapsed into silence until Jemima could bear
it no longer; so she said rather sharply, "Thou art tak-
ing it very coolly, Josiah."
"Am I? What am I to do?"
"What art thou to dof' she echoed; "I think if I
were a man I should not require to be told what /should
do, when the woman engaged to be my wife had been
seen in the arms of another," and Miss Crewdson felt
as if her maidenly estate had been offended by naming
such a situation.
"Perhaps not," said Josiah slowly, "but Dorothy Fox
is not, and never was, engaged to be my wife. I have
nothing, therefore, to say about it, and, of course, neither
of you will ever speak of it to any one."
"Dear Josiah!" exclaimed both the Miss Crewdsons
in a breath, "thou hast taken a load off our minds."
"I always thought," said Kezia, "that our brother had
more sense than to marry Dorothy Fox. She is a bad,
forward girl, Josiah, and mark my words "
But at the moment it seemed much more likely that
he would mark her body, for jumping up suddenly he
exclaimed, "Hold thy tongue, she is nothing of the sort;
though she will not marry me, I love her better than
anybody in the world, and I won't let any one speak
against her."
Now, how is it that men will make such fatal blun-
ders? In one moment Josiah had undone all that he
most desired to compass. His two sisters would not
have spoken had he said nothing; but now nothing
would prevent them "letting justice have its course."
Jemima therefore said coldly, "Kezia, I do not know
that thou and I are called upon to listen to the vain
19*
292 DOROTHY FOX.
ravings of a senseless boy; we will leave him, trusting
that a better spirit will be given to him. But, Josiah,
remember we are not going to screen faults which we
ought to expose. We shall speak to some elder, and
ask him to inform Nathaniel Fox that his daughter,
during her rtay here, and while we believed her to be
the engaged wife of our brother, was seen in the embrace
of a strange man, and he a soldier."
"It's false!" roared Josiah, "and Nathaniel Fox knows
of it already."
"Knows of what?" cried both the sisters.
Josiah with a great gulp at the final extinguishing of
all his hopes, said, like a brave, true-hearted man as he
was, "The man was Charles Verschoyle, her accepted
husband."
CHAPTER XXXIII.
Explanation and Reconciliation.
Saturday had come round, Lady Laura had returned
from Beauwood, and Audrey had determined that she
would see Geoffrey Dynecourt again. If possible, she
would go to Miss Bingham's afternoon party; and all her
energies were now applied to obtain her mother's aid in
accomplishing this. She had resolved to keep Mr. Ford's
offer a secret from Lady Laura. She did not repent her
refusal of him, but felt great comfort in knowing that
she had settled her fate so far. If she had the slightest
liope that Geoffrey Dynecourt still loved her, she believed
she would be happy; but though sometimes she indulged
in delicious dreams of forgiveness and renewed love,
they generally ended in tears and despair.
Lady Laura was in excellent spirits. Her visit to
Beauwood had been a success. Lady Spencer had made
EXPLANATION AND RECONCILTATION. 295
herself very agreeable to her, and she had been pressed
to visit them again at Christmas.
"Considering all things, I am very glad I went," she
said.
''I am glad too," said Audrey; "I think it has done
you good, mamma; you are looking much better."
"And how did you get on without me, dear? I
thought of you constantly."
"Oh! I managed very well. I went out in the morn-
ings with Marshall, and yesterday afternoon Mr. Ford
came to see me."
T.ady Laura started up from the sofa and exclaimed,
"Mr. Ford! Audrey, you don't say so. Why, what did
you do?"
"Oh! I told him I was not well enough to go with
you, but that I was gradually getting better, though not
quite strong yet."
"And he he did not enter into anything personal?"
"He said he was in town for a day or two, and he
wanted to see how I was."
"And you were quite cordial to him?"
"Yes, quite; I told him I was very glad to see him.
He is coming again to go to an afternoon party which
Mr. Marjoribanks, Miss Bingham's uncle, is to give at
Ealing; and he brought us an invitation. He said he
told Mrs. Winterton he knew you intended calling upon
her, and as they were very anxious that we should come,
he offered to bring the card. I thought you would ac-
cept, and told Mr. Ford so, and I sent a little note to
Miss Bingham."
"That was quite right, my love," said Lady Laura,
whose hopes now began to revive with all their old force.
"Did he say that he had heard from me?"
"No."
294 DOROTHY FOX.
"And his manner was the same as ever?"
"Quite the same."
"How very strange that he should have come the
day I was away! but everything seems to have turned
out well," and she looked sharply at her daughter, but
Audrey's face was unreadable. "Then there was nothing
unpleasant during the interview, and you parted friends'?"
she added.
"Yes."
Lady Laura went over with the intention of kissing
Audrey, but finding her daughter apparently unprepared
for this unusual demonstration, she quietly patted her
head instead, saying, "Good girl, you have acted as I
knew you would, and very much lightened your mother's
heart."
"Shall we go to this party 1" asked Audrey, not look-
ing up.
"Of course, my dear. I shall call upon Mrs. Winter-
ton to-day."
Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday. Oh, how
the days dragged; how long the hours seemed; how
wearily they passed! And yet when Thursday came,
Audrey would fain have had them all to go through
again, so nervous and anxious did she feel. She had
no hope; only the certainty of future bitterness, and
fruitless longing, seemed to stare her in the face. Still
suspense was unendurable, and she knew herself well
enough to be assured that nothing could try her so
severely.
"Marshall, do make me look my best to-day," she
said.
"Why, Miss Audrey, you don't want my help. I never
f;aw you looking better. Your eyes are as bright as when
you were a little girl, and you've got quite a colour. I'm
r.XPLANATION AND RECONCILIATION. 295
sure it's a treat to hear you speak in your old way again,
for you have not cared what you looked like lately."
So that afternoon, notwithstanding there were girls
there in the first bloom of their youth, fresh as the flowers
they sat among, beauties whose conquests and triumphs
were only beginning, none of them attracted more at-
tention than did Audrey Verschoyle, with her well-dressed
elegant figure, her intellectual face, and her thorough-
bred, unconscious, self-possessed manner. As she entered
the room all eyes were turned towards her, and among
others those of a man who felt his heart give quick heavy
beats, and his vision become dimmed until all was blotted
out, except that face blanched white and up-turned to
his; a man who strained his ears to catch the sound of
a voice which haunted him day and night, and yet who
strove to command himself sufficiently to bend his head
towards his companion and answer,
"Yes, unusually cold for this time of year."
"Warm, I said," laughed the lady with whom he was
conversing.
"Yes, I meant warm," answered Mr. Dynecourt.
In another moment he had touched Audrey's hand,
had expressed to Lady Laura his pleasure at seeing her
looking so well, and his regret at hearing that her daughter
had been an invalid, and made several other polite com-
monplace speeches. But not once had he turned his
eyes upon Audrey, or addressed her in any way. As they
moved on he looked at her, thinking "Her face looks
as if it were chiselled out of marble like her heart."
And yet he could have flung himself at her feet and im-
plored her to cheat him again. He longed for one of
the old loving looks, and wished he could again feel the
soft pressure of her hand, and hear the low-toned whispers
296 DOROTHY FOX.
that had lured him to misery, even were he then to be
cast away, a prey to bitterness and despair.
And poor Audrey, how did it fare with herl She
seemed suddenly benumbed; she was surprised she did
not feel more. At home she had pictured their meeting,
and how she would strive to look unconscious, and
restrain the tears that would be ready to flow freely if he
were cold and distant, as she feared he might be. Now
all her fears were realized. He had, as much as he could
without attracting notice, utterly ignored her, and yet she
did not seem to care did not seem to care for anything
that might happen to herself, or to anybody.
Miss Bingham and Mrs. Winterton wondered why Mr.
Ford did not come. Lady Laura, too, was surprised,
although she did not worry herself much, being satisfied
that her daughter had got over her fit of refusing him,
and was now quite ready to be Mrs. Richard Ford when
asked. Her ladyship thought this happy result entirely
owing to her own diplomacy, and prided herself greatly
on her skill in leaving Audrey at home, moping by her-
self. She considered this to be the final touch which had
brought about the desired end. So she lent a ready ear
to a story told by Mr. Marjoribanks, of how he had been
fascinated in days gone by with a portrait of herself
in the "Book of Beauty," and that by it he should
have recognized her anywhere. In recounting her past
triumphs, and the homage which had been paid to a
beauty of which, she said, she might now safely speak
without being accused of vanity, her daughter was for-
gotten.
Audrey was sitting for a few minutes alone, having
asked Colonel Grant, with whom she had been talking,
to get her some tea. Lifting her eyes suddenly, she met
a look of passionate longing, that made every nerve
EXPLANATION AND RECONCILIATION. 297
tingle, and in an instant, without pausing to consider,
she made a sign to Geoffrey Dynecourt to join her. He
came to her at once, but with such sternness in his face
that Audrey could hardly steady her voice to say, "I I
wanted to speak to you; could you find some place where
we should not be overheardl"
Just then Colonel Grant returned with the tea, making
many excuses for being delayed; and Mr. Dynecourt said,
"I will look for the plant I was speaking of, Miss Vers-
choyle, and then perhaps you will permit me to show it
to you."
He left her, and did not return until many of the
company were moving about, looking at the ferns and
rare plants, so that their being together was not likely to
attract notice. "Near to this," he said, "there is a small
room thrown open to the guests; no one was in it a few
minutes since, and we are less likely to be interrupted
there than anywhere else."
Audrey bowed her head; to speak seemed impossible.
A short glass-covered passage led to the room, the door
of which Mr. Dynecourt opened, but immediately closed,
finding it already occupied by a lady and gentleman en-
gaged in conversation. He hesitated a moment,, and then
said, "You must take a turn with me in the garden. You
have your bonnet and cloak on, it will not harm you;"
and before Audrey had tiine to question the propriety of
this course she was walking by Geoffrey Dynecourt's side,
and feeling that she would have given the whole world
to have been anywhere else. Why had she brought him
there? She had nothing to say, her strength seemed to
be forsaking her, and she was overcome with shame at
the thought that she was forcing her love upon him, and
that he saw it. This nerved her to make a great effort
and say, "Mr. Dynecourt, perhaps you may think me
298 DOROTHY FOX.
Strangely inconsistent in wanting to speak to you alone.
But Mr. Ford told me that you were thinking of going
abroad for many years, and I I could not bear that you
should have a bad opinion of me all your life."
"A bad opinion," he said; "who told you that I had
a bad opinion of you'?"
"No one told me so in words; but the message you
asked Mr. Ford to give me was no arrow shot at random.
You knew it would wound where it was aimed."
"Pardon me, Miss Verschoyle, if I say I had no idea
that you conld be wounded."
Audrey did not answer; but turned with defiant eyes
and looked straight at him as she said
"Mr. Dynecourt, you are very hard upon me; but
perhaps it is best, for your pity would be unbearable,
and for a moment I feared that I might have incurred
it. I see now that I was wrong to intrude myself upon
you, and take you from pleasant society to listen to the
woman who has taught you to show a want of courtesy
to her sex. I came, in the weakness of my nature, to
ask you to forgive the pain I have caused you, and not
to think, because / seemed to you false and hard-hearted,
that truth and love had ceased to exist among us. I
hope there is yet much happiness in store for you."
"Oh yes," he said, "I am certain of happiness. Exiled
from my country, a homeless man without hope, without
a creature to care for me, I cannot but be happy. If at
any time a gloomy moment should come, I have but to
recall the picture of my old home, the smell of whose
very earth is dear to me. I have only to remember that
it is in the hands of strangers; that the people who loved
me and served me, as their fathers did my fathers, are
serving other masters; and that the woman I would
have died for is mistress of Dyne Court, rejoicing in the
EXPLANATION AND RECONCILIATION. 2C)q
lovely face which lured a weak fool to his destruction,
and the arts which caught the old man who could give
her the only thing her soul longed for money, fine
clothes, and jewels."
"It is false," she said; "I shall never be the wife of
Richard Ford!"
"You tell me so, when not an hour since I heard
your mother receiving congratulations on your approach-
ing marriage? How am I to believe you?"
"Because I tell you."
"You tell me what?"
"That he has already asked me, and I have refused
to marry him."
Geoffrey Dynecourt staggered and turned pale as
deatli.
"And, sir," she continued haughtily, "now that I have
added to my other sins in showing you how easily I can
betray a confidence which noble-minded women con-
sider sacred, it is time we parted;" and she turned to
leave him.
But Mr. Dynecourt grasped her arm, and drawing
her towards him said, in a voice choked with emotion,
"Audrey, for the sake of God who sees both our
hearts, don't let us part like this. Have mercy upon me.
Show me some pity, or I shall go mad. Have you
nothing, nothing more to say to me?"
She lifted up her face, white to the lips, and looking
for an instant into the eager, passionate eyes whose gaze
see\iied intense enough to read her thoughts, answered
slowly,
"Yes that I love you with all my heart!" and
then cold, undemonstrative Audrey threw her arms round
this man's neck, and her tears rained upon his breast.
