# The Brown-Paper Parcel

Published in three parts in All the Year Round
THE BROWN-PAPER PARCEL.
CHAPTER I.
A very woman: one in whom The spring-time of her childish years Hath never lost its fresh perfume, Though knowing well that life hath room For many blights and many tears.
Lowell.
"Miss Mackworth, Miss Mackworth!"
"Miss Mackworth, do look what we've got."
With a shout, a rush, and a bang, four children, loaded with packages, stormed into the school-room of a certain house in Onslow-square, London, eager to exhibit their holiday purchases to their young governess.
Miss Mackworth was seated on the floor in the cheerful fire-light, and close beside her crouched three little mortals, four-year-old twin girls, and a fat toddling baby boy, all watching with wide-open eyes and suspended breath, while her steady fingers built up, brick on brick, a splendid tower nearly as high as the mantel-piece.
"O Miss Mackworth!" cried Archie, a rough-headed boy of eight, "it has been so jolly. First we went to Bond Street, and then to the German Fair, and then to the Bazaar—and only look here!"
"Miss Mackworth, please look at our dolls," petitioned twin girls of six.
"Oh! stuff about your stupid dolls! What does Miss Mackworth care for such girls' trash. Miss Mackworth, here's a cross bow! Won't I make the deer at Granny's look out sharp!"
"Now Archie, Archie," interposed Carrie, a demure damsel of ten, rather oppressed by the weight of her eldership, "do put the things down properly, and then Miss Mackworth can see them. Dear! are the nursery children here?" as baby made a sudden onslaught on the tower of bricks, and tumbled it down with a great crash.
"Yes," said Mary Mackworth. "Nurse and Harriet are busy packing, and the poor little things seemed so dreadfully in the way that I asked leave to have them down here. They have been very good."
"I'm glad they have been good," said Carrie, patronisingly: "now Archie, don't you go cutting that string. You'll be teazing us all for string to-morrow, you know you will."
"Bother to-morrow! I shall be at Littlemore, and Granny 'll give me heaps of string. I say! Miss Mackworth——"
Then arose the tumult afresh, and Miss Mackworth, forbearing to hush where hushing was vain, gave full and free attention to every article exhibited; admired and criticised, praised the serviceable presents chosen by Carrie for the almshouse women and servants at Littlemore, and finally promised to cut out and place some garments for endless dolls bought for grandmama's school-tree. The hubbub did not subside until the arrival of the nursemaid in quest of the little ones reminded the school-room party that they must make haste to prepare for tea.
In three hours' time the little flock were all in bed, and Miss Mackworth sate, in sole possession of the school-room, busily engaged in arranging the promised dolls' clothes.
Presently, Mrs. Halroyd came in: a pretty, faded woman, still quite young, but with the matronly figure and somewhat worn countenance which generally distinguish the mother of a "large small family."
"How good-natured of you, Miss Mackworth," she said, glancing at the governess's work: "you spoil those little people!" And then, as she laid an envelope on the table, she said nervously, colouring and hesitating, "I think, you will find that quite right: and I will let you know the day of our return—probably not before the 20th of January—my mother-in-law wishes for a long visit this year."
"Thank you very much."
"You don't go to your uncle's this time, I think?"
"Oh, no!" and the bright dark colouring deepened, and the brown eyes danced, but half tearfully: "I am going home! to Farley-in-the-Fields."
"Ah! yes," said Mrs. Halroyd, her ​languid interest roused by the young governess's evident delight. "You will like that. I think you have spent all your holidays till now at Clapham, have you not?"
"Yes: it was too expensive to go all the way home."
"It must be a long journey to Farley."
"Yes: I have to start at eight in the morning, and I get to Brigham, our nearest town, at five."
"Dear me! that is a long time to be in the train, and in this cold weather too, eight—nine hours!"
"It is the cheapest train: I don't mind its being slow," Mary said, simply: "my brother will meet me at Brigham."
"Well, good-night," said Mrs. Halroyd, rising: "not good-by,—for I shall see you to-morrow. You don't leave town till the next day, I think?"
"If I may stay," said Mary, "I should like to do a little shopping before I go."
