“Very true, auntie; none in the world, I believe.”
The girl was looking partly over her shoulder, out of the window, upward towards the clouds, and she sighed heavily; and recollecting herself, looked again in her aunt’s face and smiled.
“I wish you could have stayed a little longer here,” said her aunt.
“I wish I could,” she answered slowly, “I was thinking of talking over a great many things with you—that is, of telling you all my long stories; but while those people were staying here I could not, and now there is not time.”
“What long stories, my dear?”
“Stupid stories, I should have said,” answered Alice.
“Well come, is there anything to tell?” demanded the old lady, looking in her large, dark eyes.
“Nothing worth telling—nothing that is—” and she paused for the continuation of her sentence.
“That is what?” asked her aunt.
“I was going to talk to you, darling,” answered the girl, “but I could not in so short a time—so short a time as remains now,” and she looked at her watch—a gift of old Squire Fairfield’s. “I should not know how to make myself understood, I have so many hundred things, and all jumbled up in my head, and should not know how to begin.”
“Well, I’ll begin for you. Come—have any visitors looked in at Wyvern lately?” said her aunt.
“Not one,” she answered.
“No new faces?”
“No, indeed.”
“Are there any new neighbours?” persisted the old lady.
“Not one. No, aunt, it isn’t that.”
“And where are these elderly young gentlemen, the two Mr. Fairfields?” asked the old lady.
The girl laughed, and shook her head.
“Wandering at present. Captain Fairfield is in London.”
“And his charming younger brother—where is he?” asked Lady Wyndale.
“At some fair, I suppose, or horse-race; or, goodness knows where,” answered the girl.
“I was going to ask you whether there was an affair of the heart,” said her aunt. “But there does not seem much material; and what was the subject? Though I can’t hear it all, you may tell me what it was to be about.”
“About fifty things, or nothings. There’s no one on earth, auntie, darling, but you I can talk anything over with; and I’ll write, or, if you let me, come again for a day or two, very soon—may I?”
“Of course, no,” said her aunt gaily. “But we are not to be quite alone, all the time, mind. There are people who would not forgive me if I were to do anything so selfish, but I promise you ample time to talk—you and I to ourselves; and now that I think, I should like to hear by the post, if you will write and say anything you like. You may be quite sure nobody shall hear a word about it.”
By this time they had got to the hall-door.
“I’m sure of that, darling,” and she kissed the kind old lady.
“And are you quite sure you would not like a servant to travel with you; he could sit beside the driver?”
“No, dear auntie, my trusty old Dulcibella sits inside to take care of me.”
“Well, dear, are you quite sure? I should not miss him the least.”
“Quite, dear aunt, I assure you.”
“And you know you told me you were quite happy at Wyvern,” said Lady Wyndale, returning her farewell caress, and speaking low, for a servant stood at the chaise-door.
“Did I? Well, I shouldn’t have said that, for—I’m not happy,” whispered Alice Maybell, and the tears sprang to her eyes as she kissed her old kinswoman; and then, with her arms still about her neck, there was a brief look from her large, brimming eyes, while her lip trembled; and suddenly she turned, and before Lady Wyndale had recovered from that little shock, her pretty guest was seated in the chaise, the door shut, and she drove away.
“What can it be, poor little thing?” thought Lady Wyndale, as her eyes anxiously followed the carriage in its flight down the avenue.
“They have shot her pet-pigeon, or the dog has killed her guinea-pig, or old Fairfield won’t allow her to sit up till twelve o’clock at night, reading her novel. Some childish misery, I dare say, poor little soul!”
But for all that she was not satisfied, and her poor, pale, troubled look haunted her.
II
The Vale of Carwell
In about an hour and a half this chaise reached the Pied Horse, on Elverstone Moor. Having changed horses at this inn, they resumed their journey, and Miss Alice Maybell, who had been sad and abstracted, now lowered the window beside her, and looked out upon the broad, shaggy heath, rising in low hillocks, and breaking here and there into pools—a wild, and on the whole a monotonous and rather dismal expanse.
“How fresh and pleasant the air is here, and how beautiful the purple of the heath!” exclaimed the young lady with animation.
“There now—that’s right—beautiful it is, my darling; that’s how I like to see my child—pleasant-like and ’appy, and not mopin’ and dull, like a sick bird. Be that way always; do, dear.”
“You’re a kind old thing,” said the young lady, placing her slender hand fondly on her old nurse’s arm, “good old Dulcibella: you’re always to come with me wherever I go.”
“That’s just what Dulcibella’d like,” answered the old woman, who was fat, and liked her comforts, and loved Miss Alice more than many mothers love their own children, and had answered the same reminders, in the same terms, a good many thousand times in her life.
Again the young lady was looking out of the window—not like one enjoying a landscape as