He did not attempt to hush her, or to still her sobs, he
500 POROTHY FOX.
only held her as if defying the whole world to tear her
from him.
"Audrey," he whispered hoarsely, "you are not de-
ceiving yourself and me? It is love, not pity, that you
are giving me?"
The tightening of her arms was her only answer.
"You know I am poor, and that I never expect to
be otherwise; that I can give you nothing but the neces-
saries of life; that I ask you to share cares, anxieties,
and perhaps troubles of which you have known nothing
hitherto. What do you say?"
She no longer hid her face, but looking at him
answered, "That if you will take me, I will be your
wife;" and in the kiss that sealed this bond "their hearts
leaped to their lips," and vowed a constancy that death
alone could sever
Have they been hours together, or has time stood
still, that the light looks only a shade dimmer than it did
when they entered this garden of paradise? Around
nothing is changed, all is the very same except the two
who are walking towards the house. Can this soft April
expression, and these liquid, loving eyes belong to the
cold, haughty-looking woman whose face seemed chiselled
out of marble? Is it possible that Geoffrey Dynecourt
has ever looked stem and relentless, with hard lines
about a mouth where now you could almost see dimples?
"And you are sure you never really ceased to love
me?"
"Never; I used to hate myself, because I could not
help loving you so madly."
"And I have lain and cried myself to sleep, thinking
of our bitter parting, and that you had forgotten me."
"Oh, Audrey, how could I, how could any man who
"what can he want?" 301
had ever loved you, cease to love you? My darling,
night after night I have watched your window, and as I
passed the house I have rested my hand against the
wall, because inside was the treasure whose image filled
my heart."
"We have both suffered!" she said.
"We have indeed, dearest, but how small it seems to
the joy that I feel now! Oh! Audrey, I could ask you
every moment if you love me, for the ecstasy of hearing
you say you do."
"And I could listen to the question for ever, so sweet
is it to know that you want my love."
"We must go in," he said; "I dare not keep you out
longer, and yet to meet other people now seems more
than I can bear."
"We only part until to-morrow, and my thoughts
will not leave you for one moment;" then with her old
gaiety she added, "Now let us gather up all our energies
to meet the attack with boldness; for it fails me to think
where the people imagine we can be."
CHAPTER XXXIV.
"What can he want?"
Audrey and Geoffrey Dynecourt carried off the ex-
clamations of surprise at their absence in a very clever
manner, aided greatly by Lady Laura's perfect tranquil-
lity regarding their movements. She said she certainly
ought to scold Mr. Dynecourt for permitting Audrey to
act so foolishly, although, as she remarked to those near
her, "I quite expected her to be missing, for Audrey
can't stand the heat of a room, or of any covered place
when she has her bonnet on. I remember Lady Alfreton
taking her to an affair of this kind, and she went roam-
302 DOROTHY FOX,
ing about the grounds, and was absolutely lost." Rhe
did not mention that this was in the height of summer,
when most of the people there did the same. In her
heart, Lady Laura was very much annoyed at her
daughter's conduct, but she was too wise to give others
a handle against her by betraying the slightest vexation.
"It's absurd," thought she, "for Audrey to be setting
everybody at defiance; and Mr. Ford would not pro-
bably like to hear that she was so entirely engrossed
Avith another in his absence. I shall speak to her as soon
as we are alone."
Very soon after this she was expressing to Mr. Mar-
joribanks how much she had enjoyed his pleasant gather-
ing. Then, leaning on her host's arm, she left, distri-
buting smiles, adieux, and farewell compliments, causing
a perfect chorus of, "What a charming woman!" to fol-
low her departure.
Mr. Dynecourt escorted Audrey to the carriage. Just
before it drove off, he asked Lady Laura if she would
be disengaged at two o'clock the next day, as he wished
her to give him a few minutes' conversation.
"Certainly; I shall be very pleased to see you," she
said, with her most fascinating smile. Waiting for a
moment, she turned suddenly to her daughter, and said,
"What can he want? I have not been speaking about
him to anybody, have I]"
Audrey was glad that her face could not be seen.
Left with her mother, she did not know what to do. Tell
her she must; she could never let this thunderbolt be
launched by Geoffrey first. She knew a storm would
be sure to follow, and thought it best to allow some of
the violence to be spent before he came. Yet how to
begin, or what to say or do, she could not tell. To
have conterai)lated a marriage with a poor man at any
"what can he want?" 303
time would have been a dreadful crime; now, when a
rich suitor was at her feet, the offence would be a thou-
sand times greater.
"I wonder what could have prevented Mr. Ford from
coming^" continued Lady Laura; "I dare say you will
have a letter from him to-night. I hope he is not ill."
"I hope not," returned her daughter.
"And, Audrey, I must say that I think you acted very
unwisely to-day in permitting Mr. Dynecourt to pay you
so much attention."
"Did he pay me much attention, mamma?"
"Well, you know what I mean. I suppose if it had
not been for the sake of getting up some stupid sort of
flirtation with him, you would not have gone roaming
into the garden, or to some distant greenhouse, or
wherever you did go. I made the best of it, but I as-
sure you I was not pleased; and, let me tell you, nobody
can afford to set people's tongues at naught before mar-
riage."
"Can they afterwards? because if so, I shall get mar-
ried as soon as possible."
"Well, of course, when a woman has a husband, and
a good house, and her position is established, people are
very lenient to her peculiarities. If you choose to make
a friend of one person then, do so; though, remember,
it's rather a task to turn a bear into a domestic animal,"
and Lady Laura laughed at her own sharpness.
"I don't quite understand the allusion," said Audrey.
"Don't you, dear?" replied Lady Laura, playfully.
"Well, you know I always look upon Mr. Dynecourt as
having something of the savage about him, and one
never knows when the nature of such people will peep
put."
"lam sorry you do not like him," replied her daughter.
304 DOROTHY F0!{.
"Oh! I like him well enough; and if he is to be a
favourite of yours, my dear child, rest assured I shall
never interfere with you."
"Then is securing my regard the same as securing
yours, mammal'
"Of course it will be, love."
"But is it now]"
"Yes, decidedly."
"Then in that case, I need not hesitate to tell you
why Mr. Dynecourt is coming to see you to-morrow,"
said Audrey. Her heart beat very fast, and she felt
desperately nervous; but it was of no use waiting; she
had better have it over "and that is because he wants
your consent to marry me."
Lady Laura paused for a moment to take in the
words fully, then she laughed, "Marry you! well, that is
a good joke. Has he never heard about Mr. Ford'?"
"Yes."
"Then, my dear, you are carrying the thing a great
deal too far. I had no idea that there was any flirtation
going on between you; but I think you might have
spared me the trouble of answering him. If you do not
want to make an enemy of the man, you need not have
said you did not care for him. You could have given him
to understand that you had already accepted Mr. Ford."
"But I have not accepted Mr. Ford."
"Well, perhaps not in words, but you mean to marry
him."
"No, I do not."
"Not intend to marry Mr. Ford?"
"No, mamma; and I may as well tell you all, at once.
Mr. Ford has proposed to me, and I have refused him;
and Mr. Dynecourt has asked me to marry him, and I
have accepted him."
"what can he want?" 305
"Audrey!" almost screamed Lady Laura, "you're
mad; I'm positive you are, you wicked! bad! abandoned
girl! you must be. I don't believe it's true, you're only
saying this to worry and annoy me, and I can't stand it;
your conduct already has so upset my nerves that I feel
as if the slightest strain would make me break down
altogether."
"Mamma, I am very sorry. I know I told you very
abruptly, but it is better that you should know the
truth."
"Do you mean to tell me, then, that what you have
just said is true, and that you really intend to act in this
way?" asked Lady Laura, speaking very slowly.
"Yes, mamma."
"Then you never shall!" exclaimed her mother. "I'd
rather put you into a lunatic asylum than allow you to
marry that penniless, senseless beggar. Never, Audrey,
never shall you marry that man."
"Of course, I am prepared for your being very angry,
and very disappointed, mamma. I have no doubt were
I in your place I should be the same. Perhaps just now
it is useless for me to say how sorry I am to grieve you,
still I am truly sorry; but don't say I shall never marry
Mr. Dynecourt. Listen to reason, mamma."
"I will listen to nothing; and you had better write
and tell him not to dare to come near me, or I'll have
him put out of the house the impertinent, presuming,
red-headed fellow."
The latter epithet was too much for Audrey's gravity;
the absurdity of such a reflection being cast upon Geof-
frey's tawny locks turned her anger at once, and she
said, in a softened voice,
"I know, mamma, my choice must appear to you to
be unaccountable; but when I tell you I love tliis man
Dorothy Fox. 20
306 DOROTHY FOX.
well enough, I believe, to beg my very bread with him,
surely, with such a feeling in my heart, you will not
counsel me to marry Mr. Ford."
"You ought to marry Mr. Ford, and have no feeling
in your heart."
"Quite so; and as long as I had no feeling I was
willing to become his wife but now I would rather
jump into the river than do so."
"And I would rather see you lying there than dis-
graced. Oh, what have I done, that my children should
treat me so shamefully! But as you have no thought for
me, I will have none for you, and I'll tell every one that
you are mad, and your new lover shall have a nice ac-
count of your former conduct. I'll tell him how you
have deceived and cajoled others, that your love for
him is only a pretence; that you have no heart, and
never had one."
"All that will fall on deaf ears, mamma; he knows
my best and my worst, and, thank God, he is content to
take me as I am. But understand, mamma, although I
wish to give you all the obedience and respect that you
are entitled to, yet I intend to marry Geoffrey Dynecourt;
therefore I trust you will not force me to do anything
which might give rise to scandal. I am content to wait
your time, to take your advice, to follow out any plan
you may think best, but I intend to marry Geoffrey Dyne-
court; and I also intend the world to know it."
"Oh yes, publish your disgrace as soon as possible."
"Do not speak in that way, mother, for love has so
softened me that I long to throw my arms round you,
and sob out my happiness;" and she hid her face in her
hands, and cried bitterly.
"If you had made a proper choice I should have
been very pleased to have received any proof of your
"what can he want?" 307
affection. But when I remember how you have deceived
me, by never saying one word of this, and leading me
to suppose that you would marry Mr. Ford, I can put
little faith in either your love or your tears. What I can
possibly say to that man I know not. I fully expect
he'll threaten us with an action, and I cannot blame him
if he does."
"You need not fear Mr. Ford troubling you; he was
far kinder to me than you have been, mamma."
"Very glad to get quit of his bargain," sneered her
ladyship; "and I am sure no one need wonder at it.
You seem to think that you are somebody, to encourage
and lead people on, and then refuse them; but I can tell
you the world won't be so ready to believe your story.
Common sense will tell people that, unless you are mad
as I believe you are it is not very probable that a
passee woman of thirty, without good looks or accomplish-
ments for / don't know what you can do would refuse
a man whose only folly is, that with such a fortune as
his he has not aimed higher. Lady Inverlochy would
have jumped at him for one of her girls; and as for the
Grahams, they were after him like a pack of hounds."
"Well, mamma," said Audrey, smiling, "now they
can try their chance. I will promise not to interfere with
any one, if they will only let me alone."
"Oh yes! just like your selfish nature," exclaimed her
mother. "As long as your wishes are gratified you never
consider other people. It will be very pleasant for me
to hear the sneers and inuendoes of women whose
daughters have made excellent matches. I know their
way of supposing it is a love-match, and adding, 'What
else could it be fori' A polite reminder that they are
quite aware of the proverty cf the whole affair. What
your brother will say, I do not know."
3o8 DOROTHY FOX.
"Say! What can he say? I am sure he did all he
could to put me against Mr. Ford."
"That is only because men always underrate what
they consider secure. You'll find he will not be so de-
lighted to have a brother-in-law whose i)resent position!
consider to be only one step above that of a tradesman."
Audrey laughed outright. "Well, mamma, that is just
what I want you to see that, after all, Geoffrey is in
advance of Mr. Ford."
Lady Laura shrugged her shoulders, saying, if they
had come to quibbling about words, it was time to put
a stop to the conversation. She sat silent for the few
minutes before they reached home, stepped out of the
carriage, and betook herself to her own room, from which
she did not emerge during the rest of the evening.
Audrey sat considering how she could best soften her
mother's wrathful indignation, and keep her rather sharp
tongue in check, during the interview which she so
much dreaded for Geoffrey Dynecourt. His poverty,
she feared, would be rather a sore subject with him
Avhen made the target for all the arrows with which her
mother intended to pierce him. If Charles were only at
hand, she thought he might make matters smoother for
her. So, after thinking over it, she wrote and asked him
to help her. Lady Laura was similarly employed; so the
same post conveyed two letters to Captain Verschoyle,
both of them begging him to return home at once.