"Certainly: I hope the servants will take good care of you." And Mrs. Halroyd departed, congratulating herself on having got over her quarterly penance of paying Miss Mackworth's salary: a thing to which she never could get accustomed. She always fancied that it must be as painful to the governess as to herself; wherein she was wholly mistaken, for it appeared to Mary the most natural and desirable arrangement in the world that she should work hard and be paid for doing so. Her first act was to draw out the three crisp, rustling five-pound notes—her quarter's salary—and actually waltz round once or twice in a burst of childish happiness. Then she went to her desk, and drew out two more five-pound notes, saved from the last quarter at the cost of who knows what weary hours of ceaseless stitchery; what private washings, and starchings of sleeves and laces; what vigorous self-denial in the matter of ribbons and dresses, things which no one appreciated more thoroughly than Mary Mackworth.
"How much," she deliberated, "may I fairly spend in presents? How much must I keep for those terrible Christmas bills at home? The journey will cost—let me see—I will go third class instead of second—that will save something. And one thing I may let myself get:—a winter shawl for the dear mother—that is useful—that she really wants. Harry must take the stockings I have knitted him for a present—and anything will please the little boys. But oh! I should like to get papa that book about the Jewish church that he said would be so useful in his lectures on the Old Testament, and I must keep a little money to buy some trifle for Cilla: something dainty and pretty, like her dear bonny self!"
Next morning the whole Halroyd family were off soon after breakfast to spend Christmas with Colonel Halroyd's mother at her place in Surrey. As soon as the two cabs and the carriage had disappeared, and Miss Mackworth could cease smiling and kissing her hand to the little nodding, grinning faces at the window, she turned back into the house, and raced nimbly up-stairs, rejoicing that she might run up two steps at a time without setting a bad example, put on her cloak and bonnet, looped up her dress, provided herself with a thick cotton umbrella, and set forth on her round of shopping. She had settled with her conscience the exact sum which she might allow herself to spend in presents: and as is usually the case, that sum did not go as far as she had expected. As she went to distant shops, and performed all her errands on foot, it took a long time, and the short daylight was almost gone, when, having bought a serviceable shawl for her mother, some toys for the children, and a few cheap prettinesses for her sister, she looked with dismay at the money in her purse, now considerably dwindled.
"Oh dear! shall I ever be able to get that Jewish book for papa?" she thought: and then, wrapping herself in her cloak, for the afternoon was very bleak and raw, with a biting wind, she betook herself to a bookseller's in Oxford-street. The man supplied all Mrs. Halroyd's school-room books, and knew Miss Mackworth well. He saw and pitied her look of blank disappointment when the work proved to be quite beyond her means, and good-naturedly made a suggestion.
"I'll tell you where you might possibly get it for your price, ma'am. They often sell off their surplus copies at Grueby's, and you might have a chance there."
"Oh! thank you," said Miss Mackworth, heartily; and, quite undismayed at the increasing cold and thickening darkness, she hailed a passing omnibus, and soon found herself at her new destination. Rather timidly, for the place was new to her, she approached the counter, and, to her great joy, found what she wanted at a more moderate price than she had dared to hope. She could not repress an exclamation of pleasure, and then coloured, feeling that her earnest "Oh! that is nice!" low-toned though it was, had attracted the attention of a gentleman who was standing by, waiting for a box of books. The box made its appearance just as Mary had laid down ​her money, and taken possession of her book, and he politely held open the door for her. A small, dirty snow was falling thickly: the pavements were already wet, for it thawed as it fell; and the darkness seemed to have come on suddenly, perhaps from contrast with the bright gaslight inside. Mary stood still for a moment bewildered; then tried, in the failing light, to hail an omnibus; but the man took no notice of her signal, and she perceived that his vehicle was over-loaded already. It was disagreeable to find herself belated so far from home, especially as she was very tired and laden with small parcels which were troublesome to carry; but Mary was always more disposed to make light of misadventures than to turn them into heavy grievances, so she prepared to walk. As she put up her umbrella, a voice close to her said, "I beg your pardon. Have you no carriage here? no cab?"
"No," she answered frankly, looking straight up into the speaker's face, as her custom was. She then perceived that the speaker was the gentleman whom she had seen before, and moreover that his face was young and pleasant,—"but it doesn't matter—I am a good walker."
