great lonely house, amongst oldservants, who seemed to take a pleasure in waiting on us. We spent ourmornings and evenings in Milly's sitting-room, and took our meals in asnug prettily-furnished breakfast-room on the ground-floor. We readtogether a great deal, going through a systematic course of study of avery different kind from the dry labours at Albury Lodge. There was afine old library at Thornleigh, and we read the masters of English andFrench prose together with unflagging interest and pleasure. Besidesall this, Milly worked hard at her music, and still harder at herpainting, which was a real delight to her.
Mr. Collingwood the rector, and his family, came to see us, andinsisted on our visiting them frequently in a pleasant unceremoniousmanner; and we had other invitations from Milly's old friends in theneighbourhood of Thornleigh.
There were carriages at our disposal, but we did not often use them.Milly preferred walking; and we used to take long rambles togetherwhenever the weather was favourable--rambles across the moor, or faraway over the hills, or deep into the wood between Thornleigh andCumber.
CHAPTER VI.
A NEW ACQUAINTANCE.
It was shortly after my arrival at Thornleigh that I first saw the manwhose story I had heard in the study at Cumber Priory. Milly and I hadbeen together about a fortnight, and it was the end of January--cold,clear, bright weather--when we set out early one afternoon for a ramblein our favourite wood, Milly furnished with pencils and sketch-book, inorder to jot down any striking effect of the gaunt leafless old trees.She had a hardy disregard of cold in her devotion to her art, and wouldsit down to sketch in the bitter January weather in spite of myentreaties.
We stayed out longer than usual, and Milly had stopped once or twice tomake a hasty sketch, when the sky grew suddenly dark, and big drops ofrain began to fall slowly. These were speedily succeeded by a peltingstorm of rain and hail, and we felt that we were caught, and must bedrenched to the skin before we could get back to Thornleigh. Theweather had been temptingly fine when we left home, and we had neitherumbrellas nor any other kind of protection against the rain.
'We had better scamper off as fast as we can,' said Milly.
'But we can't run four miles. Hadn't we better go on to Cumber, andwait in the village till the weather changes, or try to get some kindof conveyance there?'
'Well, I suppose that would be best. There must be such a thing as afly at Cumber, I should think, small as the place is. But it's nearly amile from here to the village.'
'Anything seems better than going back through the wood in such aweather,' I said.
We were close to the outskirts of the wood at this time, and within avery short distance of the Priory gates. While we were still pausing inan undecided way, with the rain pelting down upon us, a figure cametowards us from among the leafless trees--the figure of a man, agentleman, as we could see by his dress and bearing, and a stranger. Wehad never met any one but country-people, farm-labourers, and so on, inthe wood before, and were a little startled by his apparition.
He came up to us quickly, lifting his hat as he approached us.
'Caught in the storm, ladies,' he said, 'and without umbrellas I see,too. Have you far to go?'
'Yes, we have to go as far as Thornleigh,' Milly answered.
'Quite impossible in such weather. Will you come into the Priory andwait till the storm is over?'
'The Priory! To be sure!' cried Milly. 'I never thought of that. I knowthe housekeeper very well, and I am sure she would let us stop there.'
We walked towards the Priory gates, the stranger accompanying us. I hadno opportunity of looking at him under that pelting rain, but I waswondering all the time who he was, and how he came to speak of CumberPriory in that familiar tone.
One of the gates stood open, and we went in.
'A desolate-looking place, isn't it?' said the stranger. 'Dismalenough, without the embellishment of such weather as this.'
He led the way to the hall-door, and opened it unceremoniously,standing aside for us to pass in before him. There was a fire burningin the wide old-fashioned fireplace, and the place had an air ofoccupation that was new to it.
'I'll send for Mrs. Mills, and she shall take your wet shawls away tobe dried,' said the stranger, ringing a bell; and I think we both beganto understand by this time that he must be the master of the house.