Audrey's said
"Dearest Charlie, For the sake of old days, give
me your help. Something has happened which has made
mamma very angry, and she will not listen to me, or
to sense or reason. To you she would probably pay
TvED-COAT ASSURANCE. 309
more attention; will you therefore come home as soon
as you can, and try to set matters straight between us?
"Ever your loving sister,
"Audrey.
"P.S. I cannot explain anything in a letter; but I
am so happy, and I am longing to hear some one say
they are glad to hear it."
Lady Laura wrote:
"My dear Charles, Audrey has gone mad; quite
mad, I believe. I can give you no explanation of her
conduct in a letter. As I trust it may still be hushed up,
I do not like to say a word on paper; but I must see
you. So make any excuse you like to Mr. Egerton, and
return at once to
"Your affectionate, but really distracted mother,
"Laura Verschoyle."
CHAPTER XXXV.
Red-coat Assurance.
Abigail Fletcher, Patience Fox's only sister, was a
tiny, fragile, dark-eyed little woman, Avith a stout will
and opinion of her own, a quick vivacious temperament,
and a general interest in the affairs of all her friends
and acquaintances. Most people in and about York
knew the Fletchers. Therefore when Dorothy told Mr.
Egerton she was going to visit her aunt, he made greater
friends with her, telling her he remembered her mother
well, and adding, "Though I have not a shake-hands
acquaintance with your aunt, we know each other."
To Captain Verschoyle the old gentleman was not
disposed to be quite so amiable, and to Dorothy's horror
Charles received two or three decided snubs. When
they reached the station Miss Fletcher was waiting for
310 DOROTHV VOX,
Dorothy. Mr. Egerton jumped out and told her that he
had been intrusted by Mr. Crewdson with the care of
her niece, and he had much pleasure in finding that
York could claim an interest in the young lady, " for her face
does as much credit to it as her mother's did before her."
This led to a conversation about Patience and old
days, during which Dorothy and Captain Verschoyle
found time to say a few words to each other and to ar-
range a meeting.
"But you must introduce me to your aunt," said
Charles.
"Oh yes," said Dorothy, feeling very nervous about
performing this ceremony. A pause occurred, and she
began, "Aunt Abigail, this is Charles Verschoyle. Mother
knows him," she added timidly.
"That's right, Miss Fox, back him up with a good
reference; I am sure his appearance requires it," said
Mr. Egerton.
Fortunately Aunt Abigail knew the eccentric char-
acter of Mr. P^gerton, so without replying to this com-
ment she held out her hand to Captain Verschoyle,
made a few remarks to him, and, asking Dorothy if she were
quite ready, entered the fly which was waiting for them.
The two gentlemen watched the fly till it was out of
sight, and Mr. Egerton, taking his godson's arm, walked
on for a few minutes in silence, and then said
"When I unearthed you twice near Miss Fletcher's,
why couldn't you have told me what took you in that
direction? What need was there for trumping up a
story about Hartop? I suppose you aren't ashamed of
knowing the girl, are you?"
"Ashamed!" said Captain Verschoyle, showing through
his bronzed skin the colour which the question brought
to his cheeks; "I don't quite understand you."
RliD-COAT ASSURANCE. 3ll
"Oh, that IS a pity!" replied Mr. Egerton, with a
sneer. "You're so uncommonly sharp generally, particu-
larly in deceiving other people when you have a game
of your own on hand. Ha, ha!" he suddenly roared.
"I can't help laughing when I think of your face; I never
saw a fellow so chop-fallen in my life. So you thought
I didn't know you were going to Leeds T'
"I really did not think or care about it. Miss Fox's
sister has shown me a great deal of kindness, and know-
ing that I should probably see her in town, I thought it
would only be civil to call and inquire for the young lady."
"You're your father's own son, Charlie," said the old
gentleman. "You've a precious awkward way of telling
a lie. Now your mother does it handsomely; but then
it's a woman's trade. How did you come to know this
girl^ Who is she? What's her father?"
Captain Verschoyle tried to cover his vexation by
pretending to be amused. "Upon my word, sir, one
would imagine that you thought I had some serious
design upon the young lady, whom I know because she
is the sister of Mrs. Hanbury, of Fryston Grange."
"Well, then, who is the father of Mrs. Hanbury of
Fryston Grange? and who's Hanbury? You don't think
I forget your ways of asking everybody's pedigree, that
after eating their dinners and drinking their wines you
may turn up your aristocratic nose at them and their
belongings. I know you're beating about the bush,
Charlie, so you may as well tell me whether he's a tal-
low-chandler, or a cheesemonger; for, fortunately for us,
card-playing, racing, betting, or most other ways of get-
ting money under false pretences, are not popular pro-
fessions among the middle classes yet."
Captain Vei-schoyle saw that he had better answer
in a straightforward manner, so he said,
3 12 DOROTHY FOX.
"Mrs. Hanbury's husband is a corn-merchant in Lon-
don, and her father is a cloth-dealer in the West of
England."
"West of England! What do you mean by the West
of England 1"
"Why, Plymouth."
"Why don't you say Plymouth, then? That's were
you were sick so long after landing in England. Oh,
so you made the acquaintance there."
"Really, sir, you are making a great deal out of no-
thing," said Captain Verschoyle, losing his temper. "Out
of mere courtesy I call upon a young lady, to ask if she
has any commissions for her sister, and you twist it about
and question me, as if you thought I were going to pro-
pose to her immediately."
"No; I've not got that thought in my head, Charlie.
But I have this one: you have a good many philander-
ing ways about you which a girl like that doesn't under-
stand. The young fellows she has been accustomed to
haven't been blessed with your red-coat assurance, so
they don't take it for granted that anything becomes
them. Why, she's a baby compared to the women you're
accustomed to. Her blushing smiles and tears come as
quickly as sunshine and cloud on an April morning."
" You're speaking plainly, sir."
"Yes, I generally do, particularly to you, my boy; but
I never yet left you in a scrape if I could get you out."
"That you never did," replied Captain Verschoyle,
his anger vanishing as he remembered the many sub-
stantial acts of kindness he had received from his god-
father. "Now, tell me what's all this about, and what
do you mean?"
" Why this that that girl has caught your fancy, and
you want her to be equally taken with you. Well, you've
RED-COAT ASSURANCE. 313
no intention of marrying her, and some fine day the
time for parting comes. Until you are out of her sight,
of course, you are heart-broken j but after that you are
consoled by a cigar, or a new friend; while she frets
and pines after you, smiles and rejects an honest man
who would have tried to make her happy, and finally
becomes a discontented wife, or a soured old maid."
"In this case, although all you say were true, I
could not marry the young lady. Quakers don't permit
their daughters to marry soldiers, I believe. I remember
hearing Miss Fox say, that nothing would induce her to
disobey her parents in such a matter."
Mr. Egerton looked at his companion sharply from
under his shaggy eyebrows; but Captain Verschoyle
avoided the scrutiny, and calling his attention to some
other matter, the subject for the time dropped.
At Darington Captain Verschoyle found the letters
from Audrey and his mother, and as he dressed for
dinner he speculated sometimes on what could be wrong
with his sister; but more frequently on what he should
do about Dorothy. "Entreat her to marry me if I stay
here, I know; for after parting with her I found myself
thinking how I could best manage it, and it was wonder-
ful how my hopes of military glory faded before the
rosy sun which illumined 'Love in a cottage.' I wish I
had never seen the child. The idea of sacrificing a
sweet pretty creature like her to that prim-faced Crewd-
son! a fellow with no more sense than he was born with
nothing of the man about him a fine specimen of a
lover, in truth! What can some parents be thinking of?
They don't care who their children marry so long as they
get rid of them; and I suspect old Fox is one of that
kind. Perhaps Crewdson has money I shouldn't wonder
it generally falls to the lot of wooden-headed mum-
314 DOROTHY FOX.
mies to get all they want. Now if I had a decent in-
come I'd snap my fingers at the world, and marry who
I please; as it is, I don't know what to do. I don't see
that I am to blame now, because I have offered to give
up everything for her, and she won't have me. She
says that her father wouldn't give his consent, and that
she would not ask him. I can't do more than that, and,
as Egerton says, it's no use making the child discontented.
I believe I shall feel the breaking off more than she will :
but it is for her sake much more than my own she
says we could not be happy;" and then Captain Vers-
choyle discontentedly flung his boots to the other end of
the room, and himself into a chair, exclaiming, "I'm a
terribly unlucky fellow in love affairs. Whenever hearts
are trumps I'm safe to hold a bad hand."
While Captain Verschoyle indulged in these reflections,
Dorothy was engaged in the difficult task of telling Aunt
Abigail that she no longer thought of marrying Josiah
Crewdson. She feared her father would be disappointed,
but she found it impossible. Aunt Abigail was not in
any way surprised, as notwithstanding all Josiah's good
qualities, his appearance and manners were decidedly
against him. In vain, however, did she try to discover
any new lover who had driven the old one from her
niece's mind. Dorothy kept guard over her lips, and
not until she was alone did she permit hei-self to review
the event of the day. The sweetest words echoed in
her memory were those of Charles Verschoyle when he
said that he would give up anything for her sake even
his profession; and that he would try and be a Friend.
Oh! if he would do that, her father could not say no;
it would not be right of him to refuse without a just
cause. And thinking over all he had told her she tried
10 stifle her conscience, and to reconcile with her prin-
RF.D COAT ASSURANCE. 315
ciples what she had done. She was not quite easy about
Kezia Crewdson, and shuddered to think of her having
seen them. "I will tell father that I did not act rightly,"
she thought, "and how sorry I was after. I do not
deserve the happiness which I trust is yet in store for me."
The following morning Dorothy tried to persuade
herself that she was really very tired, and unable to ac-
company her aunt during her usual walk. Nevertheless,
as she sat alone, she started up and listened nervously
to every ring of the bell, as if expecting a visitor, until
Jane announced Captain Verschoyle. He had brought
Miss Fletcher some flowers, he said, and wanted to know
if Dorothy had any message for her sister, as he was
unexpectedly recalled to London. All this was told
while Jane was in the room; but as soon as she had
left it Captain Verschoyle seated himself nearer to Do-
rothy, saying, "It is so annoying, just when I wanted to
stay with you; but I shall only be gone a few days, and
you will, of course, be here when I return 1"
"I don't know perhaps so," she answered, trying not
to betray her anguish at hearing him speak of going away.
Now in this Captain Verschoyle was acting contrary
to his nature, which was sincere and honourable of its
kind; but his bringing up could not be thrown aside in
a day. Although love was undermining the fabric of
selfishness and pride which contact with the world had
built up within him, every now and then his training
rebelled, and his temper suffered. This made him say
somewhat sharply, "Really you seem indifferent on the
subject. I fancied it might be of some slight importance
to you."
"Charles, what dost thou mean?" she said, looking
at him surprised and sorrowful.
"Why," he answered, working himself into a heat,
3l6 DOROTHY FOX.
and glad to find some one on whom to fling a portion
of the accusing burden which tormented him, "I mean
that it is very hard upon a man, after having given all
his love, to find that he has no influence. Of course I
should not ask you to disobey your father, when doing
so would make you miserable, but I hardly expected to
find that you had determined to give up nothing for me."
"But thou saidst, that for me thou wouldst give up
being a soldier."
"Yes, that is it; / am to give up everything iox yo7i,
but you give up nothing in return. My profession, in
spite of all you may have been taught to the contrary,
is an honourable one; and so dear to me that no woman
who truly loved me would desire me to make such a
sacrifice for her sake."
Dorothy did not turn her white face towards him, as
she said, "Then thou didst not mean what thou saidst
yesterday?"
"Of course I meant it, and mean it still, if you insist."
"No; I have no thought of insisting. We will forget
yesterday, and will do what I always knew to be right.
Thou and I are different in every way. It was no fault
of thine that I loved thee. I could not help it; but I
should have striven against it, and then all this would
not have happened."
By this time Captain Verschoyle was not only enraged
with himself, but also with Dorothy. He had come there
with the intention of announcing his departure, and had
pictured Dorothy's distress at hearing of it. He had said
to himself, that while he was trying to soothe and com-
fort her, perhaps it would be best to strive with gentle
tenderness to show her how impossible it was for him
to give up his profession, and if she were certain that
her father would not give his consent to their marriage,
SECRET UNEASINESS. 317
why, it would be useless to ask it. Though it broke
both their hearts, he supposed they must part, and once
apart, it would be easier for each to forget.
Dorothy, by making the proposal herself, without
waiting for all those caresses which were to dull the pain
of separation, had overthrown this plan, to Captain
Verschoyle's great annoyance. He said all the reproach-
ful things he could to her, and while she sat listening,
still and motionless, he had a desire to shake her as he
Avould do a refractory child. Finally, saying that they
were evidently in no mood for companionship, he took
up his hat, and wishing her "good morning," dashed out
of the room. And then, with the inconsistency of a
lover, he waited to see if she would not come after him,
imploring the forgiveness he was longing now to give
her. His heart smote him sharply as he thought that
perhaps the dear little thing was crying. What a horrid
temper he had! He would go back and tell her he
never meant her to believe one word that he had said.