"But it is coming on to snow harder. I have a cab waiting here. Will you allow me to put you into it?"
"Oh! no! you are very kind, but indeed I would rather walk; I think it is going to clear." Herewith, as if to contradict her, came a gust of wind and sleet which nearly knocked her over. The stranger laughed. Mary could not help following his example, and next moment found that he was handing her into a Hansom cab. She made one more horrified protest.
"Oh! no, I can't think of it. What will you do! With that box of books too——"
"I will wait here, and send for another cab; it is no inconvenience to me, I assure you. Where shall I tell him to drive?"
A rapid calculation passed through Mary's mind. "How far can I go for a shilling?"
"To the further end of Piccadilly, if you please," she said, and it struck her that there was a little look of vexation, of disappointment even, on the face of her kind friend, as he bowed and raised his hat, as respectfully as if the little parcel-laden woman in her old plaid cloak had been a royal princess.
"Oh! dear, I know he'll catch cold, and then it'll be all my fault!" was Mary's first reflection; "one thing is, I shall never know it, if he does. If only I could have dared to ask him to get in too! When I first came from home I really think I should have done so—but I know better now. Well! this is comfortable certainly; much better than that stuffy omnibus. And how delightful to have got my book!"
And she went off into a vision of the pleasure which her gift would bring to the hard-working, underpaid curate, whose cultivated mind and scholarly tastes were always suffering a famine, as his daughter well knew.
In a very short time she had reached the house, and was seated by the snug fire in the school-room, wrapped in a warm shawl while her dress was drying, and thoroughly enjoying the mutton chops and tea brought to her by Susan, the little school-room maid, who regarded her as the first of human beings.
"You must not forget all your learning, Susan, while I am away," said she; "I have set you ever so many copies, and I think now you can manage to write to me by yourself, can't you? And ah! Susan, my canary-bird, and my poor geraniums—I trust them all to you."
Susan promised the utmost attention, while she stowed away package after package in Miss Mackworth's trunk, with more zeal than dexterity, as Mary soon perceived.
"Oh, take care!" she cried, springing up to the defence of Cilla's prettinesses: then checking herself, as Susan looked blank and vaguely self-reproachful, "thank you, that is very nice,—but I can finish packing myself now, if you will hand me the things. There were a few moments of busy silence. "Now, Susan, I want something small and soft, just to fill up this corner. Is there anything that will do?"
"Yes, miss," responded Susan; "here's a brown-paper parcel as will just fit in," and she handed to Mary a small parcel carefully tied with pack-thread and further secured with sealing-wax.
"What can this be?" exclaimed Mary; "how carefully the shop-people have done it up. Are you sure it is one of my things, Susan?"
"'Twas here on the sofy, miss, along with the rest."
"Oh! then, it must be all right; Cilla's gloves, I suppose," she said, fingering it, and finding its contents soft and yielding; "anyhow, it will just do to fill up my corner. Now, Susan, please come, and help me with the cover of my box. It looks as if it didn't mean to shut. That's it! Beautifully shut! And now for the direction."
With a thrill of satisfaction which made it hard to keep her pen steady, she wrote in her bold clear hand the well-known and dearly loved address, of Farley-in-the-Fields, Brigham.
CHAPTER II.
It was long past five o'clock on the following afternoon, when the third-class train, dragging its slow length along, crawled into the gas-lighted station belonging to the large and important county town of Brigham. Mary Mackworth was chilled, and cramped, and hungry, and weary, but nevertheless full of delight, which had been increasing for the last hour or two, as the names of well-known places were shouted out, and as now and then through the darkness dimly loomed the outline of hills, towers, and churches, all familiar landmarks.
As her bright face appeared at the window, a hand was laid on the door, and a tall, well-grown lad, a year or two younger than herself, and very like her, helped her eagerly from the carriage.
"Well, Mary!" "Well, my dearest old Harry!" were the greetings of the brother and sister; and then followed the inevitable questions and answers about luggage; and then followed the rush to secure it; and then they emerged into the street where several vehicles were waiting.
"There is the van!" exclaimed Mary, "and old Dobson and his old horse, all just as ever."
