too--of as bad a manas ever lived, I believe,' he added in a lower voice.
'A bad man?'
'Yes; he broke his mother's heart.'
'In what manner?'
'He fell in love with a girl of low birth, whom he met in the course ofa pedestrian tour in the West of England, and was going to marry her, Ibelieve, when Mrs. Egerton got wind of the affair. She was a very proudwoman--one of the most resolute masculine-minded women I ever knew. Shewent down into Devonshire where the girl lived immediately, and by somemeans or other prevented the marriage. How it was done I never heard;but it was not until a year afterwards that Angus Egerton discoveredhis mother's part in the business. He came down to the Priory suddenlyand unexpectedly at a late hour one night, and walked straight to hismother's room. I have heard that old woman who has been showing us thehouse describe his ghastly face--she was Mrs. Egerton's maid in thosedays--as he pushed her aside and went into the room where his motherwas sitting. There was a dreadful scene between them, and at the end ofit Angus Egerton walked out of the house, swearing never again to enterit while his mother lived. He has kept his word. Mrs. Egerton nevercrossed the threshold after that night, and refused to see anybodyexcept her servants and her doctor. She lived this lonely kind of lifefor nearly three years, and then died of some slow wasting disease, forwhich the doctor could find no name.'
'And where did Mr. Egerton go after leaving her that night?'
'He slept at a little inn at Cumber, and went back to London nextmorning. He left England soon after that, and has lived abroad eversince.'
'And you think him a very bad man?'
'I consider his conduct to his mother a sufficient evidence of that.'
'He may have believed himself deeply wronged.'
'He must have known that she had acted in his interests when sheprevented his committing the folly of a low marriage. She was hismother, and had been a most devoted and indulgent mother.'
'And in the end contrived to break his heart--to say nothing of thegirl who loved him, who was of course a piece of common clay, not worthconsideration.'
'I did not think you had so much romance, Augusta,' said Mr. Darrell,laughing; 'I suppose it is natural for a woman to take the part ofunfortunate lovers, however foolish the affair may be. But I believethis Devonshire girl was quite unworthy of an honourable attachment onthe part of any man. You see I knew and liked Mrs. Egerton, and I knowhow she loved her son. I cannot forgive him his conduct to her; norhave the reports of his life abroad been by any means favourable to hischaracter. His career seems to have been a very wild and dissipatedone.'
'And he has never married?'
'No, he has never married.'
'He has been true, at least,' Mrs. Darrell said in a low thoughtfultone.
We had lingered in the little study while her husband had told hisstory. We went back to the hall now, and found Milly and Mr. Stormontlooking rather listlessly at the old portraits of the Egerton race. Iwas anxious to see a picture of the last Mrs. Egerton, after what I hadheard about her, and, at my request, the housekeeper showed me one inthe drawing-room.
She was very handsome, and wonderfully like her son. I could fancythose two haughty spirits in opposition.
We spent another hour looking over the rest of the house--old tapestry,old pictures, old china, old furniture, secret staircases, carvedchimneypieces, muniment chests, and the usual objects of interest to befound in such a place. After that we walked a little in the neglectedgarden, where there were old holly hedges that had grown high and wildfor want of clipping, and where a curious old sun-dial had fallen downupon the grass in a forlorn way. The paths were all green andmoss-grown, and the roses were almost choked with bindweed. I saw Mrs.Darrell gather one of these roses and put it in her breast. It was thefirst time I have ever seen her pluck a flower, though there was awealth of roses at Thornleigh.
So ended our visit to Cumber Priory; a place that was destined to bevery memorable to some of us in the time to come.
CHAPTER IV.
MRS. THATCHER.