And it would be so delicious to know that she could
not part in that way; and to hear her asking to be for-
given. He was tempted to try. He would open the
outer door, and if that did not bring her to him he
would go back immediately. So, putting this thought
into execution, he with some unnecessary clatter opened
the house door, and then gave vent to an exclamation
of surprise, for on the step stood Josiah Crewdson.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
Secret Uneasiness.
On the Thursday following that on which Dorothy had
left Fryston Grange, Nathaniel Fox walked to King's-heart
in a state of great mental excitement and perturbation.
Patience was sittine^ in the little morning room whea
3l8 DOROTHY FOX.
her husband entered, and one glance at his face told her
that something of importance had gone wrong. He
looked round, and thinking they might be overheard by
the gardener, who was working near the window, and by
Lydia, who was engaged in the dining-room, he said,
"Patience, I desire to speak to thee. Come up-stairs."
She obeyed, folloAving Nathaniel into their own room,
the door of which he shut. Then , turning round so as
to face his wife, he demanded,
"Haven't I heard thee speak of Charles Verschoyle
who is this young man?"
"He is the person who fainted once in the shop at
Plymouth. He afterwards came here to thank me, or
rather Judith, whom he took for me, for my kind atten-
tion to him. When Dorothy and I went to London we
met him accidentally at the railway station. As I told
thee, he took care of us till Grace arrived. She, think-
ing he was a friend of ours, invited him to dinner, and
at Fryston we met again. Why dost thou ask?"
Nathaniel took no notice of his wife's question, but
walked up and down in deep meditation, while she sat
waiting for the reply which she knew would come. At
last, stopping before her, he said,
"Something has occurred to-day which never hap-
pened in our family before, Patience. I have been taken
to task, rebuked, and admonished concerning my con-
duct and the conduct of my daughter."
"Nathaniel!" exclaimed Patience. "For what reasoni"
"Joshua Prideaux came to me to-day, and asked to
have some private talk with me. He then showed me a
letter from John Millar of Leeds, stating that it was with
much pain and surprise that he informed him that I,
Nathaniel Fox, had dealt in an underhand and un-
friendly way with Josiah Crewdson. Because that while
SECRET UNEASINESS. 3I9
I was allowing him to suppose that my daughter would
one day become his wife, I had already given my con-
sent to her marrying Charles Verschoyle, a man who is
a soldier. Now, Patience, hast thou heard anything of
this? What does it mean?" And Nathaniel's stern face
seemed to darken with the inward resentment which
such a scandal aroused.
"I am as much amazed as thou art, dear. Who can
have made such an imputation upon us?"
"That is the extraordinary part. Josiah Crewdson
told his sisters so in justification of Dorothy's unwar-
rantable behaviour to this man, while she was staying at
Holberton."
"Nathaniel!" said Patience, "doth not this show thee
the falsehood of the whole thing? Our Dorothy behave
in an unseemly manner, and Josiah Crewdson obliged
to screen her!" And Patience smiled in her incredulity
and staunch belief in her child's rectitude.
"Of course," he replied, "I know something is false.
Why, Patience, if I thought that in one month my child
could forget her training, principles, and obedience to
us Pd "
But Patience caught him by the arm.
"Hush, dear," she said; "parents with as little ex-
pectation of a trial as we ourselves, have had one. I
believe nothing against Dorothy. But if the time ever
came when we must, we would, I know, try to follow the
example of a Father who is ever tender towards erring
children."
But Nathaniel seemed not to hear. He shook her
hand off, and continued his moody walk.
"I shall write to Josiah and to Grace," he said;
"and thou hadst better tell thy sister Abigail that Doro-
thy must come home at once. If such reports as these
^20 DOROTHY FOX.
are being circulated, it is better that she were under our
own eyes. Oh, why did we let her go there, Patience]
The girl was happy and contented, and would have con-
tinued so until a worthy man took her for his wife. I
was overruled, but I doubted my judgment. I knew
that the world, with its snares and pitfalls, was no place
for an innocent girl."
"Thy theory is wrong, as I often tell thee," said
Patience, hoping to divert his mind by argument. "Thou
art ever confounding ignorance and innocence, either of
which may exist without the other. If I have any fear
for Dorothy, it is because she has never been shown many
things which might serve to guard her against herself."
Nathaniel shook his head.
"What sort of a person is this young man Verschoyle]"
"He is not a very young man. He looks older than
he is, perhaps, by being bronzed with the sun. He has
a very winning, kindly manner, and I think I might say
he would do nothing dishonourable."
"Dishonourable!" echoed Nathaniel, contemptuously;
"that, probably, means that he may be godless, immoral,
and unprincipled, so long as he does not break rules set
up by libertines like himself."
"Thou art judging with undue harshness, Nathaniel.
I know nothing of Charles Verschoyle beyond exchang-
ing the passing civilities of every-day life with him. But
it would not be fair to receive civilities from all deno-
minations, and yet believe that good motives could only
dwell in members of our own Society."
But Nathaniel was too thoroughly annoyed to listen
calmly to anything like reason from his wife. He could
not bear to think that a man like Joshua Prideaux should
have it in his power to administer a rebuke to him, and
take him to task as he had done, for permitting his
THE Quaker's quixotic love. 3^1
daughter to be the engaged wife of a soldier. He per-
mit such a thing! when he had invariably used every
effort to support all Peace movements and to discourage
w^ar! And this the Society both at Leeds and Plymouth
well knew. So he wrote to Josiah Crewdson, demanding
information respecting all that he had been charged with.
He also wrote to Grace, desiring to know what intimacy
existed between Dorothy and Charles Verschoyle, and
whether she knew where the young man then was.
Patience wrote a long and guarded letter to Dorothy,
teUing her that she had better return home at once, and
another letter to her sister Abigail, informing her a liltle
more fully of her secret uneasiness.
CHAPTER XXXVII.
The Quaker's Quixotic Love.
Nathaniel Fox's letter being directed to Holberton
Hall, with a view to Josiah reading it to his sisters, he
did not receive it before he left for York. His visit to
Dorothy, therefore, only proceeded from Josiah's own
fears, rather than from any knowledge of what was tak-
ing place.
When Captain Verschoyle so unexpectedly opened
Abigail Fletcher's door, Josiah fancied the whole matter
was settled. He wondered at seeing Dorothy run up-
stairs without paying any attention to either of them.
He said he hoped Captain Verschoyle was well, and in-
formed him that they were having seasonable weather.
His nervous loquacity being stopped by Captain Vers-
choyle asking him somewhat sharply if he were "going
in," Josiah jumped on one side.
"Oh, thanks," said Captain Verschoyle, impatiently,
"because I am going out. Good morning." And the
iJorothy Few - 1
52 2 DOROTHY FOX.
gallant officer walked away, anathematizing Quakers
generally, and "that fool Crewdson" in particular.
Josiah lingered about, and finally went into the room
which Dorothy had vacated, and waited for her to come
down-stairs. His mind was filled with sickening anxiety
lest Aunt Abigail should return Captain Verschoyle,
hoping that Josiah might take the hint, having said she
was out. Once or twice he got up to ring the bell, but
sat down again. At length, when he had quite made up
his mind that he would send word that he was there
and could not stay long, Dorothy appeared, saying that
she feared she had exhausted his patience, but Josiah
declared she had not in the least done so. Then they
indulged in a little irrelevant conversation, until Josiah,
feeling that he could no longer delay what he had come
purposely to announce, suddenly got up, looked out of
the window, and then returned to his place to say,
"Oh, Dorothy! I suppose thou hast altered thy
mindr'
"How?" For Dorothy was in no talking mood. She
was in the dull state of grief when everything is heard
and done with an effort, inducing one to sit still, silent
and stunned.
"I mean that I met Charles Verschoyle at the door,
so I thought that perhaps Oh, Dorothy, do not mind
telling me. Thou hast changed thy mind and wilt marry
him is it not sol"
"No."
"But he has written to thy father. Thou wilt tell
him of itl"
Dorothy shook her head.
Poor Josiah! he wondered what he should do. How
could he inform her that Kezia had told him of the
scene which she had witnessed in the drawing-room]
THE Quaker's q'jixotic love, ^2;^
More than that, how could he tell her that his sisters
had made it their business to spread among Friends the
report of Dorothy Fox's engagement to a soldier, while
they and their brother regarded her as his future wife.
Nathaniel would be certain to tax her with it, and was
it not better that she should be in some way prepared?
"Dorothy," he began again and he drew an imaginary
pattern on the carpet with his foot, that she might be
quite certain he was not looking at her "Kezia, it
seems, looked at thee through the window."
Dorothy uttered a sharp cry of pain.
"Oh, thou wilt not mind me, Dorothy!" he added
quickly. "I did not listen to what she said, only sisters
made a great deal of it. They are not like we are, thou
knowest, and they thought I should speak to thy father;
and so I said that he knew it, as Charles Verschoyle
was to be thy husband. I did not know what to say,
and I knew he would ask thy father for thee."
"Oh, will they tell father"?" said Dorothy piteously.
"No, I don't think so, only he may hear what I said."
"Why didst thou say so, Josiah? Oh, what shall I
do 1 father will never forgive me ! Oh, Josiah, do help me ! "
This appeal seemed to nerve Josiah to the utmost.
"Dorothy," he said, "thou knowest that whatever I did
for thee, I did it thinking it the best thing to do. I
thought perhaps thou hadst changed thy mind. As it
is, if Charles Verschoyle has not asked thy father, he
will do so now, though he and thou shouldst both
refuse him."
"I shall not see him again," she said. "He was
angry to-day because I knew father would refuse, and
so he left me." And the fresh grief pressing on old
sorrows newly awakened, Dorothy broke down, declaring
she deserved it all. "I have forgotten everything, and
21*
3^4 DOROTHY FOX.
deceived every one," she cried, "father, and him, and
thee, and now I must bear the punishment." And, in
her shame and grief, she hid her face in her hands.
Josiah entreated her not to give way. He was certain,
he said, that he could prevent her father from being very
angry, but said she had better let Charles Verschoyle
write to him.
Not knowing Josiah's reasons for urging this, Dorothy
declared such a thing to be impossible, as she had given
Captain Verschoyle her decision, and they had, she
feared, parted for good. Aunt Abigail's voice was now
heard, and Dorothy had only time to run away, fearing
that her eyes, red with weeping, might attract her aunt's
attention.
When she again made her appearance, she com-
plained of a headache, and Aunt Abigail, coupling her
silence and depression with Josiah's visit, concluded that
he had been further urging his suit. He remained to
an early dinner with them, and vainly endeavoured to
speak again to Dorothy. But Aunt Abigail, having
made up her mind that the dear child should not be
worried any further, gave him no opportunity, and he
was obliged to leave them, still uncertain how he should
act for the best.
Josiah was quite aware of Dorothy's position, and
how her conduct would be viewed among Friends. She
would be regarded henceforth as a forward, frivolous
girl, unworthy to be trusted, and not properly endowed
with maidenly reserve. This would be the opinion of
the most charitable, but those who lacked the chief
Christian virtue would probably not spare her in thought
and word; and to a proud man like Nathaniel, this
scandal would be bitter indeed. How could it be
lessened? A brilliant idea entered Josiah's mind. Surely,
THE Quaker's quixotic love. 325
if Charles Verschoyle loved Dorothy as well as he did
he would be equally anxious that no breath of scandal
should dim the purity of her actions. Josiah felt that
he could explain the whole circumstances to him, and
ask him to write to Nathaniel. Her father would then
screen Dorothy by saying that his consent had been
asked to her marriage, but that he had withheld his con-
sent on account of difference of principles.
Many men would have sneered at the young Quaker's
Quixotic love. They would have doubted its existence,
perhaps, and considered that to have seen the girl who
had refused him well served out, would be sweeter re-
venge than trying to spare her anxiety or sorrow. But
this was not Josiah's nature; he had always thought that
Dorothy would find it hard to love him, and he cared
for her none the less because his fears now had been
realized. True he did not go through all these inter-
views and communings with himself without many a sad
heart-ache and regret; but even these did not make him
feel bitter to her. If a slight shadow ever had come
over him, one look at her had charmed it away. Cap-
tain Verschoyle, however, acted on him in a contrary
manner; his presence caused flames of anger and hatred
to spring up from the ashes which only smouldered
within Josiah's breast. So it was no easy task to seek a
meeting with him. Josiah was certain that in presence
of his rival he should feel awkward and be unable pro-
perly to explain his errand. Still it seemed the best
thing for him to do. He spent several hours in decid-
ing one thing, and then changing his mind; going half-
way to the station and turning back, walking some little
distance, regretting his decision, and making a second
and fruitless attempt to catch a train which had almost
started as he began running. At length he made a
326 DOROTHY FOX.
desperate resolution and arrived at Darington just before
dinner.
