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ABINGTON ABBEY

BY THE SAME AUTHOR

ABINGTON ABBEY

A NOVEL

BY

ARCHIBALD MARSHALL

NEW YORK

DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY

1919

Copyright, 1917

By DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY, Inc.

TO

MY DEAR LITTLE ELIZABETH

CONTENTS

ABINGTON ABBEY

CHAPTER I

THE VERY HOUSE

"I believe I've got the very house, Cara."

"Have you, darling? It's the fifty-third."

"Ah, but you wait till you see. Abington Abbey. What do you think of that for a name? Just come into the market. There are cloisters, and a chapel. Stew ponds. A yew walk. Three thousand acres, and a good head of game. More can be had by arrangement, and we'll arrange it. Presentation to living. We'll make Bunting a parson, and present him to it. Oh, it's the very thing. I haven't told you half. Come and have a look at it."

George Grafton spread out papers and photographs on a table. His daughter, Caroline, roused herself from her book and her easy chair in front of the fire to come and look at them. He put his arm around her slim waist and gave her a kiss, which she returned with a smile. "Darling old George," she said, settling his tie more to her liking, "I sometimes wish you weren't quite so young. You let yourself in for so many disappointments."

George Grafton did look rather younger than his fifty years, in spite of his grey hair. He had a fresh complexion and a pair of dark, amused, alert eyes. His figure was that of a young man, and his daughter had only settled his tie out of affection, for it and the rest of his clothes were perfect, with that perfection which comes from Bond Street and Savile Row, the expenditure of considerable sums of money, and exact knowledge and taste in such matters. He was, in fact, as agreeable to the eye as any man of his age could be, unless you were to demand evidences of unusual intellectual power, which he hadn't got, and did very well without.

As for his eldest daughter Caroline, her appeal to the eye needed no qualification whatever, for she had, in addition to her attractions of feature and colouring, that adorable gift of youth, which, in the case of some fortunate beings, seems to emanate grace. It was so with her. At the age of twenty there might have been some doubt as to whether she could be called beautiful or only very pretty, and the doubt would not be resolved for some few years to come. She had delicate, regular features, sweet eyes, a kind smiling mouth, a peach-like soft-tinted skin, nut-coloured hair with a wave in it, a slender column of a neck, with deliciously modulated curves of breast and shoulders. She looked thorough-bred, was fine at the extremities, clean-boned and long in the flank, and moved with natural grace and freedom. Half of these qualities belonged to her youth, which was so living and palpitating in her as to be a quality of beauty in itself.

She was charmingly dressed, and her clothes, like her father's, meant money, as well as perfect taste; or perhaps, rather, taste perfectly aware of the needs and fashions of the moment. They were both of them people of the sort whom wealth adorns, who are physically perfected and mentally expanded by it: whom it is a pleasure to think of as rich. The room in which we first meet them gave the same sense of satisfaction as their clothes and general air of prosperity, and expressed them in the same way. It was a large room, half library, half morning-room. There was a dark carpet, deep chairs and sofas covered with bright chintzes, many books, pictures, flowers, some ornaments of beauty and value, but few that were not also for use, all the expensive accessories of the mechanism of life in silver, tortoise-shell, morocco. It was as quiet and homelike as if it had been in the heart of the country, though it was actually in the heart of London. A great fire of logs leapt and glowed in the open hearth, the numerous electric globes were reduced in their main effect to a warm glow, though they gave their light just at the points at which it was wanted. It was a delightful room for ease of mind and ease of body—or for family life, which was a state of being enjoyed and appreciated by the fortunate family which inhabited it.

There were five of them, without counting the Dragon, who yet counted for a great deal. George Grafton was a banker, by inheritance and to some extent by acquirement. His business cares sat lightly on him, and interfered in no way with his pleasures. But he liked his work, as he liked most of the things that he did, and was clever at it. He spent a good many days in the year shooting and playing golf, and went away for long holidays, generally with his family. But his enjoyments were enhanced by not being made the business of his life, and his business was almost an enjoyment in itself. It was certainly an interest, and one that he would not have been without.

He had married young, and his wife had died at the birth of his only son, fifteen years before. He had missed her greatly, which had prevented him from marrying again when his children were all small; and now they were grown up, or growing up, their companionship was enough for him. But he still missed her, and her memory was kept alive among his children, only the eldest of whom, however, had any clear recollection of her.

Beatrix, the second girl, was eighteen, Barbara, the third, sixteen. Young George, commonly known as Bunting in this family of nicknames, was fourteen. He was now enjoying himself excessively at Eton, would presently enjoy himself equally at Cambridge, and in due time would be introduced to his life work at the bank, under circumstances which would enable him to enjoy himself just as much as ever, and with hardly less time at his disposal than the fortunate young men among his contemporaries whose opportunities for so doing came from wealth inherited and not acquired. Or if he chose to take up a profession, which in his case could only be that of arms, he might do so, with his future comfort assured, the only difference being that he could not expect to be quite so rich.

This is business on the higher scale as it is understood and for the most part practised in England, that country where life is more than money, and money, although it is a large factor in gaining prizes sought for, is not the only one. It may be necessary to 'go right through the mill' for those who have to make their own way entirely, though it is difficult to see how the purposes of high finance can be better served by some one who knows how to sweep out an office floor than by some one who has left that duty to a charwoman. The mysteries of a copying-press are not beyond the power of a person of ordinary intelligence to learn in a few minutes, and sticking stamps on letters is an art which has been mastered by most people in early youth. If it has not, it may be safely left to subordinates. George Grafton was as well dressed as any man in London, but he had probably never brushed or folded his own clothes. Nor had he served behind the counter of his own bank, nor often filled up with his own hand the numerous documents which he so effectively signed.

It is to be supposed that the pure mechanism of business, which is not, after all, more difficult to master than the mechanism of Latin prose, is not the only thing sought to be learnt in this vaunted going through of the mill. But it is doubtful whether the young Englishman who is introduced for the first time into a family business at the age of twenty-two or three, and has had the ordinary experience of public school and university life, is not at least as capable of judging and dealing with men as his less fortunate fellow who has spent his youth and early manhood doing the work of a clerk. His opportunities, at least, have been wider of knowing them, and he has had his training in obedience and discipline, and, if he has made use of his opportunities, in responsibility. At any rate, many of the old-established firms of world-wide reputation in the City of London are directed by men who have had the ordinary education of the English leisured classes, and may be said to belong to the leisured classes themselves, inasmuch as their work is not allowed to absorb all their energies, and they live much the same lives as their neighbours who are not engaged in business. George Grafton was one of them, and Bunting would be another when his time came.

The Dragon was Miss Waterhouse, who had come to the house in Cadogan Place to teach Caroline fifteen years before, and had remained there ever since. She was the mildest, softest-hearted, most devoted and affectionate creature that was ever put into a position of authority; and the least authoritative. Yet her word 'went' through all the household.

"It is a jolly house, you know, dear," said Caroline, after she had fully examined pictures and papers. "I'm not sure that it isn't the very one, at last. But are you sure you can afford it, darling? It seems a great deal of money."

"It's rather cheap, really. They've stuck on a lot for the furniture and things. But they say that it's not nearly what they're worth. They'll sell the place without them if I like, and have a sale of them. They say they'd fetch much more than they're asking me."

"Well, then, why don't they do it?"

"Oh, I don't know. But we could go and have a look and see what they are worth—to us, I mean. After all, we should buy just that sort of thing, and it would take us a lot of time and trouble. We should probably have to pay more in the long run, too."

"I had rather looked forward to furnishing. I should like the trouble, and I've got plenty of time. And you've got plenty of money, darling, unless you've been deceiving us all this time."

"Well, shall we go and have a look at it together? What about to-morrow? Have you got anything to do?"

"Yes, lots. But I don't think there's anything I can't put off. How far is it from London? Shall we motor down?"

"Yes, if it's fine. We'd better, in any case, as it's five miles from a station, and we might not be able to get a car there. I don't think I could stand five miles in a horse fly."

"You're always so impatient, darling. Having your own way so much has spoiled you. I expect B will want to come."

"Well, she can if she likes."

"I think I'd rather it was just you and me. We always have a lot of fun together."

He gave her a hug and a kiss. The butler came in at that moment with the tea-tray, and smiled paternally. The footman who followed him looked abashed.

"Look, Jarvis, we've found the very house," said Caroline, exhibiting a large photograph of Abington Abbey.

"Lor, miss!" said the butler indulgently.

Beatrix and Barbara came in, accompanied by the Dragon.

Beatrix was even prettier than Caroline, with a frail ethereal loveliness that made her appear almost too good for this sinful world, which she wasn't at all, though she was a very charming creature. She was very fair, with a delicious complexion of cream and roses, and a figure of extreme slimness. She was still supposed to be in the schoolroom, and occasionally was so. She was only just eighteen, and wore her hair looped and tied with a big bow; but she would be presented in the spring and would then blossom fully.

Barbara was very fair too,—a pretty girl with a smiling good-humoured face, but not so pretty as her sisters. She had her arm in that of the Dragon.

Miss Waterhouse was tall and straight, with plentiful grey hair, and handsome regular features. Her age was given in the Grafton family as 'fifty if a day,' but she was not quite so old as that. She was one of those women who seem to be cut out for motherhood, and to have missed their vocation by not marrying, just as a born artist would have missed his if he had never handled a brush or a pen. Fortunately, such women usually find somebody else's children round whom to throw their all-embracing tenderness. Miss Waterhouse had found the engaging family of Grafton, and loved them just as if they had been her own. It was probably a good deal owing to her that George Grafton had not made a second marriage. Men whose wives die young, leaving them with a family of small children, sometimes do so for their sake. But the young Graftons had missed nothing in the way of feminine care; their father had had no anxiety on their account during their childhood, and they had grown into companions to him, in a way that they might not have done if they had had a step-mother. He owed more than he knew to the Dragon, though he knew that he owed her a great deal. She was of importance in the house, but she was self-effacing. He was the centre round which everything moved. He received a great deal from his children that they would have given to their mother if she had been alive. He was a fortunate man, at the age of fifty; for family affection is one of the greatest gifts of life, and he had it in full measure.