"Yes; but you're not going in the van," said Harry, importantly; "Dobson will take your box, but I have borrowed Farmer Murch's gig for you and me. Here it is; you haven't forgotten how to climb into a gig, Mary, have you?"
"Not I," laughed Mary, as she scrambled into her place, and let Harry draw the leathern apron over her knees; "jump in, Harry, I long to be off; how are they all?"
"All flourishing except Cilly—she's a poor piece of goods this winter—but there's nothing much the matter with her."
"And Jack and Laurry?"
"Oh! they're all right—grown like beans," answered Harry.
"How home-like it all looks!" cried Mary, with sparkling eyes, as they left the town, and emerged into the dark country road.
"Better than all the swell London shops, eh?" said Harry with a smile. "Hollo!"
The exclamation was caused by a mail phaeton, drawn by a pair of high stepping horses, which met them at the moment. A groom was driving; otherwise the carriage was empty.
"What a grand affair for this part of the world!" cried Mary. "Who can it belong to, Harry?"
"Can't imagine. Oh, yes, I can, though. The great banker, Mr. Langley, has bought Nettlehurst, and I dare say it is one of his concerns going to meet the down express, at five-fifty."
"Mr. Langley who has the Bank of Brigham? Why I thought he was dead?"
"To be sure: he died a year ago—the old man did, that is—and left the bank and money, and all the rest of it, to his cousin, who was as rich as Crœsus before, they say. The London bank of the same name belongs to him; but that's always the way. Wealth attracts wealth."
"And the new man has bought Nettlehurst! Then the poor old Hathaways are quite gone out of the land, I suppose! That seems sad."
"A precious good thing, bad lot that they were. There have been painters and paperers, and all sorts of doings there, all the summer, and the banker is coming to take possession now, they say. I bet anything he's coming to-night."
"I dare say it will be a good change for all the poor people about Nettlehurst, especially if his wife is nice."
"He has no wife, I believe, another old bachelor, like Mr. Langley. But he's going to give a ball, I heard some people saying, by way of house-warming, so I suppose he must have some sort of womankind belonging to him to do the honours."
"Oh how I should like to go!" cried Mary, eagerly.
"Much chance of that! Do you suppose he'll ever hear of your existence? Why, Nettlehurst isn't even in our parish, you know; it's right over the hill; and we don't know this man, nor anything about him, except that he's first cousin to old Langley,—and beastly rich," concluded the boy, giving a vicious cut to Farmer Murch's steady old Dobbin.
"But how delicious it would be! Fancy seeing Cilla at a ball! She would be the prettiest girl there, and how I should enjoy watching her, and hearing what people said!"
"My dear, you don't suppose any of us could ever go to a ball? Why a fly from Brigham would cost fifteen shillings, let alone clothes and gloves and things. Balls are not much in our line, nor anything else worth having."
The tone was even more desponding than the words, and Mary leaned forward to look into his face, which he immediately turned, so that the light of the gig lamps should not fall on it.
"What is it, dear old boy?"
"Oh! nothing—only the old story," said the lad in the same tone. "I'm sure you've heard enough of it, Polly, in my letters; ​you must be sick of the subject." And he gave a sort of laugh.
"The army?"
"I never can fancy anything else, never; and I know my father wouldn't mind, though it isn't much in his line. And once in it I'd make my pay do, and never ask him for a farthing. I'd get to India if I could. But of course it can't be—I know that well enough—but it is hard lines."
"It is indeed. Couldn't we save?"
"Save, out of two hundred and fifty pounds a year, and with seven mouths to feed! Do you suppose I'd ask such a thing? With mother wearing herself out, as it is, and poor Cilla who ought to be having port wine and good things all day long, they say, mid the little ones to be looked after too! No, I'm not such a selfish beast as that; I have never told anybody but you. But somehow," he said, turning to her with a brighter face, "one can't help telling you. everything, old Polly."
"What does papa mean you to do?"
"Hasn't mother told you? I couldn't bear to write about it, but I dare say it'll be all right when I'm used to the idea. Mr. Bagshawe has offered me a place in his office under old Hobbs. Forty pounds a year to begin with, and a rise if I behave myself."