Captain Verschoyle and Mr. Egerton had just come
in after a long ride, and were discussing the necessity
of attending to Lady Laura's summons.
"I cannot think what they mean," said the younger
man.
"Mean!" replied Mr. Egerton; "nothing, no woman
ever does they are tired of quarrelling together, and
want you to join them. Take my advice, and don't."
"I left them like turtie-doves," said Captain Verschoyle,
"on account of Audrey having determined to sacrifice
herself to that old Ford I told you of. Well, I shall not
go to-morrow; I'll write to my mother and ask her what
she means. I don't want to leave now."
"No," said the old man slyly; "tell her that Fox-
hunting is just beginning."
Captain Verschoyle would not understand the allusion,
and his companion continued, "Capital sport, but the
best men get a cropper sometimes."
"Ah, well!" replied Captain Verschoyle, bent on re-
maining ignorant; "there's not much fear of me, I'm an
old hand."
"I'll tell you what, Charlie," but he was interrupted
by the man opening the door and saying to Captain
Verschoyle, "If you please, sir, there's a gentleman in
the library as wishes to see you; he told me to say Josiah
Crewdson."
Mr. Egerton gave a long whistle. "I'll be your second,
Charlie, if he's come in a blood-thirsty spirit," he said;'
" or if he only wants a peaceable fight, tell him I'll have
a round with him while you are getting your wind, for I
fear the little chap's more than a match for you." But
Captain Verschoyle paid no attention to this sally, he
TWO WAYS OF LOOKING AT IT. ^2'J
only sat for an instant frowning, and then meditatively
asked, "Now what can he want with me?"
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
Two Ways of looking at it.
Dinner had been served and Mr. Egerton was half
through his soup before Captain Verschoyle made his
appearance.
"You must pardon me for being late, sir," he said,
with a look on his countenance which checked the
banter in which his old friend had been about to indulge.
Captain Verschoyle several times during dinner started
topics of conversation, but with such an effort that they
invariably broke down. At length, when they had turned
their chairs to the fire, and there was no chance of
being disturbed, the old man laid his hand kindly on
his companion's shoulder, saying, "What's the matter,
Charlie? has anything gone wrong?"
Captain Verschoyle gazed gloomily into the fire as
he answered
"No, nothing has gone wrong, only Mr. Crewdson
has just shown me that I am a cowardly scoundrel."
"Ah! I've had the same idea myself," growled Mr.
Egerton; then, raising his voice, he added, "But, con-
found his impudence, he needn't have come here to tell
you that."
"I have been sneering at that man since ever I saw
him," continued Captain Verschoyle, speaking to him-
self, and giving no heed to Mr. Egerton's remarks. "I
thought him one of the biggest fools in the world. I
scarcely thought him worthy of common civility, and
turned up my eyes at the bare idea of any woman be-
stowing a thought on him. Now, if any one asked me
320 DOROTHY VOX.
to name a man of honour and a gentleman, I'd say
Josiah Crewdson."
"Why, what fori" said Mr. Egerton, in considerable
amazement.
Captain Verschoyle suddenly jumped up, and said in
rather a loud tone, "I've been a coward, a villain, a
scoundrel. You know, sir, it's all about Miss Fox. Al-
most from the first time I saw her I cared for her more
than I had ever done for any other girl. I tried all I
could to make her think about me, and I wasn't at peace
until I was sure she loved me; and then I thought I had
done a foolish thing, and must get out of it. I came to
you, but I persuaded her to go to York. And because
she didn't arrive there the very day I expected her, I,
regardless of consequences to her, went off to Leeds to
seek her. Mr. Crewdson's sisters, thinking that she was
going to marry their brother, did not approve of this,
and said a great deal, I can't quite explain it, but it
seems that if a young lady of their persuasion receives a
visit from a soldier, it in some way compromises her.
And, though she had the day before refused young Crewd-
son, by Jove, sir! he was plucky enough to defend her
when she was attacked by his sisters, saying that I had
her father's consent, and was going to marry her."
"Well, but wasn't it true?"
"Truel no, I was playing a game of fast and loose
with her. I pretended that I wanted to marry her, and
that she was treating me very hardly because she dared
not disobey her father, whose consent she was sure
would never be given; and all the time I wanted to get
out of it. I never intended to marry her. I knew I loved
her better than all the world, but my pride wouldn't
allow me to make her my wife."
"Of course not; as you said yourself, the very idea
TWO WAYS OF LOOKING AT IT. 32^
is absurd. Why, you told me her father kept a shop,"
said Mr. Egerton.
"Absurd or not, I intend doing it."
"You do?" roared the old man in his gruffest voice,
"You'll surely never make such a fool of yourself ! Why
should yoni Who'll be the better, except a few out-of-
the-way people, who, if they made their appearance
among your set, would be laughed at! Nonsense, Charlie,
you'll think more about it."
"I hope not," said Captain Verschoyle firmly. "One
reason is, that I never rested until I had destroyed the
peace of her innocent life, and caused her to reject a
man who is a hundred times more worthy of her than I
am. Another is, that I love her with all my abominably
selfish heart. And don't think, sir, all this is caused by
young Crewdson's visit; before he came I felt I couldn't
part with her, and intended seeing her to-morrow."
"You'll be cut," said Mr. Egerton, nodding his head
sententiously; "nobody will receive her, and all your re-
lations will turn their backs upon you."
"Let them; it's very little good they ever did me,
except patronize me and make me discontented."
"You'll require to leave your regiment. You can't
stay there, you know; and then good-bye to all your
visions of military glory."
"Yes, I know all that, but"
"But you are determined to be an ass," said the old
man with a sneer; "and for whoml The baby-faced
daughter of a country shop-keeper. Pshaw!"
Captain Verschoyle turned scarlet, and then grew
pale as he said, looking boldly at Mr. Egerton
"Perhaps I may as well tell you, sir, that you have
now reached the limit of my forbearance. If Miss Fox
will honour me with her hand, I shall be as proud of
330 DOROTHY FOX.
being her husband as if she were the daughter of a duke.
And when she is my wife, / will take care that no one
treats her with less respect than they would if the bluest
blood in England flowed in her veins."
Mr. Egerton jumped up, and slapped his godson on
the back.
"Give me your hand, Charlie, for I'm proud of you,"
he cried. "The world hasn't spoiled you yet, my boy,
and you're worthy of your father's name. As for young
Crewdson, here's three cheers for him, and good luck to
him next time. He's a Briton, that fellow, though he be
a Quaker."
There was some further giving way to their mutual
good feelings, and then Mr. Egerton said
"Come now, let us have up some more wine, and
then we'll settle to business, for we have forgotten one
very important point;" and making an inexpressibly droll
face he said, "How about your mother 1"
"Yes, I have thought about her, and I see no way of
managing her. Of course the Hanburys will consider I
have acted unfairly to them as well as to Dorothy, and
will feel keenly any slight my mother might put upon
her."
"Humph! I don't often take a scheme in hand, and
it's many a year since I tackled her ladyship; but we
have had tilts before now, and I have not always come
off second best. What do you say, will you trust your
cause to me"?"
"Most thankfully."
"Well, I shan't explain my tactics, but I'll do my
best to show my talent as a diplomatist."
Captain Verschoyle laughed heartily at the idea of
the encounter. "I shall go and see Dorothy to-morrow
morning," he said, "and after that I shall decide my
TWO WAYS OF LOOKmc AT IT. 33 1
movements. I hope, after all, her father will be brought
to give his consent."
"Of course he will," replied Mr. Egerton; "and after
you have seen the young lady I shall call upon her and
Miss Fletcher. I'll forgive your getting married, Charlie,
since she is not one of those town madams whose hol-
low shams would have been more than your old god-
father could have swallowed. She has a sweet innocent
face, and if it is in the power of a woman to make a
man happy, she ought to do it."
Before twelve o'clock the following day Captain Vers-
choyle arrived at Miss Fletcher's house, where he in-
quired for Miss Fox.
"Please, sir, they're gone," said the little maid.
"Gone!" said Captain Verschoyle. "Gone where?"
"I don't know, please, sir; but mistress and Miss
Dorothy went away an hour ago to the train. Perhaps
you'd like to see Jane."
So Jane came, but all the information she could give
was, that a letter had come which had caused them to
leave unexpectedly, and she rather thought Miss Dorothy
had returned home. She could not say for certain, how-
ever, as mistress did not say; she only told her she would
write when they reached their journey's end.
Captain Verschoyle did not wait to hear more, he
rushed away, hardly stopping to draw breath until he
reached the station; but the London train had gone. He
asked one or two of the porters if two ladies whom he
described had been passengers by it, and one man said
"Yes," but whether they were going to London or not
he could not say.
Captain Verschoyle returned to Darington, consulted
with Mr. Egerton, wrote a letter to Nathaniel Fox, and by the
next morning's train started with his old friend for London.
^T)2 DOROTHY FOX.
Mr. Egerton was dropped at his club, but Captain
Verschoyle went on to Egmont Street. Her ladyship
was in her own room, and thither her son, by her desire,
proceeded to see her. "Why, mother, what's the mat-
ter?" he exclaimed, as soon as their first greetings were
over, and they were alone. "I expected to find you
tearing your hair, and Audrey in a strait-waistcoat. Where
is she]"
"Oh, don't speak of her, Charles! and lay aside all
jesting, for I assure you our trouble is a very serious
one."
Captain Verschoyle looked very grave as he drew a
chair to the fire, and sat down prepared to listen to the
domestic tragedy. "What has she been doing]" he asked.
"I need not teW j'ou, Charles, all I have sacrificed for
that ungrateful girl."
"No, mother," quickly interposed her son, dreading
a repetition of the oft-told tale. "I know you have been
very good to us both."
"Yes; but you can never understand how entirely I
have forgotten myself for her sake. You remember the
new dresses I gave her so recently to go to Dyne Court
with, and the trouble I had to get an invitation. I al-
most asked Mr. Ford for it, entirely on her account; for
certainly I should not have sought to be the guest of a
man who had probably been one of your grandfather's
tradespeople. But as I thought it was to secure her a
good establishment, I was content. The man paid her
the greatest attention, and she seemed delighted with her
prospect, and quite secure of the match. Suddenly, and
apparently without any reason, she informed me that she
could not marry Mr. Ford, and asked me to take her away.
Well, off we went, and I so managed that the old man
never suspected the cause, but set it down to my nervous
TWO WAYS OF LOOKING AT IT. ^^^
fears about her health. Of course I tried to discover
her reason for this extraordinary conduct, and I was led
to believe it was owing to a whim of which she began
to feel rather ashamed. You know how all this would
try my nerves: my dear boy, I assure you, they felt shat-
tered. When your Aunt Spencer asked me to go to Beau-
wood for a few days, I felt it was a duty to accept, and
went, though very reluctantly. And would you believe
it, Charles, while I was absent Mr. Ford came here, and
that miserable girl refused him! He's a millionnaire!
a Croesus! His wealth is fabulous! He could give her
anything she wished for, and make any settlement we
chose to name; and she absolutely refused to marry him!"
"Well, you have amazed me!" exclaimed Captain Vers-
choyle "she seemed to have made up her mind to have
the old fellow. But really, mother -"
"Wait. You have not heard the worst," interrupted
Lady Laura. "Let me give you her reason."
"Oh! there is a reason*?"
"Yes. The reason is" and here her ladyship bowed
her head in mock obedience to her daughter's decision
"that she has accepted, and intends to become the
wife of, that poverty-stricken, Quixotic fellow Dynecourt."
"By Jove! You don't mean that? Audrey marry
Dynecourt? Impossible!"
"It shall be, if I can make it so. The idea of the man
having the impertinence to propose to a girl like Audrey,
my daughter, on an income of six hundred a year. He
came, too, with as much assurance as if it had been sixty
.thousand. I think I rather surprised him. I did not
spare them, I assure you, and he could not say a word,
but sat looking at Audrey, who, with great want of deli-
cacy, came into the room ten minutes after he arrived,
and said she desired to be present."
334 DOROTHY FOX.
"Well, mother, you have electrified me! Wonders will
never cease! Fancy Audrey marrying for love!"
"Good gracious, Charles! is that the way you take it 1"
exclaimed Lady Laura. "Have you so little affection for
your sister that you can calmly allow her to disgrace
herself by marrying a man who can only give her a poky
house in a bye street, and a new bonnet once a year?"
"Don't be absurd, mother. You know Dynecourt
comes of as good a family as any man in England, and
as far as the name goes, there's not a woman living but
might be proud to bear it."
"May I ask you if people can live on their long pedi-
gree and ancient name?"
"Certainly not; but Audrey and Dynecourt are not
wholly dependent on these. I know you must be dis-
appointed, mother, because you have always hoped so
much for her. And I would rather she had chosen a
man who was able to give her what, at least, she has
been accustomed to; but as to the two men, although
Ford is a very decent fellow, I congratulate myself on
my exchange of brothers-in-law."