"We've found the very house, boys," he said, as the three of them came in. "Abington Abbey, in Meadshire. Here you are. Replete with every modern comfort and convenience. Cara and I are going to take a day off to-morrow and go down to have a look at it."

Beatrix took up the photographs. "Yes, I like that house," she said. "I think you've struck it this time, darling. I'm sorry I can't come with you. I'm going to fence. But I trust to you both entirely."

"Do you think Uncle Jim will like you taking a day off, George, dear?" asked Barbara. "You had two last week, you know. You mustn't neglect your work. I don't. The Dragon won't let me."

"Barbara, darling," said Miss Waterhouse in a voice of gentle expostulation, "I don't think you should call your father George. It isn't respectful."

Barbara kissed her. "You don't mind, do you, Daddy?" she asked.

"Yes, I do, from you," he said. "You're my infant in arms. 'Daddy' is much prettier from little girls."

"Darling old thing!" she said. "You shall have it your own way. But we do spoil you. Now about this Abington Abbey. Are there rats? If so, I won't go there."

"Is there a nice clergyman?" asked Beatrix. "You and Caroline must call on the clergyman, and tell me what he's like when you come home; and how many children he has; and all about the neighbours. A nice house is all very well, but you want nice people too. Somebody you can make fun of."

"B darling," expostulated the Dragon again. "I don't think you should set out by making fun of people. You will want to make friends of your neighbours, not fun of them."

"We can do both," said Beatrix. "Will you be the Squire, dear? I should like you to be a little Squire. You'd do it awfully well, better than Uncle Jim."

Sir James Grafton was George's elder brother, and head of the bank. He was a good banker, but a better chemist. He had fitted himself up a laboratory in his country house, and spent as much of his time in it as possible, somewhat to the detriment of his duties as a landowner.

"It will be great fun being Squire's daughters," said Caroline. "I'm glad we are going to have a house of our very own. When you only take them for a month or two you feel like a Londoner all the time. B, you and I will become dewy English girls. I believe it will suit us."

"I don't want to become a dewy English girl just yet," said Beatrix. "It's all very well for you. You've had two seasons. Still, I shan't mind living in the country a good part of the year. There's always plenty to do there. But I do hope there'll be a nice lot of people about. Is it what they call a good residential neighbourhood, Daddy? They always make such a lot of that."

"I don't know much about Meadshire," said Grafton. "I think it's a trifle stuffy. People one never sees, who give themselves airs. Still, if we don't like them we needn't bother ourselves about them. We can get our own friends down."

"I'm not sure that's the right spirit," said Caroline. "I want to do the thing thoroughly. The church is very near the house, isn't it? I hope we're not right in the middle of the village too. You want to be a little by yourself in the country."

The photographs, indeed, showed the church—a fine square-towered Early English structure—directly opposite the front door of the house, the main part, of which was late Jacobean. The cloisters and the old rambling mediæval buildings of the Abbey were around the corner, and other photographs showed them delightfully irregular and convincing. But the gardens and the park enclosed it all. The village was a quarter of a mile away, just outside one of the Lodge gates. "I asked all about that," said Grafton, explaining it to them.

They gathered round the tea-table in their comfortable luxurious room,—a happy affectionate family party. Their talk was all of the new departure that was at last to be made, for all of them took it for granted that they really had found the very house at last, and the preliminary visit and enquiries and negotiations were not likely to reveal any objections or difficulties.

George Grafton had been looking for a country house in a leisurely kind of way for the past ten years, and with rather more determination for about two. He belonged to the class of business man to whom it is as natural to have a country house as to have a London house, not only for convenience in respect of his work, but also for his social pleasures. He had been brought up chiefly in the country, at Frayne, in the opulent Sevenoaks region, which his brother now inhabited. He had usually taken a country house furnished during some part of the year, sometimes on the river for the summer months, sometimes for the winter, with a shoot attached to it. His pleasures were largely country pleasures. And his children liked what they had had of country life, of which they had skimmed the cream, in the periods they had spent in the houses that he had taken, and in frequent short visits to those of friends and relations. In the dead times of the year they had come back to London, to their occupations and amusements there. One would have said that they had had the best of both. If they had been pure Londoners by birth and descent no doubt they would have had, and been well content. But it was in their blood on both sides to want that mental hold over a country home, which houses hired for a few months at a time cannot give. None of the houses their father had taken could be regarded as their home. Nor could a house in London, however spacious and homelike.

They talked about this now, over the tea-table. "It will be jolly to have all that space round you and to feel that it belongs to you," said Caroline. "I shall love to go out in the morning and stroll about, without a hat, and pick flowers."

"And watch them coming up," said Barbara. "That's what I shall like. And not having always to go out with the Dragon. Of course, I shall generally want you to come with me, darling, and I should always behave exactly as if you were there—naturally, as I'm a good girl. But I expect you will like to go out by yourself sometimes too, without one of the Graftons always hanging to you."

"You'll like the country, won't you, dear?" asked Beatrix. "I think you must go about with a key-basket, and feed the sparrows after breakfast."

"I was brought up in the country," said Miss Waterhouse. "I shall feel more at home there than you will."

"Your mother would have loved the garden," said Grafton. "She always missed her garden."

"Grandfather showed me the corner she had at Frampton when she was little," said Caroline. "There's an oak there where she planted an acorn. It takes up nearly the whole of it now."

"Where is it?" asked her father. "I never knew that. I should like to see it."

Caroline described the spot to him. "Ah, yes," he said, "I do remember now; she showed it me herself when we were engaged."

"Grandfather showed it to me too," said Beatrix.

"Yes, I know," said Caroline quickly. "You were there."

Their mother was often spoken of in this way, naturally, and not with any sadness or regret. Caroline remembered her. Beatrix said she did, and was inclined to be a little jealous of Caroline's memories.

"I think I'll come with you after all, to-morrow," said Beatrix. "I can put off my fencing for once."

"Yes, do, darling," said Caroline. "You and I and Dad will have a jolly day together."

CHAPTER II

THE VICAR

The Vicar of Abington was the Reverend A. Salisbury Mercer, M.A., with a tendency towards hyphenation of the two names, though the more resounding of them had been given to him at baptism in token of his father's admiration for a great statesman. He was middle-sized, but held himself in such a way as to give the impression of height, or at least of dignity. His dignity was, indeed, dear to him, and his chief quarrel with the world, in which he had otherwise made himself very comfortable, was that there were so many people who failed to recognise it. His wife, however, was not one of them. She thought him the noblest of men, and more often in the right than not. He was somewhere in the early fifties, and she about ten years younger. She was a nice good-tempered little lady, inclined to easy laughter, but not getting much occasion for it in her home, for the Reverend A. Salisbury Mercer took life seriously, as became a man of his profession. She had brought him money—not a great deal of money, but enough to give him a well-appointed comfortable home, which the emoluments of Abington Vicarage would not have given him of themselves. In clerical and clerically-minded society he was accustomed to complain of the inequalities of such emoluments in the Church of England. "Look at Abington," he would say, some time in the course of the discussion. "There's a fine church, which wants a good deal of keeping up, and there's a good house; but the value of the living has come down to about a hundred and thirty a year. No man without private means—considerable private means—could possibly afford to take it. And those men are getting scarcer and scarcer. After me, I don't know what will happen at Abington."

The village of Abington consisted mainly of one broad street lined on either side with red brick houses, cottages and little shops. The Vicarage was a good-sized Georgian house which abutted right on to the pavement, and had cottages built against it on one side and its own stable-yard on the other. The Vicar was often inclined to complain of its consequent lack of privacy, but the fact that its front windows provided an uninterrupted view of the village street, and what went on there, went a good way towards softening the deprivation. For he liked to know what his flock were doing. He took a good deal of responsibility for their actions.

One of the front rooms downstairs was the study. The Vicar's writing-table was arranged sideways to the window, so that he could get the light coming from the left while he was writing. If he looked up he had a good view right down the village street, which took a very slight turn when the Vicarage was passed. Another reason he had for placing his table in this position was that it was a good thing for his parishioners to see him at work. "The idea that a clergyman's life is an easy one," he would say to any one who might show a tendency to advance or even to hold that opinion, "is quite wrong. His work is never ended, either within or without. I myself spend many hours a day at my desk, but all that the public sees of what I do there is represented by an hour or two in church during the week."

An irrepressible nephew of his wife engaged in London journalism, to whom this had once been said during a week-end visit, had replied: "Do you mean to say, Uncle, that the sermon you preached this morning took you hours to write up? I could have knocked it off in half an hour, and then I should have had most of it blue-pencilled."

That irreverent young man had not been asked to the house again, but it had been explained to him that sermon-writing was not the chief labour of a parish priest. He had a great deal of correspondence to get through, and he had to keep himself up in contemporary thought. The Vicar, indeed, did most of his reading sitting at his table, with his head propped on his hand. Few people could beat him in his knowledge of contemporary thought as infused through the brains of such writers as Mr. Philips Oppenheim, Mr. Charles Garvice, and Mr. William le Queux. Women writers he did not care for, but he made an exception in favour of Mrs. Florence Barclay, whose works he judged to contain the right proportions of strength and feeling. It must not be supposed that he was at all ashamed of his novel-reading, as some foolish people are. He was not ashamed of anything that he did, and, as for novels, he would point out that the proper study of mankind was man, and that next to studying the human race for yourself, it was the best thing to read the works of those authors who had trained themselves to observe it. Literature, as such, had nothing to do with it. If you wanted literature you could not have anything finer than certain parts of the Old Testament. It was hardly worth while going to modern authors for that. The more literature there was in a modern novel, the less human nature you would be likely to find. No; it would generally be found that the public taste was the right taste in these matters, whatever people who thought themselves superior might say. He himself claimed no superiority in such matters. He supposed he had a brain about as good as the average, but what was good enough for some millions of his fellow-countrymen was good enough for him. He preferred to leave Mr. Henry James to others who thought differently.

