“Oh, so happy! always the same, one day after another! It will be different,” said the younger sister, crying a little, “now that dear papa—But still no place ever can be like home.”
And there was the guilty woman sitting by, listening to everything they said; feeling how good, how natural, it was—and still more natural, still more seemly, for her, at her age, than for them at theirs—yet conscious that this house was a prison to her, and that of all things in the world that which she wanted most was to be turned out and driven away!
“My dears,” she said, not daring to betray this feeling, “if I have frightened you, I did not mean to do it. The house in Highcombe, you know, is mine. It will be our home if—if anything should happen. I thought it might be wise to have that ready, to make it our headquarters, in case—in case Theo should carry out the improvements.”
“Improvements!” they cried with one voice. “What improvements? How could the Warren be improved?”
“You must not speak to me in such a tone. There has always been a question of cutting down some of the trees.”
“But papa would never agree to it; papa said he would never consent to it.”
“I think,” said Mrs. Warrender, with a guilty blush, “that he—had begun to change his mind.”
“Only when he was growing weak, then—only when you over-persuaded him.”
“Minnie! I see that your brother was right, and that this is not a time for any discussion,” Mrs. Warrender said.
There was again a silence: and they all came back to the original state of mind from which they started, and remembered that quiet and subdued tones and an incapacity for the consideration of secular subjects were the proper mental attitude for all that remained of this day.
It was not, however, long that this becoming condition lasted. Sounds were heard as of voices in the distance, and then someone running at full speed across the gravel drive in front of the door, and through the hall. Minnie had risen up in horror to stop this interruption, when the door burst open, and Theo, pale and excited, rushed in. “Mother,” he cried, “there has been a dreadful accident. Markland has been thrown by those wild brutes of his, and I don’t know what has happened to him. It was just at the gates, and they are bringing him here. There is no help for it. Where can they take him to?”
Mrs. Warrender rose to her feet at once; her heart rising too almost with pleasure to the thrill of a new event. She hurried out to open the door of a large vacant room on the ground floor. “What was Lord Markland doing here?” she said. “He ought to have reached home long ago.”
“He has been in that house in the village, mother. They seemed to think everybody would understand. I don’t know what he has to do there.”
“He has nothing to do there. Oh, Theo, that poor young wife of his! And had he the heart to go from—from—us, in our trouble—there!”
“He seems to have paid for it, whatever was wrong in it. Go back to the drawing-room, for here they are coming.”
“Theo, they are carrying him as if he were—”
“Go back to the drawing-room, mother. Whatever it is, it cannot be helped,” Theodore said. He did not mean it, but there was something in his tone which reminded everybody—the servants, who naturally came rushing to see what was the matter, and Mrs. Warrender, who withdrew at his bidding—that he was now the master of the house.
V
Markland was a much more important place than the Warren. It was one of the chief places in the county in which the family had for many generations held so great a position. It was a large building, with all that irregularity of architecture which is dear to the English mind—a record of the generations which had passed through it and added to it, in itself a noble historical monument, full of indications of the past. But it lost much of its effect upon the mind from the fact that it was in much less good order than is usual with houses of similar pretensions; and above all because the wood around it had been wantonly and wastefully cut, and it stood almost unsheltered upon its little eminence, with only a few seedling trees, weedy and long, like boys who had outgrown their strength, straggling about the heights. The house itself was thus left bare to all the winds. An old cedar, very large but very feeble, in the tottering condition of old age to which some trees, like men, come, with two or three of its longest branches torn off by storm and decay, interposed its dark foliage over the lower roof of the west wing, and gave a little appearance of shelter, and a few Lombardy poplars and light-leaved young birches made a thin and interrupted screen to the east; but the house stood clear of these light and frivolous young attendants in a nakedness which made the spectator shiver. The wood in the long avenue had been thinned in almost the same ruthless way, but here and there were shady corners, where old trees, not worth much in the market, but very valuable to the landscape, laid their heads together like ancient retainers, and rustled and nodded their disapproval of the devastation around.
Young Lady Markland, with her boy, on the afternoon of the June day on which Mr. Warrender was buried, walked up and down for some time in front of the house, casting many anxious looks down the avenue, by which, in its present denuded state, every approaching visitor was so easily visible. She was still very young, though her child was about eight; she having been married, so to speak, out of the nursery, a young creature of sixteen, a motherless