"Thank you, Charles," said his mother, in her most
severe tone; "I might have known if there was any way
by which you could add to my annoyance you would
choose it. Why I should trouble myself about you and
Audrey I cannot tell, for never was a mother so utterly
disregarded and scoffed at."
"Don't say that, for you know it is not true, mother.
But if you and I were to talk for ever, we cannot alter
the fact that Audrey loves this man, and knowing that,
I do not see that we have any right to prevent her mar-
rying him because he does not happen to have as much
money as we wish. She has to accept the wants, and
do without the luxuries, and if she is content, let us try
TWO WAYS OF LOOKING AT IT. 335
and make the best of it, and not damp all the poor
girl's happiness."
"I'll do nothing of the kind!" exclaimed Lady Laura,
passionately. "/ see through it all. Your sister and
you may be very clever, but you cannot blind me. You
have been laying your plans together to wheedle me out
of a trousseau and a wedding such as she wants. You
may both save yourselves the trouble, for I assure you,
if she and her fine lover choose to marry, they can do
so when and how they please, but not one farthing do
they get from me."
"Come, come, mother, you don't mean that."
"Indeed, Charles, I do mean it."
"What! will you allow your only daughter to leave her
home as if she had no one in the world to care for her
but the man who is taking her from it?"
"My only daughter has shown no more considera-
tion for me than my only son."
"Oh! very well, then you compel me to take my father's
place," replied Captain Verschoyle. "I cannot give her
much, but she shall have as good an outfit as I can pro-
vide, and I shall take apartments, from which she can be
properly and decently married. However, long before it
comes to this, mother, I trust your good sense and right
feeling will return; just now you are allowing disappoint-
ment to get the better of you."
"Charles, how dare you speak to me in this manner!"
cried Lady Laura. "Oh! nobody else can have two such
ungrateful, unfeeling children!" and she took refuge in
her handkerchief.
"I had better leave you, or we may lose our tempers,"
said her son, "which would be injurious to you and
very unbecoming in me;" and he walked out of the room.
"Poor old lady!" he thought, "she litde dreams of
336 DOROTHY FOX.
the bitter draught which will follow this pill. We must
let her get breath before anything of mine is mentioned.
It is really hard lines for her, after all her hopes, to find
us making such marriages as we two seem bent upon."
"I shall go down to Fryston to-morrow," he continued;
"I wonder if they have taken her there or to Devonshire.
I expect it has turned out as Crewdson feared, and the
old man has got scent of the thing. Serves me right for
not doing it at once. But he must give in, for have her
1 will. Come in," he said aloud, in answer to a knock
at the door. "Well! you most inconsistent of all your
inconsistent sex, come here and let me look at you, that
I may see if you are some changeling, or still my very
sister Audrey."
"Oh, Charlie, I am so glad to see you!"
"Ah! you're longing to have my scolding about this
Dynecourt affair over. Now look at me, and answer the
following questions. Have you well considered all you
are going to give up? For, according to mamma's ac-
count, you will have to do without a great many things
very dear to you."
Audrey nodded her head.
"And you care sufficiently for this man to share his life?"
"Yes, I feel like dear old Elia. I wish I could throw
the remainder of our joint existences into a heap, that
we might share them equally. It is of no use disguising
it, Charlie; I have taken the disease in its most ag-
gravated form, and it's going very hard with me." Then,
looking into his face, she said, "You will try to like him,
Charlie 1 and say you hope we may be happy."
"I do from the very bottom of my heart," he answered,
kibsing her. "And as for Dynecourt, he's a capital fellow,
and I shall be proud to call him brother. Why, Audrey,
you crying! I have not seen you cry since you were a
TRUE TO EACH OTHER. 337
child. Nonsense, you stupid thing. The old lady is a
little on stilts just now, but she will come all right, only
give her time. You must not mind her being disap-
pointed; that is only natural, you know. When do you
want to run away from us?"
"Geoffrey says as soon as we can get a house. I tell
him he is afraid that I shall change my mind; but there
is no fear of that now."
"Well," said her brother, "you know I will do all I
can to smooth matters for you; and if mamma is cross,
we must not seem to notice it."
So, acting on this principle, they tried to make them-
selves pleasant and agreeable during dinner, but Lady
Laura would have none of their amenities. She wore
her most injured air, and seldom spoke, unless to beg
her daughter not to laugh, as it jarred upon her nerves;
or to ask her son not to speak quite so loud, as her head
would not stand it.
CHAPTER XXXIX.
True to each other.
" Audrey," said Captain Verschoyle, as they sat chat-
ting together next morning after breakfast, "I've some-
thing to tell you. Do you know I am more in love than
I ever was before 1"
"You in love! Nonsense, Charlie not seriously'?"
"Yes, seriously," he replied, stretching himself, so as
to appear quite at his ease; "so much so that I have
asked the girl to marry me."
"Who is she?" exclaimed Audrey, in amazement.
"Any one I know? Not Miss Bingham?"
"No," laughed her brother, "I think she had better
marry old Ford, as a sort of squaring up of matters pro-
perly. But it's somebody you have seen."
Dorothy Fox, 23
338 DOROTHY FOX.
"Some one I have seen. Oh! I should never guess,
Charlie, unless it be Edith Stapleton; but then she has
only been a widow three weeks."
"Don't be absurd," said Captain Verschoyle; "what
should put her into your head?"
"Why, because you were so desperately in love with
her once. I remember when you heard she was going
to marry Colonel Stapleton you were frantic, and walked
in front of her window almost a whole night."
"Yes, I recollect that too," laughed Captain Vers-
choyle; "that night cured me. I got a horrid cold, and
sneezed all the love out of my head, I suppose, for cer-
tainly it had never got beyond that weak part of my body."
"And this is, you think, a different phase of the
tender passion? You have had much experience, you
know, Charlie, within my memory."
"Yes, but all differing from this. I know that naturally
t am a very selfish fellow, but somehow I feel I could
.give up everything for the sake of this girl."
"Do tell me who she is, Charles; then I shall know
whether I am to put faith in you."
"Well," said Captain Verschoyle, feeling rather ner-
vous, "you remember that pretty Quaker child we saw
at Plymouth?"
" Yes."
"Then, regardless of grammar, that's her."
"Now I know you are laughing," said Audrey, puzzled
to understand what he meant.
"Indeed I am not. I am quite serious. I will tell
you all about it. When in London, after leaving Dyne
Court, I went to the Paddington station to inquire about
my boxes; there, to my surprise, I met Mrs. Fox and her
daughter. They had come up to visit another daughter,
a Mrs. Hanbury, who lives at Fryston. And seeing they
TRUE TO EACH OTHER. 339
were in a dilemma because of not meeting her as they
had expected, I, in return for their kindness to me, vohin-
teered to conduct them safely to Shoreditch. Mrs. Han-
bury took me for a friend of her mother's, and invited
me to dinner. As I was alone, and did not know very
well how to pass my time, I accepted, and went down
the next day. I found they lived in a charming house,
knew very nice people Dynecourt, by the way, visited
there and altogether were a most refined and agreeable
family. Miss Fox was going to remain there, and per-
haps that induced me to make another visit to them, and
so it went on until I found myself over head and ears
in love. At first I thought it would share the fate of my
other amours, and the flame would die out before it was
well kindled. But instead of that it has gone on increas-
ing, until I am worried with fears that her bigoted old
father, who has a horror of soldiers, won't give his con-
sent, and the child, I believe, would be frightened to
death at the idea of marrying without it."
"You don't mean to say you have asked her father 1"
said Audrey, in amazement.
"Of course I have. What else would you have me
do?" replied her brother sharply.
"Well, I suppose nothing," said Audrey; "only I won-
der if you remember " and she stopped, not knowing
how to finish her sentence.
"I know what you mean," said Captain Verschoyle,
in a defiant voice; "you wonder because he keeps a shop;
and suppose he does, what difference does that make to
her, or to my love for her? She is as much a lady in
education, thought, and feeling as any one I know."
"Oh, I am sure of that, Charlie. You remember how
much I admired her, and how astonished I was to find
that you had not been more impressed with her beauty.
340 DOROTHY FOX.
Still I must say I am surprised at your having overcome
all the notions you have hitherto held; it will be very
awkward for you; everybody will naturally ask, 'Who
was she?'"
"Well! and let them ask. I do not care. If they
have no more feeling for me than that, I am well rid of
such friends. Am I to break the heart of a dear, sweet,
loving girl, who, I know, would make my whole life good
and happy, because her father does not happen to have
a position in the great world? Suppose Dynecourt's fa-
ther, or Dynecourt himself, kept a shop, what would
you do?"
"Help him in the business now, my dear; but had
such been the case I am not quite certain that I should
have so readily fallen in love with him."
"Had I seen Dorothy surrounded by anything but
refinement, neither should I. Remember when I first
saw her and mistook the servant for her mother, I never
gave her a thought. But when I met her and her rela-
tions, perfect in manner and breeding, and with all the
luxuries and elegancies of wealth about them, the whole
thing was changed. In the same way you thanked Mr.
Ford for the honour he had conferred on you by pro-
posing that you should become the mistress of Dyne
Court. But had he kept the establishment of his early
days and walked from behind the counter to entreat you
to be Mrs. Richard Ford, you would have told him he
was ready for a lunatic asylum, or he could never have
forgotten the difference between your station and his own."
"Quite true, Charlie dear," said Audrey, giving him
a kiss. "Still you must forgive me for expressing some
astonishment, and also for asking you whether you have
considered all you are giving up. If you married with-
gut money, I suppose you would be obliged to sell out?"
TRUE TO EACH OTHER. 34 1
"Yes. But really, Audrey, I am thoroughly sick of
soldiering. Harry Egerton and I went into things the
other night, and I should have about six hundred a year.
I would much rather live in the country than in the
town. You know I hate balls and dinners. I am get-
ting too old for such things. A snug little place and a
sweet little wife are a great deal more to my fancy now."
"Oh, you dear old thing!" laughed his sister, giving
him another hug. "I believe it is true. Why, you are
getting absolutely romantic. Of course she is dreadfully
in love with you?"
"Well, I believe she is," said Captain Verschoyle,
"but the last time I saw her I gave way to my abomin-
able temper and went off in a huff." He then proceeded
to relate that the next morning, being repentant, he had
called, but found that Dorothy and her aunt had left.
"But I fancy they have only gone to Fryston, and I shall
run down there in an hour's time to see. I do hope the
old man will write to me. I quite expected to have had
an answer to my letter this morning. I do not see that
he can say anything but 'Yes,' for, to satisfy his scruples
of conscience, I offered to give up my profession."
The sister and brother had a little more conversation
about their future hopes and plans, and then Captain
Verschoyle started for Fryston. He would have felt very
uneasy about his reception, had his thoughts not been
engrossed with Dorothy. He had no doubt that she
would forgive him, especially when he told her he had
written to her father ofcering for her sake to become a
man of peace.
Fryston Grange, even in winter, when the trees were
no longer clothed with their leafy coverings, was a pretty
place. As Captain Verschoyle walked towards the house
he felt he had very little to offer Dorothy in comparison
34^ DOROTHY FOX.
with the comforts her sister enjoyed. Love was begin-
ning to work a complete change in the man's nature. It
was making him uncertain of his own merits and doubt-
ful as to his success. He had seldom felt more thoroughly-
ill at ease than he did during the few minutes he sat in
Mrs. Hanbury's drawing-room, waiting for her to make
her appearance.
The door opened, and instead of Grace, Dorothy
came to meet him. How was it that Charles Verschoyle,
feeling more love for her than he had ever done before,
seemed all at once utterly incapable of giving expression
to it? Josiah Crewdson himself could not have been
more embarrassed. He stood holding both her hands
in his until Dorothy looked into his face for the cause of
his changed manner. But the gaze she met must have
satisfied her, for the blood came rushing to her cheeks
as she stammered
"I am so glad to see thee again. Grace is not at home;
she has taken Aunt Abigail for a drive."
"I do not deserve this happiness, Dorothy," Captain
Verschoyle at last got power to say; "but I have been
wretched since our last meeting."
And the next half-hour was taken up in listening to
all the self-inflicted woes and torments only pleasing to
the ears of those for whom they are endured. After this,
their hopes and fears regarding her father's consent had
to be discussed, and then Captain Verschoyle looked
very grave as he said
"Dorothy, I have done much that needs to be for-
given by you."
Dorothy looked up surprised.
"Yes," he added; "I fear had you possessed more
worldly knowledge, and read me truly, you would never
have given me your love. 1 had no right to ask it from
TRUE TO EACH OTHER. 343
you when I did, but I was so anxious to hear that the
treasure which I coveted was mine that I did not care
what you suffered. I had no right to go to York, or to
induce you to go there, without first speaking to your
family; it was taking advantage of the trusting innocence
of a child for such you are compared with me, Doro-
thy. And it was selfishness that took me to Leeds,
causing me to be utterly unmindful of how much you
might suffer for it. Oh, my darling! I cannot forgive
myself."