The "Daily Telegraph" came by the second post, at about twelve o'clock, and Mrs. Mercer was accustomed to bring it in to her husband, with whatever letters there were for him or for her. She liked to stay and chat with him for a time, and sometimes, if there was anything that invited discussion in her letters, he would encourage her to do so. But he generally happened to be rather particularly busy at this time, not, of course, with novel-reading, which was usually left till a later hour. He would just 'glance through the paper' and then she must really leave him. They could talk about anything that wanted talking about at lunch. He would glance through the paper hurriedly and then lay it aside and return to his writing; but when she had obediently left the room he would take up the paper again. It was necessary for him to know what was going on in the world. His wife never took the paper away with her. She had her own "Daily Mirror," which he despised and sometimes made her ashamed of reading, but never to the extent of persuading her to give it up. He was a kind husband, and seldom let a day go by without looking through it himself, out of sympathy with her.

On this March morning Mrs. Mercer brought in the "Daily Telegraph." It was all that had come by the post, except circulars, with which she never troubled him, and her own "Daily Mirror." She rather particularly wanted to talk to him, as he had come home late the night before from a day in London, and had not since felt inclined to tell her anything about it. Whether she would have succeeded or not if she had not come upon him reading a novel which he had bought the day before is doubtful. As it was, he did not send her away on the plea of being particularly busy.

"Ah!" he said, laying the book decidedly aside. "I was just looking through this. It is so good that I am quite looking forward to reading it this evening. Well, what's the news with you, my dear?"

Little Mrs. Mercer brightened. She knew his tones; and he was so nice when he was like this. "It's me that ought to ask what's the news with you," she said. "You haven't told me anything of what you did or heard yesterday."

He had been glancing through the paper, but looked up. "There is one thing I heard that may interest you," he said. "I sat next to a man at lunch at the Club and got into conversation with him, or rather he with me, and when it came out that I was Vicar of Abington he said: 'Is that the Abington in Meadshire?' and when I said yes he said: 'I've had Abington Abbey on my books for a long time, and I believe I've let it at last.' He was a House-Agent, a very respectable fellow; the membership of a club like that is rather mixed, but I should have taken him for a barrister at least, except that he had seemed anxious to get into conversation with me."

"It's like that in trams and buses," said Mrs. Mercer. "Anybody who starts a conversation isn't generally as good as the person they start it with."

The Vicar let this pass. "He told me," he said, "that a client of his—he called him a client—who had been looking out for a country house for some time had taken a fancy to the Abbey, and said that if the photographs represented it properly, which they generally didn't when you saw the place itself, and everything else turned out to be as it had been represented, he thought it would suit him. He should come down and look at it very soon."

"Who is he?" asked Mrs. Mercer. "Did he tell you?"

"He did not tell me his name. He said he was a gentleman in the City. I asked the name, but apparently it isn't etiquette for that sort of people to give it. Every calling, of course, has its own conventions in such matters. I said we didn't think much of gentlemen in the City in this part of the world, and I rather hoped his friend would find that the place did not suit him. Some of us were not particularly rich, but we were quite content as we were. By that time he had become, as I thought, a little over-familiar, which is why I said that."

"I think you were quite right, dear. What did he say?"

"Oh, he laughed. He had finished his lunch by that time, and went away without saying a word. These half-gentlemen always break down in their manners somewhere."

"Anybody who could buy the Abbey must be pretty rich. It won't be a bad thing for the parish to have somebody with money in it again."

"No, there is that. Anybody meaner than Mr. Compton-Brett it would be difficult to imagine. We could hardly be worse off in that respect than we are at present."

Mr. Compton-Brett was the owner of Abington Abbey, with the acreage attached thereto, and the advowson that went with it. He was a rich bachelor, who lived the life of a bookish recluse in chambers in the Albany. He had inherited Abington from a distant relation, and only visited it under extreme pressure, about once a year. He refused to let it, and had also refused many advantageous offers to sell. A buyer must accept his terms or leave it alone. They included the right of presentation to the living of Abington at its full actuarial value, and he would not sell the right separately. Rich men who don't want money allow themselves these luxuries of decision. It must amuse them in some way, and they probably need amusement. For a man who can't get it out of dealing with more money than will provide for his personal needs must be lacking in imagination.

"I hope they will be nice people to know," said Mrs. Mercer, "and won't give themselves airs."

"They won't give themselves airs over me twice," replied her husband loftily. "As a matter of fact, these new rich people who buy country places are often glad to have somebody to advise them. For all their money they are apt to make mistakes."

"Are they new people? Did the House-Agent say that?"

"Well, no. But it's more likely than not. 'A gentleman in the City,' he said. That probably means somebody who has made a lot of money and wants to blossom out as a gentleman in the country."

Mrs. Mercer laughed at this, as it seemed to be expected of her. "I hope he will be a gentleman," she said. "I suppose there will be a lady too, and perhaps a family. It will be rather nice to have somebody living at the Abbey. We are not too well off for nice neighbours."

"I should think we are about as badly off as anybody can be," said the Vicar. "There is not a soul in the village itself who is any good to anybody except, of course, Mrs. Walter and Mollie; and as for the people round—well, you know yourself that a set of people more difficult to get on with it would be impossible to find anywhere. I am not a quarrelsome man. Except where my sacred calling is in question, my motto is 'Live and let live.' But the people about us here will not do that. Each one of them seems to want to quarrel. I sincerely hope that these new people at the Abbey will not want that. If they do, well——"

"Oh, I hope not," said little Mrs. Mercer hastily. "I do hope we shall all be good friends, especially if there is a nice family. Whoever buys the Abbey will be your patron, won't he, dear? Mr. Worthing has often told us that Mr. Compton-Brett won't sell the property without selling the patronage of the living."

"Whoever buys the property will have the future right to present to this living," replied the Vicar. "He will have no more right of patronage over me than anybody else. If there is likely to be any doubt about that I shall take an early opportunity of making it plain."

"Oh, I'm sure there won't be," said Mrs. Mercer. "I only meant that he would be patron of the living; not that he would have any authority over the present incumbent. Of course, I know he wouldn't have that."

"You know it, my dear, because you are in the way of knowing such elementary facts. But it is extraordinary what a large number of people are ignorant of them. A rich self-made City man, with not much education behind him, perhaps not even a churchman, is just the sort of person to be ignorant of such things. He is quite likely to think that because he has bought the right to present to a living he has also bought the right to domineer over the incumbent. It is what the rich Dissenters do over their ministers. If this new man is a Dissenter, as he is quite likely to be if he is anything at all, he will be almost certain to take that view. Well, as I say, I am a man of peace, but I know where I stand, and for the sake of my office I shall not budge an inch."

The Vicar breathed heavily. Mrs. Mercer felt vaguely distressed. Her husband was quite right, of course. There did seem to be a sort of conspiracy all round them to refuse him the recognition of his claims, which were only those he felt himself bound to make as a beneficed priest of the Church of England, and for the honour of the Church itself. Still, the recognition of such claims had not as yet been actually denied him from this new-comer, whose very name they did not yet know. It seemed to be settled that he was self-made, ignorant and in all probability a Dissenter; but he might be quite nice all the same, and his family still nicer. It seemed a pity to look for trouble before it came. They hadn't, as it was admitted between them, too many friends, and she did like to have friends. Even among the people round them whom it was awkward to meet in the road there were some whom she would have been quite glad to be on friendly terms with again, in spite of the way they had behaved to her husband.

She was preparing to say in an encouraging manner something to the effect that people were generally nicer than they appeared to be at first sight. Her husband would almost certainly have replied that the exact contrary was the case, and brought forward instances known to them both to prove it. So it was just as well that there was a diversion at this moment. It took the form of a large opulent-looking motor-car, which was passing slowly down the village street, driven by a smart-looking uniformed chauffeur, while a middle-aged man and a young girl sat behind and looked about them; enquiringly on either side. They were George Grafton and Caroline, who supposed that they had reached the village of Abington by this time, but were as yet uncertain of the whereabouts of the Abbey. At that moment a question was being put by the chauffeur to one of the Vicar's parishioners on the pavement. He replied to it with a pointing finger, and the car slid off at a faster pace down the street.

"That must be them!" said Mrs. Mercer in some excitement. "They do look nice, Albert—quite gentle-people, I must say."

The Vicar had also gathered that it must be 'them,' and was as favourably impressed by their appearance as his wife. But it was not his way to take any opinion from her, or even to appear to do so. "If it is our gentleman from the City," he said, "he would certainly be rich enough to make that sort of appearance. But I should think it is very unlikely. However, I shall probably find out if it is he, as I must go up to the church. I'll tell you when I come back."

She did not ask if she might go with him, although she must have known well enough that his visit to the church had been decided on, on the spur of the moment, so that he might get just that opportunity for investigation of which she herself would frankly have acknowledged she was desirous. He would have rebuked her for her prying disposition, and declined her company.

He went out at once, and she watched him walk quickly down the village street, his head and body held very stiff—a pompous man, a self-indulgent man, an ignorant self-satisfied man, but her lord and master, and with some qualities, mostly hidden from others, which caused her to admire him.

CHAPTER III

THE FIRST VISIT

The Vicar was in luck, if what he really wanted was an opportunity of introducing himself to the new-comers. At the end of the village the high stone wall which enclosed the park of the Abbey began, and curved away to the right. The entrance was by a pair of fine iron gates flanked by an ancient stone lodge. A little further on was a gate in the wall, which led to a path running across the park to the church. When he came in view of the entrance the car was standing in front of the gates, and its occupants were just alighting from it to make their way to the smaller gate.