'You are very kind,' Milly answered, taking off her dripping shawl. 'Idid not know that the Priory was occupied except by the old servants. Ifear you must have thought me very impertinent just now when I talkedso coolly of taking shelter here.'
'I am only too glad that you should find refuge in the old place.'
He wheeled a couple of ponderous carved-oak chairs close to the hearth,and begged us to sit there; but Milly preferred standing in the nobleold gothic window looking out at the rain.
'They will be getting anxious about us at home,' she said, 'if we arenot back before dark.'
'I wish I possessed a close carriage to place at your service. I do,indeed, boast of the ownership of a dog-cart, if you would not beafraid of driving in such a barbarous vehicle when the rain is over. Itwould keep you out of the mud, at any rate.'
Milly laughed gaily.
'I have been brought up in the country,' she said, 'and am not at allafraid of driving in a dog-cart. I used often to go out with papa inhis, before he married.'
'Then, when the storm is over, I shall have the pleasure of driving youto Thornleigh, if you will permit me that honour.'
Milly looked a little perplexed at this, and made some excuse about notwishing to cause so much trouble.
'I really think we could walk home very well; don't you, Mary?' shesaid; and I declared myself quite equal to the walk.
'It would be impossible for you to get back to Thornleigh before dark,'the gentleman remonstrated. 'I shall be quite offended if you refusethe use of my dog-cart, and insist on getting wet feet. I daresay yourfeet are wet as it is, by the bye.'
We assured him of the thickness of our boots, and gave our shawls toMrs. Mills the old housekeeper, who carried them off to be dried in thekitchen, and promised to convey the order about the dog-cart to thestables immediately.
I had time now to look at our new acquaintance, who was standing withhis shoulders against one angle of the high oak mantelpiece, watchingthe rain beating against a window opposite to him. I had no difficultyin recognising the original of that portrait which Augusta Darrell hadlooked at so strangely. He was much older than when the portrait hadbeen taken--ten years at the least, I thought. In the picture he lookedlittle more than twenty, and I should have guessed him now to be on thewrong side of thirty.
He was handsome still, but the dark powerful face had a sort of ruggedlook, the heavy eyebrows overshadowed the sombre black eyes, a thickfierce-looking moustache shrouded the mouth, but could not quiteconceal an expression, half cynical, half melancholy, that lurked aboutthe lowered corners of the full firm lips. He looked like a man whosepast life held some sad or sinful history.
I could fancy, as I looked at him, that last bitter interview with hismother, and I could imagine how hard and cruel such a man might beunder the influence of an unpardonable wrong. Like Mrs. Darrell, I wasinclined to place myself on the side of the unfortunate lovers, ratherthan on that of the mother, who had been willing to sacrifice her son'shappiness to her pride of race.
We all three remained silent for some little time, Milly and I standingtogether in the window, Mr. Egerton leaning against the mantelpiece,watching the rain with an absent look in his face. He roused himself atlast, as if with an effort, and came over to the window by which westood.
'It looks rather hopeless at present,' he said; 'but I shall spin youover to Thornleigh in no time; so you mustn't be anxious. It is atThornleigh Manor you live, is it not?'
'Yes,' Milly answered. 'My name is Darrell, and this young lady is MissCrofton, my very dear friend.'
He bowed in recognition of this introduction.
'I thought as much--I mean as to your name being Darrell. I
had thehonour to know Mr. Darrell very well when I was a lad, and I have avague recollection of a small child in white frock, who, I think, musthave been yourself. I have only been home a week, or I should have donemyself the pleasure of calling on your father.'
'Papa is in Paris,' Milly answered, 'with my stepmother.'
'Ah, he has married again, I hear. One of the many changes that havecome to pass since I was last in Yorkshire.'
'Have you returned for good, Mr. Egerton?'
'For good--or for evil--who knows?' he answered, with a careless laugh.'As to whether I stay here so many weeks or so many years, that is amatter of supreme uncertainty. I never am in the same mind very longtogether. But I am heartily sick of knocking about abroad, and I cannotpossibly find life emptier or
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