"But I can forgive thee," she said, putting her hand
into his. "I too acted wrongly in going to see the
Crewdsons, because I knew father would not approve of
thee; but, Charles, thou hast told him thou wilt give up
being a soldier?"
"Yes, dear. Dorothy, I have but little to offer you.
I am but a poor man, as well as a very indifferent and
selfish one."
She put her hand across his mouth, saying
"Thou shalt not say so to me."
"Ah! but it is true," he laughed, delighted at her
sweet contradiction; "but if my Dolly will but try, I think
she will make me, if not a Quaker, at least a better and
a happier man."
An hour passed before Captain Verschoyle rose to
go. "I shall now see Mr. Hanbury," he said, "and you
will tell your sister I came purposely to talk to her, and
that if she will permit me I shall come again on Wed-
nesday or Thursday, or whenever I hear from your
father." He held her from him, and looking into her
face, said earnestly, "He cannot, I think, say No; but,
Dorothy, if he should, would you give me upV
"No, Charles, I cannot take back my love. Whatever
comes now, it is thine for ever."
344 DOROTHY FOX.
"Then mine is yours; and, child, if we are but true
to each other, surely God will help us."
CHAPTER XL.
Successful Diplomacy.
When Captain A^erschoyle next met Mr. Egerton, he
told his old friend that he had seen Dorothy at Fryston,
and had made all straight with John Hanbury. "He
does not give me much hope of obtaining Mr. Fox's con-
sent," he said. "It seems he had set his heart upon his
daughter marrying young Crewdson, who is uncommonly
rich, so I dare say, besides his horror at having a soldier
for a son-in-law, he will think I have not money enough."
"Horror!" repeated the old gentleman. "Why should
a parcel of Quakers turn up their noses at honest men
because they're soldiers'? Confound their ingratitude; if
I come across old Fox I'll give him a bit of my mind.
His principles, forsooth! What would have been the
good of his principles in Siberia or some such outlandish
place, where we might all have been in prison now hadn't
it been for such as you? though I dare say," he added,
fearing he was scattering his praise too freely, "you did not
manage to find yourself in front when the fighting began."
Captain Verschoyle laughed at this imputation on
his gallantry, and the old man continued
"James Allan, of York, is a connection of the Foxes,
and I asked him about them; he says they are very
weallhy people. Of course you know that?"
"No. I do not believe they are wealthy; but I have
not given money a thought. I have no doubt they are
tolerably well off nothing more."
"Positively, your attachment is quite Arcadian in its
simplicity," said Mr. Egerton with one of his old sneers.
"Have you spoken to your mother yet?"
SUCCESSFUL DIPLOMACY. 345
"No; I am leaving that to you. I was thinking if we
could only get her to take up the cudgels we might gain
an easy victory."
"A very sensible idea, by Jove! I should like to see
your mother tackle the broad-brimmers."
"If we could only manage an interview between her
and Mr. Fox," said Captain Verschoyle, laughing at the
absurdity of the thought, but without any idea of car-
rying it into practice.
"We'll do it, Charlie," exclaimed Mr. Egerton, de-
lighted at the prospect of such an encounter, "and I'll
back her ladyship. So to-morrow I shall call at Egmont
Street about twelve o'clock; and be sure that you and
Audrey are out of the way."
The scheme which Mr. Egerton had formed for ob-
taining Lady Laura's consent to her son's misalliance was
founded on the information he had obtained in York
respecting Nathaniel Fox and his family. There was no
doubt that Nathaniel was a rich man, for to his own
money had been added his wife's fortune. Besides this,
Dorothy would be certain to inherit the portion which her
grandfather had left to her Aunt Abigail. Therefore,
quite unconsciously, Charles had wooed an heiress, and
Mr. Egerton knew that wealth was the "open sesame" to
Lady Laura's heart.
Arrived at Egmont Street, Mr. Egerton put Lady
Laura in good humour at once, by saying, apparently to
himself, in his gruffest voice, "Hum! younger than ever.
Some people don't know how to get old;" whereupon
Lady Laura was most cordial in her greeting, and be-
came quite interested in an attack of gout he had lately
suffered from.
At length he said, "Oh! by the way, I suppose I
ought to congratulate you on getting rid of that shop-
346 BORnTHY FOX.
chandler son-in-law whom Audrey had set her mind
upon giving you when I last heard from you."
Lady Laura winced.
"Abominable old bear," she thought; "he wants to
annoy me, but he shall not be gratified by seeing it;" so,
without appearing at all vexed, she said, "Thanks al-
though I do not know that I care much for the ex-
change she has made."
"Well, but Dynecourt comes of an excellent family,"
continued Mr. Egerton.
"Granted; only when people are not worth a penny,
their family is of little importance."
"Still you would rather have a man of your own
class for your son-in-law, I suppose?"
"I should not have objected to Mr. Ford," said Lady
Laura, smiling blandly; "and I wonder at your asking
me about it. 1 thought you were so fond of the bour-
geoisie, that you considered they conferred honour upon
us in the alliances which we formed with them."
"I don't know about that," replied Mr. Egerton. "I
think they generally get the worst of the bargain."
Lady Laura shrugged her shoulders. "I look upon
the matter as a fair exchange," she said. "If they did
not want blood, they would not marry us; and if we did
not want money, assuredly we should never marry them.
Had I a fortune to give to Audrey and Charles, I should
expect they would make their choice from their own set.
But as wealth has been denied to us, I do not consider
that my son or my daughter will lose caste if they marry
persons connected with business, provided their fortunes
are sufficiently ample to silence people's remarks, or give
a soup^on of envy to those they make."
"Very sensibly put," exclaimed Mr. Egerton. "I wish
I had only known that your sentiments were so liberal,
SUCCESSFUL DIPLOMACY. 347
Lady Laura. I always imagined you had a horror of
everybody connected with trade."
"Well, trade is an odious word, certainly; but no one
regards a wealthy man, like Mr. Ford, for instance, as a
common shopkeeper."
"Still, I have heard that he kept a shop, or his father
did before him."
"Oh dear!" exclaimed Lady Laura, raising her hand
with a deprecatory movement. "In these days of par-
venus, fathers are ignored, and it is the worst possible
taste to talk of any family but your own; if that happens
to be good, speak of it by all means, for these people
worship rank and breeding."
"Two things their money can't buy, eh?"
"Of course not. They must gain them by reflection,
so they marry into good families a very laudable thing
too; they are then received into society on account of
the wife's or husband's standing."
"Ah! I wish I had known your opinions before," said
Mr. Egerton mysteriously.
"Why? For what reason?"
"Well," replied the old man with a charming air of
candour, "perhaps I ought not to speak of it; but I
hate secrets, and as you're his mother, it cannot much
matter."
Lady Laura threw off her iionchalant air at once, and
gave undivided attention to Mr. Egerton's conversation.
"It appears that some time ago Charlie's fancy was
taken by a very pretty girl he saw. He found that her
father was a woollen manufacturer, or something of that
sort, in the West of England, so he tried to forget her.
At York, however, they met by accident again, and then
he told me about it, saying, as he knew you would never
receive her, he should try to overcome his affection."
348 DOROTHY FOX.
"Most certainly not," said Lady Laura firmly.
"Oh! well then, that's all right; for since you have
been talking I have been wondering if I had been to
blame in the matter."
"You to blame! How?"
"Well, of course, I made inquiries about the family,
for her aunt happens to be a neighbour of mine. And,
by Jove! I discovered they are very wealthy people. The
girl will have a large fortune from her father, besides her
mother's money and this maiden aunt's."
"You don't say so!" exclaimed Lady Laura. "What
did Charles say?"
"Oh! I have never told him. I thought, if I did,
perhaps he wouldn't agree to give her up."
"And why on earth should he, if she has all this
money?"
"Why, as I told you, her father is a tradesman: may
keep a draper's shop, for anything I know."
"My dear Mr. Egerton, now you are too absurd. You
know what Charles's income is, and how extravagant his
habits are. Unless he marries a girl with money, what
is he to dol He is tired of being a soldier, and wants
a home; and how is he to get one? If the girl is at all
decent, and has a fortune, and such prospects as you
describe, he could not do better than marry her. And
he ought to know that I have his happiness too much at
heart to put any obstacle in his way."
Mr. Egerton's brown eyes grew quite bright, and
twinkled at the success of his scheme.
"You really surprise me; I thought you would have
been distracted about it," he said. "And you have not
heard all yet, they are Quakers!"
"Quakers!" echoed Lady Laura. "What, those people
who wear the horrid bonnets and grey gowns? Oh!
SUCCESSFUL DIPLOMACY. 349
Charles must have known she had money. No man could
fall in love with a woman disguised in that manner. Im-
possible!"
"Is it? I can tell you, my dear lady, I have not seen
anything so sweet for a very long time; she's as fresh as
a blush rose. If all the women are like her, I ought to
thank my stars I was not brought up a broad-brimmer."
"Then you have seen her?" she asked.
"Yes, she was staying at Leeds with some people I
know, and I offered to escort her to York, knowing no-
thing about Charlie, you see."
"And Charles likes the girl, and you know she has
lots of money, and is charming, and yet you are allowing
her to slip through his fingers. What absurd notions
men take into their heads, to be sure! This, I suppose,
then, was the cause of his giving up Miss Bingham and
her ^50,000?
"Well, if he can get this girl, he need never repent
that sacrifice."
"You don't mean it?" replied Lady Laura, delighted.
"But have you made every inquiry? Is your authority
reliable?"
"Oh! her mother's family have lived about York for
years; they are very quiet people, spending little, and
this girl's father married twice, each time a lady with
money. The Quakers are generally moneyed folk, you
know. The girl's mother was the second wife."
"And Charles really admires her, and is trying to over-
come it on my account?" said Lady Laura. "Dear boy!"
"Well, perhaps I must not give him too much credit
for self-denial!" laughed the old gentleman. "To tell
you the truth, he has proposed for her, and her father
refuses his consent."
350 DOROTHY FOX.
"And why? For whati" exclaimed her ladyship in-
dignantly.
"The reason he gives is, that Charles is a soldier, and
not a Quaker."
"Oh! those reasons can be easily overcome," replied
Lady Laura confidentially. "Charles already intends to
give up his profession, which the old man need not know,
and therefore will take as a concession to his wishes. Then
he can go to the chapel with them for a little time; that
is often done. Sir Francis Charlton always went to early
prayers with that rich Miss Jones until they were married,
and I am sure those Dalrymple girls went for months to
some little conventicle because they wanted to catch Lord
Kilmarsh. I took Audrey there once, and I thought I
should have died. However, we never went again, for
before the end of the next week we heard he had married
his old tutor's daughter. Oh! that can easily be managed.
I must have a talk with Charles. I shall tell him I feel
much hurt at his want of confidence in his mother. My
children never seem to comprehend that the one object
of my life has been to make them happy."
"It was rather rash of him, though," said Mr. Egerton,
"to propose without knowing whether the girl had a penny."
"But don't you think he must have known something
of itl" replied Lady Laura.
"No; for he does not believe it now. The real motive
which the father has for refusing Charles is, that he wants his
daughter to marry a man to whom she was half engaged
when she met Charles a man of enormous wealth."
"Now, is not that exactly like those rich people?"
asked her ladyship in an injured tone. "They are so fear-
fully avaricious; all they think about is money. Odious
old man! And he would sacrifice his daughter?"
"Oh yes! without a scruple," replied Mr. Egerton.
SUCCESSFUL DIPLOMACY. 351
"Her father thinks lie ought to choose her husband for
her."
"Absurd! exclaimed her ladyship. "But what is their
name'?"
"Fox. The other members of the family favour Charles;
only the old man seems to be against him."
"Well, I call it very, very unkind of Charles," said
Lady Laura, "to allow all this to go on without mention-
ing it to his mother."
"Well, I dare say he would have done so, but he thought
you had been worried enough lately. But now I shall tell
him I have spoken to you, and that he had better act
upon your advice, which we know is always good."
Mr. Egerton and Lady Laura parted mutually pleased
with each other he at the success of his undertaking,
she at the prospect of her son securing a rich wife, for
her ill-fortune with Audrey had shaken her confidence
and made her fear that Charles would also disappoint
her hopes. She now saw that these fears were not
groundless. According to Harry Egerton's account he
was partially ignorant of the girl's expectations (not that
she quite believed that) still it savoured of imprudence
to propose without consulting her, and the sooner he
married the better.
So Lady Laura was impatient until she saw Captain
Verschoyle. She then acted with much caution, speaking
of little else than her great love for him, her desire to
see him settled, and her readiness to promote his hap-
piness in every way. She readily acceded to his request
that she would call upon the Hanburys when Mr. Fox's
consent was obtained, and fixed the following Thursday
for her visit. "You can write and say that we are com-
ing, Charles, and that will remove the awkwardness of a
first meeting."