The Vicar hurried up to them and took off his hat. "Are you trying to get in to the Abbey?" he said. "The people of the lodge ought to be there to open the gates."

Grafton turned to him with his pleasant smile. "There doesn't seem to be anybody there," he said. "We thought we'd go in by this gate, and my man could go and see if he could get the keys of the house. We want to look over it."

"But the lodge-keeper certainly ought to be there," said the Vicar, and hurried back to the larger gate, at which he lifted up his voice in accents of command. "Mrs. Roeband!" he called, "Mrs. Roeband! Roeband!! Where are you all? I'm afraid they must be out, sir."

"Yes, I'm afraid they must," said Grafton. "But please don't bother about it. Perhaps you could tell my man where to get the keys."

"They ought not to leave the place like this," said the Vicar in an annoyed voice. "It's quite wrong; quite wrong. I must find out the reason for it. I think the best way, sir, would be for your man to go to the Estate Office. I'll tell him."

He gave directions to the chauffeur, while Grafton and Caroline stood by, stealing a glance at one another as some slight failure on the chauffeur's part to understand him caused the Vicar's voice to be raised impatiently.

It was a sweet and mild March day, but the long fast drive had chilled them both in spite of their furs. Caroline's pretty face looked almost that of a child with its fresh colour, but her long fur coat, very expensive even to the eye of the uninitiated, and the veil she wore, made the Vicar take her for the young wife of the 'gentleman from the City,' as he turned again towards them, especially as she had slipped her arm into her father's as they stood waiting, and was evidently much attached to him. Grafton himself looked younger than his years, with his skin freshened by the cold and his silver hair hidden under his cap. "A newly married couple," thought the Vicar, now ready to put himself at their service and do the honours of the place that they had come to see.

"It isn't far to walk to the Abbey," he said. "You will save time. I will show you the way."

He led them through the gate, and they found themselves in a beechy glade, with great trees rising on either side of the hollow, and a little herd of deer grazing not far from the path.

Caroline exclaimed in delight. "Oh, how topping!" she said. "You didn't tell me there were deer, Dad."

"Oh, father and daughter!" the Vicar corrected himself. "I wonder where the wife is!"

"I had better introduce myself," he said affably, as they walked through the glade together. "Salisbury Mercer my name is. I'm the Vicar of the parish, as I dare say you have gathered. We have been without a resident Squire here for some years. Naturally a great deal of responsibility rests upon me, some of which I shouldn't be altogether sorry to be relieved of. I hope you are thinking of acquiring the place, sir, and if you are that it will suit you. I should be very glad to see the Abbey occupied again."

"Well, it seems as if it might be the place for us," said Grafton. "We're going to have a good look at it anyhow. How long has it been empty?"

"Mr. Compton-Brett inherited it about six years ago. He comes down occasionally, but generally shuts himself up when he does. He isn't much use to anybody. An old couple lived here before him—his cousins. They weren't much use to anybody either—very cantankerous both of them. Although the old man had presented me to the living—on the advice of the bishop—a year before he died, he set himself against me in every way here, and actually refused to see me when he was dying. The old lady was a little more amenable afterwards, and I was with her at the last—she died within six months. But you see I have not been very fortunate here so far. That is why I am anxious that the right sort of people should have the place. A clergyman's work is difficult enough without having complications of that sort added to it."

"Well, I hope we shall be the right sort of people if we do come," said Grafton genially. "You'll like going about visiting the poor, won't you, Cara?"

"I don't know," said Caroline. "I've never tried it."

The Vicar looked at her critically. He did not quite like her tone; and so young a girl as she now showed herself to be should not have been looking away from him with an air almost of boredom. But she was a 'lady'; that was quite evident to him. She walked with her long coat thrown open, showing her beautifully cut tweed coat and skirt and her neat country boots—country boots from Bond Street, or thereabouts. A very well-dressed, very pretty girl—really a remarkably pretty girl when you came to look at her, though off-hand in her manners and no doubt rather spoilt. The Vicar had an eye for a pretty girl—as the shape of his mouth and chin might have indicated to an acute observer. Perhaps it might be worth while to make himself pleasant to this one. The hard lot of vicars is sometimes alleviated by the devotion of the younger female members of their flock, in whom they can take an affectionate and fatherly, or at least avuncular, interest.

"There isn't much actual visiting of the poor as poor in a parish like this," he said. "It isn't like a district in London. But I'm sure a lot of the cottagers will like to see you when you get to know them." He had thought of adding 'my dear,' but cut it out of his address as Caroline turned her clear uninterested gaze upon them.

"Oh, of course I shall hope to get to know some of them as friends," she said, "if we come here. Oh, look, Dad. Isn't it ripping?"

The wide two-storied front of the house stood revealed to them at the end of another vista among the beeches. It stood on a level piece of ground with the church just across the road which ran past it. The churchyard was surrounded by a low stone wall, and the grass of the park came right up to it. The front of the house was regular, with a fine doorway in the middle, and either end slightly advanced. But on the nearer side a long line of ancient irregular buildings ran back and covered more ground than the front itself. They were faced by a lawn contained within a sunk fence. The main road through the park ran along one side of it, and along the other was a road leading to stables and back premises. This lawn was of considerable size, but had no garden decoration except an ancient sun-dial. It made a beautiful setting for the little old stone and red-brick and red-tiled buildings which seemed to have been strung out with no design, and yet made a perfect and entrancing whole. Tall trees, amongst which showed the sombre tones of deodars and yews, rising above and behind the roofs and chimneys, showed the gardens to be on the other side of the house.

"Perhaps you would like to look at the church first," said the Vicar, "while the keys are being fetched. It is well worth seeing. We are proud of our church here. And if I may say so it will be a great convenience to you to have it so close."

Caroline was all eagerness to see what there was to be seen of this entrancing house, even before the keys came. She didn't in the least want to spend time over the church at this stage. Nor did her father. But this Vicar seemed to have taken possession of them. They both began to wonder how, if ever, they were to shake him off, and intimated the same by mutual glances as he unlocked the door of the church, explaining that he did not keep it open while the house was empty, as it was so far from everywhere, but that he should be pleased to do so when the Abbey was once more occupied. He was quite at his ease now, and rather enjoying himself. The amenity which the two of them had shown in following him into the church inclined him to the belief that they would be easy to get on with and to direct in the paths that lay within his domain. He had dropped his preformed ideas of them. They were not 'new,' nor half-educated, and obviously they couldn't be Dissenters. But Londoners they had been announced to be, and he still took it for granted that they would want a good deal of shepherding. Well, that was what he was there for, and it would be quite a pleasant task, with people obviously so well endowed with this world's goods, and able to give something in return that would redound to the dignity of the church, and his as representing it. His heart warmed to them as he pointed out what there was of interest in the ancient well-preserved building, and indicated now and then the part they would be expected to play in the activities that lay within his province to direct.

"Those will be your pews," he said, pointing to the chancel. "I shall be glad to see them filled again regularly. It will be a good example to the villagers. And I shall have you under my own eye, you see, from my reading-desk opposite."

This was said to Caroline, in a tone that meant a pleasantry, and invited one in return. She again met his smile with a clear unconcerned look, and wondered when the keys of the house would come, and they would be relieved of this tiresome person.

The car was heard outside at that moment, and Grafton said: "Well, thank you very much. We mustn't keep you any longer. Yes, it's a fine old church; I hope we shall know it better by and by."

He never went to church in London, and seldom in the country, and had not thought of becoming a regular churchgoer if he should buy Abington. But the girls and Miss Waterhouse would go on Sunday mornings and he would occupy the chancel pew with them occasionally. He meant no more than that, but the Vicar put him down gratefully as probably 'a keen churchman,' and his heart warmed to him still further. An incumbent's path was made so much easier if his Squire backed him up, and it made such a tie between them. It would be a most pleasant state of things if there was real sympathy and community of interest between the Vicarage and the great house. He knew of Rectories and Vicarages in which the Squire of the parish was never seen, with the converse disadvantage that the rector or vicar was never seen in the Squire's house. Evidently nothing of the sort was to be feared here. He would do all he could to create a good understanding at the outset. As for leaving these nice people to make their way about the Abbey with only the lodge-keeper's wife, now arrived breathless and apologetic on the scene, it was not to be thought of. He would rather lose his lunch than forsake them at this stage.

It was in fact nearly lunch time. Grafton, hitherto so amenable to suggestion, exercised decision. "We have brought a luncheon-basket with us," he said, standing before the door of the house, which the lodge-keeper was unlocking. "We shall picnic somewhere here before we look over the house. So I'll say good-bye, and thank you very much indeed for all the trouble you've taken."

He held out his hand, but the Vicar was not ready to take it yet, though dismissal, for the present, he would take, under the circumstances. "Oh, but I can't say good-bye like this," he said. "I feel I haven't done half enough for you. There's such a lot you may want to know about things in general, your new neighbours and so on. Couldn't you both come to tea at the Vicarage? I'm sure my wife would be very pleased to make your acquaintance, and that of this young lady."

"It's very kind of you," said Grafton. "But it will take us some hours to get back to London, and we don't want to get there much after dark. We shall have to start fairly early."

But the Vicar would take no denial. Tea could be as early as they liked—three o'clock, if that would suit them. Really, he must insist upon their coming. So they had to promise, and at last he took himself off.

The house was a joy to them both. They got rid of the lodge-keeper, who was anxious to go home and prepare her husband's dinner. She was apologetic at having been away from her lodge, but explained that she had only been down to the Estate office to draw her money.

"Is there a regular Agent?" asked Grafton. "If so, I should like to see him before I go."

She explained that Mr. Worthing was agent both for Abington and Wilborough, Sir Alexander Mansergh's place, which adjoined it. He lived at High Wood Farm about a mile away. He wasn't so often at Abington as at Wilborough, but could be summoned by telephone if he was wanted. Grafton asked her to get a message to him, and she left them alone.

