Hester

so rapidly between her nephew and the stranger. She called Edward “your cousin” to Ashton, then laughed and apologised, explaining that where there were so many cousins it was difficult to remember that her relation was not Edward’s too. When Ashton replied, “There is connection enough to justify the name, if it is agreeable to Vernon,” there could be no doubt that it was, at least, agreeable to her. She smiled upon them from her window as they went out together, waving her hand. And no foolish mother could have been more unaware than Catherine, that the knowledge that she was there, watching with tender looks of affection the two figures as they went along, was to Edward irksome beyond expression. He felt no charm of love in the look, but substituted suspicion for tenderness, and believed that she was watching them, keeping them in sight as far as her eyes could carry, to spy out all they did, and make for herself an explanation of every gesture. He would not even have twirled his stick and cut down the brambles but in a momentary fit of forgetfulness. When they got beyond her range, he breathed more freely, but, even then, was not without a recollection that she had her opera-glasses at hand, and might, through them, be watching his demeanour still.

“Let us go this way,” he said, turning into the road, which slanted away on the nearer side of the Vernonry, leading out into the open country and brown fields.

Ashton hesitated a moment. “I am not sure that I am not expected at home. It is my last day,” he said.

“Home is a kind of irons,” said Edward, “handcuffs, ankle chains. One is always like an unhappy cockatoo on a perch. Any little attempt at flight is always pulled back.”

“I don’t think that is my experience. My old people are very indulgent; but then, I am a mere visitor. Home does not mean much to me,” said Ashton. If he had been in the presence of any lady he would have sighed as he said this⁠—being in absolute freedom with one of his own kind he smiled, and it was Edward who sighed.

“There is such a thing as having too much of it,” he said. “What I suffer from is want of air. Don’t you perceive it? There is no atmosphere; every breath has been breathed over and over again. We want ventilation. We welcome every horror with delight in consequence⁠—a murder⁠—or even a big bankruptcy. I suppose that is why bankruptcies are so common,” he added, as if struck with the idea. “A man requires a great deal of original impulse before he will go the length of murder. The other has a milder but similar attraction; you ruin other people, which shakes them up, and gives a change of air.”

“Ill-omened words,” said Ashton, laughing, and throwing out the forefinger and little finger of his right hand with a play at superstition. “Ugly at all times, but especially when we are talking of business and the Stock Exchange.”

“Are you aware,” said Edward, sinking his voice, “that our predecessor, before Aunt Catherine, did something of the kind?”

“Who was he?”

“A certain John Vernon. His wife lives yonder, with the rest of Aunt Catherine’s dependents in that red house. He found it too much for him; but it was a poor sort of a flash in the pan, and hurt nobody but himself.”

“You would like to do more than that,” said Ashton, with a laugh.

But in Edward’s face there was no jest.

“I should like,” he said, “if I broke down, to carry the whole concern along with me. I should like to pull it down about their ears as Samson pulled the temple, you know, upon his persecutors.”

“Vernon,” said Roland, “do you know that you are very rash, opening out like this to me? Don’t you see it is quite possible I might betray you? I have no right to preach, but surely you can’t have any reason to be so bitter. You seem tremendously well off, I can tell you, to a friendless fellow like me.”

“I am very well off,” said Edward, with a smile; “no man was ever better. I came out of a struggling family where I was to have gone to the colonies or something. My next brother got that chance, and here I am. John Vernon, so far as I can hear, was an extravagant fool. I have not the least sympathy with that. Money’s a great power, but as for fine houses, or fine furniture, or show or dash as they call it⁠—”

“I told you,” said Ashton, “you have no vice.”

Edward gave him a dark, suspicious look.

“I have even a contempt for it,” he said.

“There are plenty of men who have that⁠—a horror even; and yet can’t do without the excitement.”

“I prefer your sort of excitement. John Vernon, as I say, was a fool. He ran away, poor wretch, and Catherine stepped in, and remade everything, and covered him with contempt.”

“He is the father (is he dead?) of the⁠—young lady⁠—who is such a favourite with my grandfather?”

“Hester? Oh, you know her, do you? One of Aunt Catherine’s pensioners in the Vernonry, as she calls it.”

“It is a little hard upon them to be called dependents; my old people live there. They have their own little income to live upon. Miss Vernon gives them their house, I believe, which is very kind, but not enough to justify the name of pensioners.”

“That is our way here,” said Edward laughing. “We are very ready to give, but we like to take the good of it. It is not respectful to call the place the Vernonry, but we do it. We are delighted to be kind; the more you will take from us, the better we will like you. We even⁠—rather like you to be ungrateful. It satisfies our theory.”

“Vernon, all that seems to me to be diabolical, you know, I wish you wouldn’t. Miss Hester is a little