This was not at all the case with Mrs. Warrender, who came home with all the agreeable sensations of a new beginning, ready to take up new lines of existence, and to make a cheerful centre of life for herself and all who surrounded her. If any woman should feel with justice that she has reached the Afterwards, and has done with her active career, it should be the woman who has just settled down after her husband’s death to the humbler house provided for her widowhood apart from all her old occupations and responsibilities. But in reality there was no such sentiment in her mind. “You’ll in your girls again be courted.” She had hanging about her the pleasant reflection of that wooing, never put into words, with which Dick Cavendish had filled the atmosphere, and which had produced upon the chief object of it so very different an effect; and she had the less pleasurable excitement of Theo’s circumstances, and of all that was going on at Markland, a romance in which her interest was almost painful, to stimulate her thoughts. The Eustace Thynnes did not count for much, for their lovemaking had been very mild and regular, but still, perhaps, they aided in the general quickening of life. She had three different histories thus going on around her, and she was placed in a new atmosphere, in which she had to play a part of her own. When Chatty and she sat down together in the new drawing-room for the first time with their work and their plans, Mrs. Warrender’s talk was of their new neighbours and the capabilities of the place. “The rector is not a stupid man,” she said, in a reflective tone. The proposition was one which gently startled Chatty. She lifted her mild eyes from her work, with a surprised look.
“It would be very sad for us if he was stupid,” she said.
“And Mrs. Barham still less so. What I am thinking of is society, not edification. Then there is Colonel Travers, whom we used to see occasionally at home, the brother, you know, of ⸻. An old soldier is always a pleasant element in a little place. The majority will of course be women like ourselves, Chatty.”
“Yes, mamma, there are always a great many ladies about Highcombe.”
Mrs. Warrender gave forth a little sigh. “In a country neighbourhood we swamp everything,” she said; “it is a pity. Too many people of one class are always monotonous: but we must struggle against it, Chatty.”
“Dear mamma, isn’t ladies’ society the best for us? Minnie always said so. She said it was a dreadful thing for a girl to think of gentlemen.”
“Minnie always was an oracle. To think of gentlemen whom you were likely to fall in love with, and marry, perhaps—but I don’t think there are many of that class here.”
“Oh no,” said Chatty, returning to her work, “at least I hope not.”
“I am not at all of your opinion, my dear. I should like a number of them; and nice girls too. I should not wish to keep all these dangerous personages for you.”
“Mamma!” said Chatty, with a soft reproachful glance. It seemed a desecration to her to think that ever again—that ever another—
“That gives a little zest to all the middle-aged talks. It amuses other people to see a little romance going on. You were always rather shocked at your light-minded mother, Chatty.”
“Mamma! it might be perhaps very sad for—for those most concerned, though it amused you.”
“I hope not, my darling. You take things too seriously. There is, to be sure, a painful story now and then, but very rarely. You must not think that men are deceivers ever, as the song says.”
“Oh no,” said Chatty, elevating her head with simple pride, though without meeting her mother’s eyes, “that is not what I would say. But why talk of such things at all? why put romances, as you call them, into people’s heads? People may be kind and friendly without anything more.”
Mrs. Warrender here paused to study the gentle countenance which was half hidden from her, bending over the muslin work, and for the first time gained a little glimpse into what was going on in Chatty’s heart. The mother had long known that her own being was an undiscovered country for her children; but it was new to her and a startling discovery that perhaps this innocent creature, so close to her, had also a little sanctuary of her own, into which the eyes most near to her had never looked. She marked the little signs of meaning quite unusual to her composed and gentle child—the slight quiver which was in Chatty’s bent head, the determined devotion to her work which kept her face unseen—with a curious confusion in her mind. She had felt sure that Dick Cavendish had made a difference in life to Chatty; but she had not thought of this in any but a hopeful and cheerful way. She was more startled now than she dared say. Had there been any explanation between them which she had not been told of? Was there any obstacle she did not know? Her mind was thrown into great bewilderment, too great to permit of any exercise of her judgment suddenly upon the little mystery—if mystery there was.
“I did not mean to enter into such deep questions,”