Then they started their investigations, while the chauffeur laid out lunch for them on a table in the hall.

The hall was large and stone-floored, and took up the middle part of the later regular building. The sun streamed into it obliquely through tall small-paned windows at this hour of the day; otherwise it had the air of being rather sombre, with its cumbrous dark-coloured furniture. There was a great fire-place at one end of it, with a dark almost indecipherable canvas over it. It was not a hall to sit about in, except perhaps in the height of summer, for the front door opened straight into it, and the inner hall and staircase opened out of it without doors or curtains. A massive oak table took up a lot of room in the middle, and there were ancient oak chairs and presses and benches disposed stiffly against the walls.

"Doesn't it smell good," said Caroline. "Rather like graves; but the nicest sort of graves. It's rather dull, though. I suppose this furniture is very valuable. It looks as if it ought to be."

Grafton looked a little doubtful. "I suppose we'd better have it, if they don't want a terrific price," he said. "It's the right sort of thing, no doubt; but I'd rather have a little less of it. Let's go and see if there's another room big enough to get some fun out of. What about the long gallery? I wonder where that is."

They found it on the side of the house opposite to that from which they had first approached it—a delightful oak-panelled oak-floored room with a long row of latticed windows looking out on to a delicious old-world garden, all clipped yews and shaven turf and ordered beds, with a backing of trees and an invitation to more delights beyond, in the lie of the grass and flagged paths, and the arched and arcaded yews. It was big enough to take the furniture of three or four good-sized rooms and make separate groupings of it, although what furniture there was, was disposed stiffly, as in the case of the hall.

"Oh, what a heavenly room!" Caroline exclaimed. "I can see it at a glance, George darling. We'll keep nearly all this furniture, and add to it chintzy sofas and easy chairs. A grand piano up at that end. Won't it be jolly to have all the flowers we want? I suppose there are hot-houses for the winter. You won't have any excuse for accusing me of extravagance about flowers any longer, darling."

She babbled on delightedly. The sun threw the patterns of the latticed windows on the dark and polished oak floor. She opened one of the casements, and let in the soft sweet spring air. The birds were singing gaily in the garden. "It's all heavenly," she said. "This room sums it up. Oh, why does anybody live in a town?"

Her father was hardly less pleased than she. Except for the blow dealt him fifteen years before by the death of his wife, the fates had been very kind to him. The acuteness of that sorrow had long since passed away, and the tenderness in his nature had diffused itself over the children that her love had given him. The satisfaction of his life—his successful work, his friendships, his pastimes, the numerous interests which no lack of money or opportunity ever prevented his following up—were all sweetened to him by the affection and devotion that was his in his home. And his home was the best of all the good things in his life. It came to him now, as he stood by the window with his daughter,—the beautiful spacious room which they would adapt to their happy life on one side of him, the peaceful sunlit bird-haunted charm of the garden on the other,—that this new setting would heighten and centralise the sweet intimacies of their home life. Abington Abbey would be much more to them than an increase of opportunities for enjoyment. It would be the warm nest of their love for one another, as no house in a city could be. He was not a particularly demonstrative man, though he had caresses for his children, and would greatly have missed their pretty demonstrations of affection for him; but he loved them dearly, and found no society as pleasant as theirs. There would be a great deal of entertaining at Abington Abbey, but the happiest hours spent there would be those of family life.

They lunched in the big hall, with the door wide open, the sun coming in and the stillness of the country and the empty house all about them. Then they made their detailed investigations. It was all just what they wanted—some big rooms and many fascinating small ones. The furniture was the usual mixture to be found in old-established, long-inhabited houses. Some of it was very fine, some of it very ordinary. But there was an air about the whole house that could not have been created by new furnishing, however carefully it might be done. Caroline saw it. "I think we'd better leave it alone as much as possible," she said. "We can get what we want extra for comfort, and add to the good things here and there. We don't want to make it look new, do we?"

"Just as you like, darling," said her father. "It's your show. We can string it up a bit where it's shabby, and make it comfortable and convenient. Otherwise it will do all right. I don't want it too smart. We're going to be country people here, not Londoners in the country."

They wandered about the gardens. It was just that time of year, and just the day, in which spring seems most visibly and blessedly coming. The crocuses were in masses of purple and gold, violets and primroses and hepaticas bloomed shyly in sheltered corners, daffodils were beginning to lower their buds and show yellow at their tips. They took as much interest in the garden as in the house. It was to be one of their delights. They had the garden taste, and some knowledge, as many Londoners of their sort have. They made plans, walking along the garden paths, Caroline's arm slipped affectionately into her father's. This was to be their garden to play with, which is a very different thing from admiring other people's gardens, however beautiful and interesting they may be.

"George darling, I don't think we can miss all this in the spring and early summer," said Caroline. "Let's get into the house as soon as we can, and cut all the tiresome London parties altogether."

CHAPTER IV

NEIGHBOURS

They were standing by one of the old monks' fish stews, which made such a charming feature of the yew-set formal garden, when a step was heard on the path and they turned to see a cheerful-looking gentleman approaching them, with a smile of welcome on his handsome features. He was a tall man of middle-age, dressed in almost exaggerated country fashion, in rough home-spun, very neat about the gaitered legs, and was followed by a bull-dog of ferocious but endearing aspect. "Ah!" he exclaimed, in a loud and breezy voice as he approached them, "I thought it must be you when I saw your name on the order. If you've forgotten me I shall never forgive you."

Grafton was at a loss for a moment. Then his face cleared. "Jimmy Worthing," he said. "Of course. They did mention your name. Cara, this is Mr. Worthing. We were at school together a hundred years or so ago. My eldest daughter, Caroline."

Worthing was enchanted, and said so. He was one of those cheerful voluble men who never do have any difficulty in saying so. With his full but active figure and fresh clean-shaven face he was a pleasant object of the countryside, and Caroline's heart warmed to him as he smiled his commonplaces and showed himself so abundantly friendly. It appeared from the conversation that followed that he had been a small boy in George Grafton's house at Eton when Grafton had been a big one, that they had not met since, except once, years before at Lord's, but were quite pleased to meet now. Also that Worthing had been agent to the Abington property for the past twelve years, and to the Wilborough property adjoining it for about half that time. A good deal of this information was addressed to Caroline with friendly familiarity. She was used to the tone from well-preserved middle-aged men. It was frankly accepted in the family that all three of the girls were particularly attractive to the mature and even the over-ripe male, and the reason given was that they made such a pal of their father that they knew the technique of making themselves so. Caroline had even succeeded in making herself too attractive to a widowed Admiral during her first season, and had had the shock of her life in being asked to step up a generation and a half at the end of it. She was inclined to be a trifle wary of the 'my dears' of elderly gentlemen, but she had narrowly watched Worthing during the process of his explanations and would not have objected if he had called her 'my dear.' He did not do so, however, though his tone to her implied it, and she answered him, where it was necessary, in the frank and friendly fashion that was so attractive in her and her sisters.

They all went over the stables and outhouses together, and then Worthing suggested a run round the estate in the car, with reference chiefly to the rearing and eventual killing of game.

"We promised to go to tea at the Vicarage," said Caroline, as her father warmly adopted the suggestion. "I suppose we ought to keep in with the Vicar. I don't know his name, but he seems a very important person here."

She had her eye on Worthing. She wanted an opinion of the Vicar, by word or by sign.

She got none. "Oh, you've seen him already, have you?" he said. "I was going to suggest you should come and have tea with me. We should be at my house by about half-past three, and it's a mile further on your road."

"We might look in on the Vicar—what's his name, by the by?—and excuse ourselves,"—said Grafton, "I want to see the coverts, and we haven't too much time. I don't suppose he'll object, will he?"

"Oh, no, we'll go and put it right with him," said Worthing. "He won't mind. His name is Mercer—a very decent fellow; does a lot of work and reads a lot of books."

"What kind of books?" asked Caroline, who also read a good many of them. She was a little disappointed that Worthing had not expressed himself with more salt on the subject of the Vicar. She had that slight touch of malice which relieves the female mind from insipidity, and she was quite sure that a more critical attitude towards the Vicar would have been justified, and might have provided amusement. But she thought that Mr. Worthing must be either a person of no discrimination, or else one of those rather tiresome people, a peacemaker. She reserved to herself full right of criticism towards the Vicar, but would not be averse from the discovery of alleviating points about him, as they would be living so close together, and must meet occasionally.

"What kind of books?" echoed Worthing. "Oh, I don't know. Books." Which seemed to show that Caroline would search in vain among his own amiable qualities for sympathy in her literary tastes.

They all got into the big car and arrived at the Vicarage, where they were introduced to Mrs. Mercer, and allowed to depart again after apologies given and accepted, and the requisite number of minutes devoted to polite conversation.

The Vicar and his wife stood at the front door as they packed themselves again into the car. "Oh, what delightful people!" the little lady exclaimed as they drove off, with valedictory waving of hands from all three of them. "They will be an acquisition to us, won't they? I have never seen a prettier girl than Miss Grafton, and such charming manners, and so nicely dressed. And he is so nice too, and how pretty it is to see father and daughter so fond of one another! Quite an idyll, I call it. Aren't you pleased, Albert dear? I am."

Albert dear was not pleased, as the face he turned upon her showed when she had followed him into his study. "The way that Worthing takes it upon himself to set aside my arrangements and affect a superiority over me in the place where I should be chief is really beyond all bearing," he said angrily. "It has happened time and again before, and I am determined that it shall not happen any further. The very next time I see him I shall give him a piece of my mind. My patience is at an end. I will not stand it any longer."