It had been Milly's habit to devote one day a week to visiting amongthe poor, before she went to Albury Lodge; and she now resumed thispractice, I accompanying her upon her visits. I had been used to goingabout among the cottagers at home, and I liked the work. It was verypleasant to see Milly Darrell with these people--the perfect confidenceand sympathy between them and her, the delight they seemed to take inher bright cheering presence. I was struck by their simple naturalmanner, and the absence of anything like sycophancy to be observed inthem. One day, when we had been to several cottages about the village,Milly asked me if I could manage rather a long walk; and on my tellingher that I could, we started upon a lonely road that wound across themoor in a direction I had never walked in until that day. We went onfor about two miles without passing a human habitation, and then cameto one of the most desolate-looking cottages I ever remember seeing. Itwas little better than a cabin, and consisted only of two rooms--a kindof kitchen or dwelling-room, and a dark little bedchamber opening outof it.
'I am not going to introduce you to a very agreeable person, Mary,'Milly said, when we were within a few paces of this solitary dwelling;'but old Rebecca is a character in her way, and I make a point ofcoming to see her now and then, though she is not always very graciousto me.'
It was a warm bright summer's day, but the door and the single windowof the cottage were firmly closed. Milly knocked with her hand, and athin feeble old voice called to her to 'come in.'
We went in: the atmosphere of the place was hot, and had an unpleasantdoctor's-shoppish kind of odour, which I found was caused by some herbsin a jar that was simmering over a little stove in a corner. Bunches ofdried herbs hung from the low ceiling, and on an old-fashionedlumbering chest of drawers that stood in the window there were moreherbs and roots laid out to dry.
'Mrs. Thatcher is a very clever doctor, Mary,' said Milly, as if by wayof introduction; 'all our servants come to her to be cured when theyhave colds and coughs.--And how are you this lovely summer weather,Mrs. Thatcher?'
'None too well, miss,' grumbled the old woman; 'I don't like the summertime; it never suited me.'
'That's strange,' said Milly gaily; 'I thought everybody liked summer.'
'Not those that live as I do, Miss Darrell. There's no illness insummer--no colds, nor coughs, nor sore-threats, nor suchlikes. I don'tknow that I shouldn't starve outright, if it wasn't for the ague; andeven that is nothing now to what it used to be.'
I was quite horror-struck by this ghoulish speech; but Milly onlylaughed gaily at the old woman's candour.
'If the doctors were as plain-spoken as you, I daresay they'd saypretty much the same kind of thing, Mrs. Thatcher,' she said. 'How'syour grandson?'
'O, he's well enough, Miss Darrell. Naught's never in danger.--Peter,come here, and see the young ladies.'
A poor, feeble, pale-faced, semi-idiotic-looking boy came slowly out ofthe dark little bedroom, and stood grinning at us. He had the whitesickly aspect of a creature reared without the influence of air andlight; and I pitied him intensely as he stood there staring andgrinning in that dreadful hopeless manner.
'Poor Peter!' He's no better, I'm afraid,' said Milly gently.
'No, miss, nor never will be. He knows more than people think, and hasqueer cunning ways of his own; but he'll never be any better or wiserthan he is now.'
'Not if you were to take as much pains with him as you do with thepatients who pay you, Mrs. Thatcher?' asked Milly.
'I've taken pains with him,' answered the woman, with a scowl. 'I tookto him kindly enough when he was a little fellow; but he's grown up tobe nothing but a plague and a burden to me.'
The boy left off grinning, and his poor weak chin sank lower on hisnarrow chest. His attitude had been a stooping one from the first; buthe drooped visibly under the old woman's reproof.
'Can he employ himself in no way?'
'No, miss; except in picking the herbs and roots for me sometimes. Hecan do that, and
he knows one from t'other.'
'He's of some use to you, at any rate, then,' said Milly.
'Little enough,' the old woman answered sulkily. 'I don't want help;I've plenty of time to gather them myself. But I've taught him to pickthem, and it's the only thing he ever could learn.'
'Poor fellow! He's your only grandchild, isn't he, Mrs. Thatcher?'
'Yes, he's the only one, miss, and he'd need be. I don't know how Ishould keep another. You can't remember my daughter Ruth? She was aspretty a girl as you'd care to see. She was housemaid at Cumber prioryin Mrs. Egerton's time, and she
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