"An attorney's clerk!" cried Mary, her colour rising. "Oh! Harry, I hope not!"
There was a long pause. Mary broke it by saying with renewed cheerfulness: "After all, Harry dear, God knows best, if we could only think so. You'll be a good man, and a gentleman too, whatever you are. I know that."
Harry muttered something, and then broke out with: "The injustice of the thing is what makes me frantic. To see that fellow Langley, for instance, throwing away sums on his horses and carriages, and balls and stuff, when a quarter of the money would set us all up for life. And that old twaddle, Lowther, pocketing his nine hundred pounds a year for the living, and just giving my father two hundred pounds for doing all his work. I've no patience."
"Has Dr. Lowther been heard of lately?" said Mary, trying to lead away from the subject.
"Sent my father a cheque, as usual, for the almshouse dinner on Christmas Day, and the school feast and all that, and hoped we would accept all the compliments of the season, stupid old bloke."
Mary laughed irreverently at her brother's mention of the rector, who, though nominally resident, yet suffering from a variety of nervous complaints, really spent almost one half of the year at Ventnor and the other at Malvern; and even when at Farley, seldom emerged from his comfortable rectory.
"But mamma said that Dr. Lowther was really much worse," she remarked.
Harry shrugged his shoulders and laughed, and at that moment, as they reached the top of a long hill, Mary uttered a joyful exclamation as the lights of Farley twinkled out in the broad green valley below.
The descent was rapid, and in about a quarter of an hour they passed over a picturesque old-fashioned bridge, and entered the straggling, irregular village street. The "Blue Anchor" stood with hospitable open door; then came the blacksmith's open shed, casting its red warmth and light out into the chilly evening; further on, the village shop, the centre of gossip and business in Farley. Cottages stood on either side of the road, some detached, some in blocks of two or three together. Harry drew rein at last before a little garden gate leading to a white-washed cottage not much above the labourers' dwellings by which it was surrounded; but it was home; the home of Mary's heart.
In a moment, she was at the open door—in the little passage—in the small square parlour—fond arms were round her, eager hands were freeing her from her cloak and shawl, all the dear voices were talking at once, and nobody listening to anybody! And when the first buzz of welcome subsided, it was more delightful still: when Mary had taken off her bonnet in the little room which she shared with Cilla, and had come down again to the sitting-room, and when Harry had returned from putting up the gig, and when Mr. Mackworth had come in from his parish work, and had added his affectionate greeting to that of the rest, then Mary gaily insisted on resuming old habits and performing all her old home duties—to try, as she said, to fancy that she had never been away. She lighted the candles, trimmed the fire, helped to spread the supper table, and afterwards to clear it away, and finally sat down, between her father and mother, and with Cilla, and Harry, and the two younger boys, close by, and talked and listened, enjoying the full tide of home talk.
The first interruption came when her boxes came, which was not until late, Dobson's progress, never rapid, having been further delayed by the number of Christmas hampers he had had to deliver.
​Mr. Mackworth said that Laurry and Jack—two sturdy brown creatures, ten and eight years old—had better help Harry to carry up the boxes, and that, as it was nine o'clock, they need not return: but Mary looked so piteous and imploring, and so earnestly begged that one box might be opened then and there, and that the boys might stay to help, that he gave way with a smile, and settled himself in his arm-chair to see what the box contained. The first things to emerge were the various small pieces of finery which Mary had bought for her sister; nothing very costly, but dainty trifles which Cilla was known to prize: a pair of kid gloves, a collar and cuffs of the latest fashion, a few bright ribbons, and such like feminilities, at sight of which the slight, pale, golden-haired girl coloured with pleasure, and Mary's eyes sparkled with pride and love. Then came Mrs. Mackworth's gift, the warm serviceable shawl which Mary hung over her mother's shoulders, and then drew back, admiringly, watching the long, soft folds which hung gracefully on the still elegant figure.
"You look so nice, mother dear," she said, kissing the worn face which had once been as lovely as Cilla's: "doesn't she now, papa? And isn't the shawl just like herself—so nice, and soft, and grey. I chose it out of the heap directly." There was a laugh at this: and Mrs. Mackworth returned her daughter's kiss, as she assured her that her rheumatic shoulders would be thanking her all the winter through.