Mrs. Mercer drooped visibly. She had to recall exactly what had happened before she could get at the causes of his displeasure, which was a painful shock to her. He had given, for him, high praise to the new-comers over the luncheon-table, and she had exulted in the prospect of having people near at hand and able to add so much to the pleasures of life with whom she could make friends and not feel that she was disloyal to her husband in doing so. And her raptures over them after she had met them in the flesh had not at all exaggerated her feelings. She was of an enthusiastic disposition, apt to admire profusely where she admired at all, and these new people had been so very much worthy of admiration, with their good looks and their wealth and their charming friendly manners. However, if it was only Mr. Worthing with whom her husband was annoyed, that perhaps could be got out of the way, and he would be ready to join her in praise of the Graftons.

"Well, of course, it was rather annoying that they should be whisked off like that when we had hoped to have had them to talk to comfortably," she said. "But I thought you didn't mind, dear. Mr. Grafton only has a few hours here, and I suppose it is natural that he should want to go round the estate. We shall see plenty of them when they come here to live."

"That is not what I am objecting to," said her husband. "Mr. Grafton made his excuses in the way a gentleman should, and it would have been absurd to have kept him to his engagement, though the girl might just as well have stayed. It can't be of the least importance that she should see the places where the high birds may be expected to come over, or whatever it is that they want to see. I don't care very much for the girl. There's a freedom about her manners I don't like."

"She has no mother, poor dear," interrupted Mrs. Mercer. "And her father evidently adores her. She would be apt to be older than her years in some respects. She was very nice to me."

"As I say," proceeded the Vicar dogmatically, "I've no complaint against the Graftons coming to apologise for not keeping their engagement. But I have a complaint when a man like Worthing comes into my house—who hardly ever takes the trouble to ask me into his—and behaves as if he had the right to over-ride me. I hate that detestable swaggering high-handed way of his, carrying off everything as if nobody had a right to exist except himself. He's no use to anybody here—hardly ever comes to church, and takes his own way in scores of matters that he ought to consult me about; even opposes my decisions if he sees fit, and seems to think that an insincere word or smile when he meets me takes away all the offence of it. It doesn't, and it shan't do so in this instance. I shall have it out with Worthing once and for all. When these new people come here I am not going to consent to be a cipher in my own parish, or as a priest of the church take a lower place than Mr. Worthing's; who is after all nothing more than a sort of gentleman bailiff."

"Well, he has got a sort of way of taking matters into his own hands," said Mrs. Mercer, "that isn't always very agreeable, perhaps. But he is nice in many ways, and I shouldn't like to quarrel with him."

She knew quite well, if she did not admit it to herself, that it would be impossible to quarrel with Worthing. She herself was inclined to like him, for he was always excessively friendly, and created the effect of liking her. But she did feel that he was inclined to belittle her husband's dignity, in the way in which he took his own course, and, if it conflicted with the Vicar's wishes, set his remonstrances aside with a breezy carelessness that left them both where they were, and himself on top. Also he was not regular in his attendance at church, though he acted as churchwarden. She objected to this not so much on purely religious grounds as because it was so uncomplimentary to her husband, which were also the grounds of the Vicar's objections.

"I don't wish to quarrel with him either," said the Vicar. "I don't wish to quarrel with anybody. I shall tell him plainly what I think, once for all, and leave it there. It will give him a warning, too, that I am not to be put aside with these new people. If handled properly I think they may be valuable people to have in the parish. A man like Grafton is likely to want to do the right thing when he comes to live in the country, and he is quite disposed, I should say, to do his duty by the church and the parish. I shall hope to show him what it is, and I shall not allow myself to be interfered with by Mr. Worthing. I shall make it my duty, too, to give Grafton some warning about the people around. Worthing is a pastmaster in the art of keeping in with everybody, worthy or unworthy, and if the Graftons are guided by him they may let themselves in for friendships and intimacies which they may be sorry for afterwards."

"You mean the Manserghs," suggested Mrs. Mercer.

"I wasn't thinking of them particularly, but of course they are most undesirable people. They are rich and live in a big house, and therefore everything is forgiven them. Worthing, of course, is hand in glove with them—with a man with the manners of a boor and a woman who was divorced, and an actress at that—a painted woman."

"Well, she is getting on in years now, and I suppose people have forgotten a lot," said Mrs. Mercer. "And her first husband didn't divorce her, did he? She divorced him."

"What difference does that make? You surely are not going to stand up for her, are you? Especially after the way in which she behaved to you!"

"No," said Mrs. Mercer doubtfully. It was Lady Mansergh's behaviour to her husband that had hitherto been the chief cause of offence, her 'past' having been ignored until the time of the quarrel, or as the Vicar had since declared, unknown. "Oh, no, Albert, I think she is quite undesirable, as you say. And it would be a thousand pities if that nice girl, and her younger sisters, were to get mixed up with a woman like that. I think you should give Mr. Grafton a warning. Wilborough is the nearest big house to Abington, and I suppose it is natural that they should be friendly."

"I shall certainly do that. Mr. Grafton and Sir Alexander can shoot together and all that sort of thing, but it would be distinctly wrong for him to allow young girls like his daughters to be intimate with people like the Manserghs."

"The sons are nice, though. Fortunately Lady Mansergh is not their mother."

"Richard is away at sea most of the time, and Geoffrey is not particularly nice, begging your pardon. I saw him in the stalls of a theatre last year with a woman whose hair I feel sure was dyed. He is probably going the same way as his father. It would be an insult to a young and pure girl like Miss Grafton to encourage anything like intimacy between them."

"I expect they will make friends with the Pembertons. There are three girls in their family and three in that."

"It would be a very bad thing if they did. Three girls with the tastes of grooms, and the manners too. I shall never forget the insolent way in which that youngest one asked me if I didn't know what a bit of ribbon tied round a horse's tail meant when I was standing behind her at that meet at Surley Green, and when I didn't move at once that young cub of a brother who was with her said: 'Well, sir, if you want to be kicked!' And then they both laughed in the vulgarest fashion. Really the manners of some of the people about here who ought to know better are beyond belief. The Pembertons have never had the politeness to call on us—which is something to be thankful for, anyhow, though it is, of course, a slight on people in our position, and no doubt meant as such. Of course they will call on the Graftons. They will expect to get something out of them. But I shall warn Grafton to be careful. He won't want his daughters to acquire their stable manners."

"No; that would be a pity. I wish Vera Beckley had been as nice as we thought she was at first. She would have been a nice friend for these girls. I never quite understood why she suddenly took to cutting us dead, and Mrs. Beckley left off asking us to the house, when they had asked us so often and we seemed real friends. I have sometimes thought of asking her. I am sure there is a misunderstanding, which could be cleared up."

The Vicar grew a trifle red. "You will not do anything of the sort," he said. "If the Beckleys can do without us we can do very well without them."

"You used to be so fond of Vera, Albert," said Mrs. Mercer reflectively, "and she of you. You often used to say it was like having a daughter of your own. I wonder what it was that made her turn like that."

"We were deceived in her, that was all," said Albert, who had recovered his equanimity. "She is not a nice girl. A clergyman has opportunities of finding out these things, and——"

"Oh, then there was something that you knew about, and that you haven't told me."

"I don't wish to be cross-examined, Gertrude. You must be content to leave alone the things that belong to my office. None of the Beckleys shall ever darken my doors again. Let that be enough. If we have to meet them sometimes at the Abbey we can be polite to them without letting it go any further. There are really very few people hereabouts whom I should like to see the Graftons make friends with, and scarcely any young ones. Denis Cooper is a thoughtful well-conducted young fellow, but he is to be ordained at Advent and I suppose he will not be here much. Rhoda and Ethel are nice girls too. I think a friendship might well be encouraged there. It would be pleasant for them to have a nice house like Abington to go to, and their seriousness might be a good thing for the Grafton girls, who I should think would be likely to be affected by their father's evident wealth. It is a temptation I should like to see them preserved from."

"Rhoda and Ethel are a little old for them."

"So much the better. Yes; that is a friendship that I think might be helpful to both parties, and I shall do my best to encourage it. I should like to see the Grafton girls thoroughly intimate at Surley Rectory before Mrs. Carruthers comes back. She has behaved so badly to the Coopers that she would be quite likely to prevent it if she were here, out of spite."

"Well, I must stand up a little for Mrs. Carruthers," said Mrs. Mercer. "Rhoda and Ethel are good girls, I know, and do a lot of useful work in the parish, but they do like to dominate everything and everybody, and it was hardly to be expected that Mrs. Carruthers in her position would stand it."

"I don't agree with you at all," said her husband. "She was a mere girl when she married and came to live at Surley Park; she is hardly more than a girl now. She ought to have been thankful to have their help and advice, as they had practically run the parish for years. Actually to tell them to mind their own business, and practically to turn them out of her house, over that affair of her laundry maid—well, I don't say what I think about it, but I am entirely on the side of Rhoda and Ethel; and so ought you to be."

"Well, I know they acted for the best; but after all they had made a mistake. The young man hadn't come after the laundry maid at all."

"So it was said; but we needn't discuss it. They were most forgiving, and prepared to be all that was kind and sympathetic when Mrs. Carruthers lost her husband; and how did she return it? Refused to see them, just as she refused to see me when I called on Cooper's behalf—and in my priestly capacity too. No, Gertrude, there is nothing to be said on behalf of Mrs. Carruthers. She is a selfish worldly young woman, and her bereavement, instead of inclining her towards a quiet and sober life, seems to have had just the opposite effect. A widow of hardly more than two years, she goes gadding about all over the place, and behaves just as if her husband's death were a release to her instead of——"

"Well, I must say that I think it was rather a release, Albert. Mr. Carruthers had everything to make life happy, as you have often said, but drink was his curse, and if he had not been killed he might have spoilt her life for her. You said that too, you know, at the time."