352 DOROTHY FOX.
This prospect, and a letter from Miss Brocklehurst,
somewhat softened her towards Audrey, who, she now
knew, had already met Miss Fox. Audrey praised the
young lady's beauty, described the house and grounds,
and did all in her power to strengthen her mothei"'s
favourable opinion of the match.
"When I call I shall take you with me," said Lady
Laura, "and remember that we go very quietly dressed.
You can put on your brown silk, and I shall wear black,
and Marshall must take the feather out of my bonnet."
"Really, mamma," said Audrey, "I do not see any
necessity for that."
"I dare say you do not; but however little you may
have appreciated it, I have made it my rule through life
never to consider myself when the happiness and interest
of my children are at stake. When I visit these people
I shall adapt myself as much as possible to their habits
and mamiers, and I trust, for your brother's sake, Audrey,
you will endeavour to do the same."
CHAPTER XLI.
Which is it to be?
Audrey did not require to don her most sober-look-
ing dress, nor did Lady Laura require to dismount her
feather, for the visit to Fryston had to be postponed.
Next morning's post brought a most decided refusal of
Captain Verschoyle's suit, to which Nathaniel Fox said his
conscience and his principles alike forbade him to listen.
Captain Verschoyle went at once to Mr. Hanbury's
office, but was told that he had not been there that
morning. This decided him to take the train to Fryston,
on reaching which he learnt from Grace that on the
previous evening her father had arrived from Leeds, and
liad that morning started for King's-heart, taking Doro-
WHICH is IT TO LE? 353
thy with him. ''She left this note for you," said Grace,
"and I need not tell you in Avhat distress the poor
child was. I fear this is a hopeless case, Captain Vers-
choyle."
Captain Verschoyle read Dorothy's note, and then he
set his face firmly, as one who makes a strong resolve.
"No, Mrs. Hanbury," he answered, "it is not hope-
less, and never shall be as long as your sister is true to
what she says here. As she bids me hope on, I believe
we shall yet conquer."
So it was agreed that Charles Verschoyle should con-
tinue his visits to Fryston, where he would get all the
tidings they could give him of Dorothy, and of the suc-
cess of her plan to soften her father.
Nathaniel Fox had gone to Leeds to see Josiah Crewd-
son, and learn from him the reason for his assertion that
Dorothy, with her father's consent, was engaged to marry
Charles Verschoyle. So taxed, Josiah had told Nathaniel
the whole story, and his motive for thus silencing his
sisters' indignant wrath.
The old man thanked him for dealing so kindly; and
after a time, seeing that either he must bear the blame of
inconsistency, or his daughter the shame of indecorum
and levity, he decided to take refuge in that stronghold
of Friends' principles silence. He would be silent to
the rebukes; listen without defending himself to the
condemnation; and bear whatever blame the members
of the Society chose to accord to him; all this his con-
science allowed. But to permit his daughter to marry a
man of whom he knew nothing, and who belonged to a
profession which he considered ungodly and profane, was
not to be thought of; therefore he decidedly said "No."
Josiah tried every argument to move him, but in vain;
he only made him say angrily, that he had no reason to
Dorothy Fox. 2\
354
DOROTHY FOX.
plead the cause of a woman wlio had treated h'uw so
unfairly.
"No," said Josiah, "not so. She told me and thee
she would strive to do as we wished. I believe she did
strive and failed. I feel that I could have no chance
with such a man as Charles Verschoyle, who, though a
soldier, is no mere worldling. Never think I feel angry
with Dorothy. Though she could not give me her love,
she stirred up something within me which has given me
a hope that some day I may again try my fate, and by
this teaching, hard as it seems, succeed better."
So winter fairly set in, Christmas went past, and the
new year was born, Audrey's wedding was to take place
within a week, and in the bustle of preparation Lady
l.aura ceased to scheme for obtaining the consent of that
"self-willed, avaricious, wicked old man," as she persisted
in calling Nathaniel Fox,
Her ladyship had been several times to see Mrs. Han-
bury. Between Grace and Audrey a mutual affection
had sprung up, which was likely to be increased as
Geoffrey Dynecourt had decided upon taking a house
at Fryston.
All Lady Laura saw and learnt from Grace confirmed
her belief that Dorothy was worth the exertions which
she considered she was urging her son to make. So she
decided that whenever Audrey was fairly off her hands,
she would strain every nerve to bring matters to a favour-
able conclusion.
Captain Verschoyle, on his part, was willing to listen
to any scheme likely to give him what was now the one
desire and wish of his life; but as week after week rolled
on he grew more despondent. He had written to Mr.
Egerton saying, that this suspense was so unendurable
that he should come down to Darington to consult him.
WHICH IS IT TO BE? 355
A letter which he received at this time from Lord Mor-
peth offering him, if he still thought of selling out, a
colonial appointment, caused him to resolve upon at
once deciding his fate, and he started the next day for
King's-heart.
Dorothy did not know that she was to see her lover
that day, or she would have fancied that January had
suddenly changed to June. As it was, the wintry sun
striving to shine gave her no gladness; it could not make
the day bright for her. Poor Dorothy! she had spent
two weary months. Sometimes hope seemed so bright
that nothing could extinguish it, at other times so dim
that nothing could rekindle it. Her mother's face had a
troubled anxious look, as if she knew that her child had
a sorrow which she could not bear for her. And Doro-
thy's languid movements and forced smiles seemed to
pierce Nathaniel's heart with a sharper pang.
The unusually loud ring of the bell did not, as it
used to do, make Dorothy run to the window, or stand
on the footstool or on tiptoe, to see who their visitor
was. Patience wondered who it could be, but Dorothy
did not care. When Lydia opened the door, it was
Charles Verschoyle who stood on the threshold.
It was several minutes before either Dorothy or he re-
membered more than that they were in each other's com-
pany again. After some little time, Captain Verschoyle
told his errand, and then he turned to Patience and said
"Mrs. Fox, you are aware that my dearest wish is to
liave Dorothy for my wife. I asked her father for his
consent, and he refused it because I was a soldier. In
deference to his scruples, I offered to give up my pro-
fession still he refused. I have waited for two months
hoping he would alter his decision, but he remains in-
flexible. Yesterday morning my uncle offered me a de-
350 DOROTHY FOX,
sirable appointment, and I have come here to know
whether I shall accept or refuse it. 1 have no wish to
influence Dorothy to disobey her father, but if she loves
me as I love her, she will now consent to be my wife,
and I shall accept Lord Morpeth's offer. But if she
feels that she cannot disregard her father's wish, and that
her love for me is not strong enough to overcome all
obstacles, I shall remain in my profession. And as these
rumours of disaffection in India will cause many re-
giments to be sent there, I shall at once apply for
foreign service. This suspense has become to me un-
endurable. I feel it would either kill me or kill my
love. Besides, after a certain point I consider that even
parental obedience has a limit. Surely hearts, not hands,
are meant when it is said, 'What God hath joined to-
gether let not man put asunder.' Dorothy," he con-
tinued, looking beseechingly towards her, "you have
heard what I have said, your heart will decide; tell me,
which is it to heV
"I will be thine," she said, putting her hand in his.
"Oh mother!" she cried, "remember what thou once told
me I ought to feel. I do feel all that, and much more,
towards him. It is not want of love to thee and father
which makes me choose as I do. Thou must forgive
me!"
"I do, my child," said Patience. "I shall never
blame thee, and I will do my best to soften thy father;
but before I can say more on this subject he must be
consulted. Charles Verschoyle had better go to Plymouth
and speak to thy father, and tell him what thou hast
said in my presence. And when he comes home thou
must be frank, and give him thy decision, with thy rea-
sons for it."
Captain Verschoyle carried out this arrangement, and
WHICH IS IT TO be'?
557
the result was that after a lengthened and stormy inter-
\ie\v Nathaniel demanded three days for consideration,
dm-ing which time Charles Verschoyle should hold no
communication with Dorothy; then he would give his
answer.
To this Captain Verschoyle was obliged to consent,
although it was just then rather hard upon him, as it was
impossible for him to stay in Plymouth to hear it. The
day on which Nathaniel's decision was to be given had
been fixed for Audrey's wedding; a wedding that, not-
withstanding all Lady Laura's arguments to the contrary,
was to be a very quiet one.
All her ladyship's anger had vanished. She was well
up in the Dynecourt pedigree, and after giving some
parvenu friend or money-seeking mother a history of their
long descent from almost royal ancestors, she would end
by saying, "Of course I can say nothing to Audrey, for
I made a love match myself, and refused the most eligible
'parties' of that season for her dear father. Girls can
very seldom secure everything. One must generally give
up family or money, and I am quite content with the
choice Audrey has made; for, after all, money only buys
toleration."
Happiness gave to Audrey's face a softness which had
been often wanting before, and when the wedding party
returned from church Miss Brocklehurst declared that
Audrey Dynecourt was better looking than ever Audrey
Verschoyle had been. Mr. Ford, by his own desire, was
present, and he and Miss Brocklehurst paid each other
so many compliments, and were so determined to meet
again, that Audrey whispered she thought she should call
him "God-papa."
Captain Verschoyle was in the highest spirits, for Na-
thaniel's answer had come. He gave way at last, though
358 DOROTHV FOX.
under great protest. Only on condition that Charles
Verschoyle would wait a year for her, and promise not
to take her out of England, should Dorothy be his wife.
Lady Laura announced the fact herself to the as-
sembled guests, and asked them to give her their con-
gratulations. "You are my true friends," she said, "and
know that my one object in life has been my children's
welfare. In the choice each has made, they have fol-
lowed the dictates of their own hearts. And though they
inay not have secured all those worldly advantages which
many consider necessary to enjoyment, I, from experience,
can tell them that in marriage love alone insures hap-
piness, and having gained that, come what may, they are
possessed of life's true elixir."
CHAPTER XLII.
A Year after.
Since Audrey's marriage-day more than a year has
elapsed, spring has come round, and Lady Laura, writing
to Lady Spencer, who is spending the winter in Rome,
says
"My dear Isabel, I delayed writing to you until
Charles's wedding had taken place, knowing the kind in-
terest you take in all that concerns me and mine. And
now I have another piece of news to tell you, nothing-
less than that I am a grandmother; and, do you know?
I do not mind it in the least, but am rather proud of it.
"Yes, dear Audrey has a son such a lovely boy;
nurse says he's exactly like me. He was born at Dyne
Court. Mr. Ford asked it as a particular favour to him,
and I think Geoffrey was rather glad, as for more than
two hundred years the eldest child has always been born
at the family place. I hope great things from this cir-
A YEAR AFTER. 359
ciimstaiice, but Geoffrey and Audrey will not hear it
mentioned, and say she went there on the understanding
that it was only to further cement their friendship. I
think I told you the on dit, that Maria Brocklehurst was
to marry Mr. Ford. At first I laughed at the idea of a
woman of her age, and with such a good fortune, dream-
ing of such a thing. However, I now begin to have some
faith in the story. I wrote to her about it, and she re-
plied in her brusque way, 'That it would be wiser for
people to attend to their own affairs, and leave time to
show whether there is any truth in reports.'
"And now for Charles. They were married on the loth
of last month. I did not go to the wedding as the weather
was cold, and Charles was afraid the journey might be too
much for me. Mrs. Hanbury, the bride's sister, tells me
everything went off extremely well, and l^orothy looked
lovely. Tell Spencer I made her adopt the loose Grecian
knot at the back of the head, and, as he said, it made her
perfect. They have taken a pretty place in Essex for a
year, wishing to be near Fryston, where Audrey and the
Hanburys live. After all, Dorothy had a fortune. Her
father gave her ten thousand pounds on her wedding
morning, so that will make a nice addition to their rather
limited income. My own plans are not quite decided. I
think I shall give up this house and take apartments. Now
that my children are settled, I intend confining my visiting
circle to my relations and especial friends, among whom,
my dear Isabel, you and your family stand pre-eminent.
I long for your return, that you may see Audrey. She is
wonderfully improved looks so handsome, and is younger
than ever. I never saw such devotion as there is between
her and Geoffrey, and I am quite certain that Charles
and Dorothy will be just such another pair. I need not
tell you what comfort 1 derive from the contemplation
360 DOROTHY FOX.
of their happiness, nor how thankful I am that I was
enabled to cast aside all my more ambitious projects
for them. After all, my dear Isabel, the pleasures of the
world rank, wealth, fame all fail to give us complete
happiness unless we have some one to love and to love
us. The older we grow, the more we value a blessing
which can sweeten joy and alleviate grief. Now, I dare
say you are laughing at me, and thinking that I am
growing romantic in my old days. Well, perhaps I am.
and no wonder, after having seen so much love-making,
and finding myself a grandmother. But I certainly feel
twenty years younger than I did this time last year, and
if you and dear Spencer would only make haste and
return to England, and tell me that I am looking so,
you would make perfectly happy
"Your most affectionate,
"Laura Verschoyle."
THE END,