"Perhaps I did. I was terribly upset at the time of the accident. It seemed so dreadful for a mere girl to be left widowed in that way, and I was ready to give her all the sympathy and help I could. But she would have none of it, and turned out hard and unfeeling, instead of being softened by the blow that had been dealt her, as a good woman would have been. She might have reformed her husband, but she did nothing of the sort; and now, as I say, she behaves as if there was nothing to do in the world except spend money and enjoy one's self. She would be a bad influence for these young girls that are coming here, and I hope they will not have too much to do with her. If we can get them interested in good things instead of amusements, we shall only be doing our duty. Not that healthy amusement is to be deprecated by any means. It isn't our part to be kill-joys. But with ourselves as their nearest neighbours, and nice active girls like the Coopers not far off, and one or two more, they will have a very pleasant little society, and in fact we ought all to be very happy together."

"Yes. It is nice looking forward to having neighbours that we can be friends with. I do hope nothing will happen to make it awkward."

"Why should anything happen to make it awkward? We don't know much about the Graftons yet, but they seem to be nice people. At any rate we can assume that they are, until it is proved to the contrary. That is only Christian. Just because so many of the people round us are not what they should be is no reason why these new-comers shouldn't be."

"Oh, I am sure they are nice. I think I should rather like to go and tell Mrs. Walter and Mollie about them, Albert. It will be delightful for them to have people at the Abbey—especially for Mollie, who has so few girl friends."

"We might go over together," said the Vicar. "There are one or two little things I want Mollie to do for me. Yes, it will be nice for her, if the Grafton girls turn out what they should be. We shall have to give the Walters a little advice. They haven't been used to the life of large houses. I think they ought to go rather slow at first."

"Oh, Mollie is such a dear girl, and has been well brought up. I don't think she would be likely to make any mistakes."

"I don't know that she would. But I shall talk to her about it. She is a dear girl, as you say. I look upon her almost as a daughter, though she has been here such a short time. I should like her to acquit herself well. She will, I'm sure, if she realises that this new chance for making friends comes through us. Yes, let us go over to the cottage, Gertrude. It is early yet. We can ask Mrs. Walter for a cup of tea."

CHAPTER V

SETTLING IN

The Abbey was ready for occupation early in April. Caroline, Barbara, and Miss Waterhouse went down on Monday. Grafton followed on Friday for the week-end and took Beatrix with him. She had announced that the dear boy couldn't be left by himself in London, or he'd probably get into mischief, and she was going to stay and look after him. As she had thought of it first, she had her way. Beatrix generally did get her way, though she never made herself unpleasant about it. Nor did she ever wheedle, when a decision went against her, though she could wheedle beautifully.

If any one of the three girls could be said to be spoilt, it was Beatrix. She had been frail as a child, with a delicate loveliness that had put even Caroline's beauty into the shade, although Caroline, with her sweet grey eyes and her glowing health, had been a child of whom any parents might have been inordinately proud. The young mother had never quite admitted her second child to share in the adoration she felt for her first-born, but Beatrix had twined herself round her father's heart, and had always kept first place in it, though not so much as to make his slight preference apparent. As a small child, she was more clinging than the other two, and flattered his love and sense of protection. As she grew older she developed an unlooked-for capriciousness. When she was inclined to be sweet and loving she was more so than ever; but sometimes she would hardly suffer even a kiss, and had no caresses for anybody. She often hurt her father in this way, especially in the early days of his bereavement, but he was so equable by nature that he would dismiss her contrariety with a smile, and turn to Caroline, who always gave him what he wanted. As the children grew older he learnt to protect himself against Beatrix's inequalities of behaviour by a less caressing manner with them. It was for them to come to him for the signs and tokens of love, and it was all the sweeter to him when they did so. Even now, when she was grown up, it thrilled him when Beatrix was in one of her affectionate moods. She was not the constant invariable companion to him that Caroline was, and their minds did not flow together as his and Caroline's did. But he loved her approaches, and felt more pleased when she offered him companionship than with any other of his children. Thus, those who advance and withdraw have an unfair advantage over those who never change.

Caroline and Barbara met them in the big car which had been bought for station work at Abington. It was a wild wet evening, but they were snug enough inside, Caroline and Barbara sitting on either side of their father, and Beatrix on one of the let-down seats. Beatrix was never selfish; although she liked to have her own way she seldom took it at the expense of others. She had had her father's sole companionship, and it was only fair that she should yield her place to her younger sister. So she did so of her own accord.

Caroline and Barbara were full of news. "Everything is ready for you, darling," said Caroline, her arm tucked into his. "You'll feel quite at home directly you get into the house; and there are very few more arrangements to make. We've been working like slaves, and all the servants too."

"The Dragon has had a headache, but she has done more than anybody," said Barbara. "It's all perfectly lovely, Daddy. We do like being country people awfully. We went down to the village in the rain this afternoon—the Dragon and all. That made me feel it, you know."

"It made us feel it, when you stepped into a puddle and splashed us all over," said Caroline. "George dear, we've had callers already."

"That ought to have cheered you up," said Grafton. "Who were they?"

"All clerical. I think Lord Salisbury put them on to us. He wants us to be in with the clergy."

"What do you mean? Lord Salisbury!"

"The Reverend Salisbury Mercer. I called him that first," said Barbara. "He likes us. He's been in and out, and given us a lot of advice. He likes me especially. He looked at me with a loving smile and said I was a sunbeam."

"We had Mr. Cooper, Rector of Surley, and his two daughters," said Caroline. "He is a dear old thing and keeps bees. The two daughters look rather as if they had been stung by them. They are very officious, but sweeter than honey and the honeycomb at present. They said it was nice to have girls living in a house near them again; they hadn't had any for some years— I should think it must be about thirty, but they didn't say that. They said they hoped we should see a good deal of one another."

"I don't think," said Beatrix. "Who were the others?"

"Mr. and Mrs. Williams, Vicar and Vicaress of I've forgotten what. They were quite nice. Genial variety."

"The Breezy Bills we called them," said Barbara. "They almost blew us out of the house. He carpenters, and she breeds Airedales, and shows them. She brought one with her—a darling of a thing. They've promised us a puppy and a kennel to put it in already."

"You didn't ask her for one, did you?" asked Grafton. "If she breeds them for show we ought to offer to pay for it."

"Oh, you're going to pay for it all right, darling. You needn't worry about that. The kennel too. But you're going to get that for the cost of the wood and the paint. He isn't going to charge anything for his time. He laughed heartily when he said that. I like the Breezy Bills. They're going to take us out otter hunting when the time comes."

"A Mrs. Walter and her daughter came," said Caroline. "At least they were brought by the Mercers. They live in a little house at the top of the village. Rather a pretty girl, and nice, but shy. I wanted to talk to her and see what she was like, but Lord Salisbury wouldn't let me—at least not without him. George darling, I'm afraid you'll have to cope with Lord Salisbury. He's screwing in frightfully. I think he has an idea of being the man about the house when you're up in London. He asked how often you'd be down, and said we could always go and consult him when you were away. He came directly after breakfast yesterday with a hammer and some nails, to hang pictures."

"The Dragon sent him away," said Barbara. "She was rather splendid—extremely polite to him, but a little surprised. She doesn't like him. She won't say so, but I know it by her manner. I went in with her, and it was then that he called me a sunbeam. He said he did so want to make himself useful, and wasn't there anything he could do. I said he might dust the drawing-room if he liked."

"Barbara!"

"Well, I said it to myself."

"What is Mrs. Mercer like?" asked Beatrix.

"Oh, a nice little thing," said Caroline. "But very much under the thumb of Lord Salisbury. I think he leads her a dance. If we have to keep him off a little, we must be careful not to offend her. I think she must have rather a dull time of it. She's quite harmless, and wants to be friends."

"We mustn't quarrel with the fellow," said Grafton. "Haven't you seen Worthing?"

"Have we seen Worthing!" exclaimed Barbara. "He's a lamb. He's been away, but he came back yesterday afternoon, and rolled up directly. The Dragon likes him. He was awfully sweet to her. He's going to buy us some horses. You don't mind, do you, Daddy? I know you've got lots of money."

"That's where you make the mistake," said Grafton, "but of course we must have a gee or two. I want to talk to Worthing about that. Did you ask him to dine to-night, Cara?"

"Yes. He grinned all over. He said we were a boon and a blessing to men. He really loves us."

"And we love him," said Barbara. "We were wondering when the time would come to call him Jimmy. We feel like that towards him. Or, Dad darling, it is topping living in the country. Don't let's ever go back to London."

All the circumstances of life had been so much at Grafton's disposal to make what he liked out of them that he had become rather difficult to move to special pleasure by his surroundings. But he felt a keen sense of satisfaction as he entered this beautiful house that he had bought, and the door was shut on the wild and windy weather. That sensation, of a house as a refuge, is only to be gained in full measure in the country, whether it is because the house stands alone against the elements, or that the human factor in it counts for more than in a town. There was the quiet old stone-built hall cheered by the fire of logs on the great hearth, the spacious soft-carpeted staircase and corridors, the long gallery transformed by innumerable adjustments into the very shrine of companionable home life, and all around the sense of completeness and fitness and beauty which taste and a sufficiency of wealth can give to a house built in the days when building was the expression of ideas and aspirations, and an art as creative and interpretative as any.

He felt positively happy as he dressed in the large comfortable, but not over luxurious room that Caroline had chosen for him. He had expressed no preferences on the subject when they had gone over the house together, but remembered now that he had rather liked this particular room out of the score or so of bedrooms they had gone through. It looked out on to the quiet little space of lawn and the trees beyond from three windows, and would get the first of the sun. He loved the sun, and Caroline knew that. She knew all his minor tastes, perhaps better than he knew them himself. He would have been contented with a sunny room and all his conveniences around him, or so he would have thought. But she had seen that he had much more than that. The old furniture which had struck him pleasantly on their first visit was there—the big bed with its chintz tester, the chintz-covered sofa, the great wardrobe of polished mahogany—everything that had given the room its air of solid old-fashioned comfort, and restful, rather faded charm. But the charm and the comfort seemed to have been heightened. The slightly faded air had given place to one of freshness. The change was not so great as to bring a sense of modernity to unbalance the effect of the whole, but only to make it more real. Caroline was a genius at this sort of expression, and her love and devotion towards him had stimulated her. The freshness had come from the fact that she had changed all the chintzes, and the carpet and curtains, ransacking the house for the best she could find for the purpose. She had changed some of the furniture too, and added to it. Also the prints. He did recognise that change, as he looked around him, and took it all in. He was fond of old prints, and had noticed those that were of any value as he had gone through the rooms. There had been rubbish mixed with the good things in this room; but there was none left. "Good child!" he said to himself with satisfaction as he saw what she had done in this way.

He thought of her and his other children as he dressed, and he thought of his young wife. A charming crayon portrait of her hung in the place of honour above the mantelpiece, on which there were also photographs of her, and of the children, in all stages of their growth. Caroline had collected them from all over the London house. The crayon portrait had been one of two done by a very clever young artist, now a famous one, whom they had met on their honeymoon. This had been the first, and Grafton had thought it had not done justice to his wife's beauty; so the artist, with a smiling shrug of the shoulders, had offered to do another one, which had pleased him much better, and had hung ever since in his bedroom in London. Now, as he looked at this portrait, which had hung in a room he seldom went into, he wondered how he could have been so blind. The beauty, with which he had fallen in love, was there, but the artist had seen much more than the beauty that was on the surface. It told immeasurably more about the sweet young bride than the picture he had made of her afterwards. It told something of what she would be when the beauty of form and feature and colouring should have waned, of what she would have been to-day more than twenty years later.

Grafton was not a man who dwelt on the past, and his life had been too prosperous and contented to lead him to look forward very often to the future. He took it as it came, and enjoyed it, without hugging himself too much on the causes of his enjoyment. The only unhappiness he had ever known had been in the loss of his wife, but the wound had healed gradually, and had now ceased to pain him.

But it throbbed a little now as he looked at the portrait with new eyes. He and she had talked together of a country house some time in the future of their long lives together—some such house as this, if they should wait until there was enough money. It was just what she would have delighted in. She had been brought up in a beautiful country house, and loved it. Caroline inherited her fine perceptions and many of her tastes from her. It would have been very sweet to have had her companionship now, in this pleasant and even exciting life that was opening up before them. They would all have been intensely happy together.

He turned away with a faint frown of perplexity. She would have been a middle-aged woman now, the mother of grown-up daughters. To think of her like that was to think of a stranger. His old wound had throbbed because he had caught a fresh glimpse of her as the young girl he had so loved, and loved still, for she had hardly been more than a girl when she had died. He supposed he would have gone on loving her just the same; his love for her had grown no less during the short years of their married life; he had never wanted anybody else, and had never wanted anybody else since, remembering what she had been. But it was an undoubted fact that husbands and wives in middle-age had usually shed a good deal of their early love, or so it seemed to him, from his experience of married men of his own age. Would it have been so with him? He couldn't think it, but he couldn't tell. To him she would always be what she had been, even when he grew old. It was perplexing to think of her as growing old too; and there was no need to do so.

The years had passed very quickly. Caroline had been only five when she had died, Beatrix three, and Barbara a baby. And now the two elder were grown up, and Barbara nearly so. It came home to him, as he looked at their photographs on the mantelpiece, how pleasant they had made life for him, and how much he still had in his home in spite of the blank that his wife's death had made. This puzzled him a little too. He thought he ought to have missed her more, and be missing her more now. But introspection was not his habit, and the hands of the clock on the mantelpiece were progressing towards the dinner hour. He dressed quickly, with nothing in his mind but pleasurable anticipation of the evening before him.

Worthing was in the morning-room talking to Caroline when he went downstairs. He looked large and beaming and well washed and brushed. The greeting between the two men was cordial. Each had struck a chord in the other, and it was plain that before long they would be cronies. Worthing was outspoken in his admiration of what had been done with the house.

"I've been telling this young lady," he said, "that I wouldn't have believed it possible. Nothing seems to be changed, and yet everything seems to be changed. Look at this room now! It's the one that Brett used to occupy, and it used to give me a sort of depressed feeling whenever I came into it. Now it's a jolly room to come into. You know, somehow, that when you go out of it, you're going to get a good dinner."

He laughed with a full throat. Caroline smiled and looked round the room, which had been transformed by her art from the dull abode of a man who cared nothing for his surroundings into something that expressed home and contentment and welcome.

Grafton put his arm around her as they stood before the fire. "She's a wonder at it," he said. "She's done all sorts of things to my room upstairs. I felt at home in it at once."

She smiled up at him and looked very pleased. He did not always notice the things she did out of love for him.

The other two girls came in with Miss Waterhouse. Beatrix looked enchanting in a black frock which showed up the loveliness of her delicate colouring and scarcely yet matured contours. Worthing almost gasped as he looked at her, and then shook hands, but recovered himself to look at the three of them standing before him. "Now how long do you suppose you're going to keep these three young women at home?" he asked genially, as old Jarvis came in to announce dinner.

They were all as merry as possible over the dinner-table. Beatrix made them laugh with her account of the house in London as run by herself with a depleted staff. She was known not to be domestically inclined and made the most of her own deficiencies, while not sparing the servants who had been left behind. But she dealt with them in such a way that old Jarvis grinned indulgently at her recital, and the two new footmen who had been engaged for the Abbey each hoped that it might fall to his lot some day to take the place of their colleague who had been left behind.

Worthing enjoyed himself immensely. All three of the girls talked gaily and freely, and seemed bubbling over with laughter and good spirits. Their father seemed almost as young as they were, in the way he laughed and talked with them. Miss Waterhouse took little part in the conversation, but smiled appreciatively on each in turn, and was never left out of it. As for himself, he was accepted as one of themselves, and initiated into all sorts of cryptic allusions and humours, such as a laughter-loving united and observant family gathers round about its speech. He became more and more avuncular as the meal progressed, and at last Barbara, who was sitting next to him, said: "You know, I think we must call you Uncle Jimmy, if you don't mind. It seems to fit you, and we do like things that fit, in this family."

He accepted the title with enthusiasm. "I've got nephews and nieces all over the place," he said. "But the more the merrier. I'm a first-class uncle, and never forget anybody at Christmas."

They began to discuss people. A trifle of criticism, hardly to be called malice, crept into the conversation. Miss Waterhouse found it necessary to say: "Barbara darling, I don't think you should get into the way of always calling the Vicar Lord Salisbury. You might forget and do it before somebody who would repeat it to him."

"I think he'd like it," said Caroline. "I'm sure he loves a lord."

Worthing sat and chuckled as an account was given of the visits of the 'Breezy Bills,' and the Misses Cooper, who were given the name of 'the Zebras,' partly owing to their facial conformation, partly to the costumes they had appeared in. He brought forward no criticism himself, and shirked questions that would have led to any on his part, but he evidently had no objection to it as spicing conversation, and freed himself from the slight suspicion of being a professional peacemaker. "He's an old darling," Barbara said of him afterwards. "I really believe he likes everybody, including Lord Salisbury."

When the two men were left alone together, Worthing said: "You've got one of the nicest families I ever met, Grafton. They'll liven us up here like anything. Lord, what a boon it is to have this house opened up again!"

"They're a cheery lot," said Grafton. "You'll like the boy too, I think. He'll be home soon now. I suppose there are some people about for them all to play with. I hardly know anybody in this part of the world."

"There are some of the nicest people you'd meet anywhere," said Worthing. "They'll all be coming to call directly. Oh, yes, we're very fortunate in that way. But yours is the only house quite near. It'll mean a lot to me, I can tell you, to have the Abbey lived in again, 'specially with those nice young people of yours."

"How far off is Wilborough? You go there a lot, don't you?"

"Oh, yes, I do. I look after the place, as you know, and old Sir Alexander likes to have me pottering about with him. You'll like the old boy. He's seventy, but he's full of fun. Good man on a horse too, though he suffers a lot from rheumatism. Wilborough? It's about two miles from me; about three from here."

"What's Lady Mansergh like? Wasn't she——"

"Well, yes, she was; but it's a long time ago. Nobody remembers anything about it. Charming old woman, with a heart of gold."

"Old woman! I thought she was years younger than him, and still kept her golden hair and all that sort of thing."

"Well, yes, she does. Wouldn't thank you for calling her old, either. And I don't suppose she's much over fifty. But she's put on flesh. That sort of women does, you know, when they settle down. Extraordinary how they take to it all, though. She used to hunt when I first came here. Rode jolly straight too. And anybody'd think she'd lived in the country all her life. Well, I suppose she has, the best part of it. Dick must be twenty-eight or nine, I should think, and Geoffrey about twenty-five. Nice fellows, both of them."

"Mercer told me, that second time I came down, that they weren't proper people for the children to know."

A shade crossed Worthing's expansive face. "Of course a parson has different ideas about things," he said. "She did divorce her first husband, it's true; but he was a rotter of the worst type. There was never anything against her. She was before our time, but a fellow told me that when she was on the stage she was as straight as they make 'em, though lively and larky. All I can say is that if your girls were mine I shouldn't object to their knowing her."

"Oh, well, that's enough for me. They probably won't want to be bosom friends. It would be awkward, though, having people about that one didn't want to know. According to Mercer, there aren't many people about here that one would want to know, except a few parsons and their families. He seems to have a down on the lot of them."

"Well, between you and me," said Worthing confidentially, "I shouldn't take much notice of what Mercer says, if I were you. He's a nice enough fellow, but he does seem, somehow, to get at loggerheads with people. I wouldn't say anything against the chap behind his back, but you'd find it out for yourself in time. You'll see everybody there is, and you can judge for yourself."

"Oh, yes, I can do that all right. Let's go and play bridge. The girls are pretty good at it."

CHAPTER VI