Laurry and Jack were made happy with a ball and a peg-top: and Harry with much real satisfaction took possession of the knitted stockings in which Mary excelled. Then, rather timidly, for all his children stood in some awe of the curate, she laid her gift upon her father's knee. Mr. Mackworth put on his spectacles, and studied the title.
"My dear! This book has been my roc's egg ever since it came out. But Mary, my dear, this is a costly gift. Have you found Fortunatus's purse?"
"I'll tell you exactly how it was, papa." And she related the history of her long vain quest, and of the journey to Grueby's, and of the little adventure which had there befallen her. Everybody grew rather excited; and the boys began to make a series of not too brilliant jokes about the chivalrous unknown. It was plain, Harry averred, that he had fallen in love at first sight. Was Mary sure that he had not hung on behind to find out her address? Cilla joined in with small witticisms, but ended by a little laugh and toss peculiar to herself, and the remark: "But it's of no use, Harry! This dear old Goody won't make a heroine of romance! Not in your line, is it, Polly?"
"Ah! if it had been you now, Cilla!" cried Mary, laughing.
The curate, awaking from the study of his new possession, and becoming alive to the fact that his children were talking nonsense, ordered the little boys off to bed, and suggested that Mary's box might as well be removed.
As she stooped to close the lid, she exclaimed, "Here is this mysterious brown-paper parcel left at the bottom, and it had not any of your things in it. Cilla, after all. What can it be?"
She took it up, and was about to open it, when the sound of little shrill voices floated in on the frosty air, and the boys came tumbling down in extraordinary deshabille, to beg that they might stay up to hear the school-children singing Christmas carols. There was a rush to doors and windows, and Mary threw the parcel upon the table, and thought of it no more.
That was a delightful evening; and the midnight chat with Cilla was delightful too. But when Mary had insisted on the weary, eager girl ceasing her chatter and going to sleep, she herself lay awake for long hours, and her thoughts were not pleasant companions. Home was more dear, home faces were more beloved than ever; but coming to it all with a fresh eye and a matured mind, she saw, as she had never seen before, how the whole family was groaning under the heavy pressure of poverty.
"But that, at all events, I'll see to," thought she; "while I am at home Cilla and the dear mother shall always have something that they can eat: but how will it be when I am gone? Well! sufficient to the day is the evil thereof, and I have six whole weeks to spend at home." And comforted by this thought, Mary Mackworth slept soundly on this first night of her return.
CHAPTER III.
Troubles and cares had vanished like a dream of the night, when Mary awoke before dawn, to hear her own dear village bells pealing out their welcome to Christmas Eve, and awoke to the glad consciousness that she was really at home. "Rejoice in the Lord daily, and again I say rejoice," was the text that rose in her mind, setting itself to the tune of those joy-bells all the time she was dressing, with noiseless movements not to disturb the sleeping Cilla. Her morning prayer over, she stole downstairs, and betook herself to the kitchen, where the one sleepy little school-girl who formed the whole of the domestic staff was lighting the fire. When Mr. Mackworth came down, it was to hear his daughter's happy voice singing carols, as she bent all her energies to the arrangement of as tempting a breakfast as the simple materials were capable of making. Mrs. Mackworth, resting in the happy assurance that "her eldest" was now at home to see to everything, was able to enjoy an extra hour of well-earned rest. When Cilla appeared, shivering and miserable, long after every one else had begun breakfast, even her piteous little face brightened at sight of the daintily spread breakfast table and the good fire; and she condescended to express approval of the crisp toast which Mary had prepared for her. It never occurred to any one, apparently, that her appetite might have been better, and her hands and feet less frozen, if she likewise had been bestirring herself to help in the thousand and one household tasks which there were so few to perform. Mary would have been the last to entertain so sacrilegious and disloyal an idea; for, ever since she was herself a sturdy brown child of six, and Cilla a delicate golden-haired fairy of three, she had learnt to consider that hers was the useful, and her sister's the ornamental, department in life—a theory which the little lady herself had thoroughly adopted. It was as a matter of course that she sank after breakfast into the solitary arm-chair, with her feet on the fender, looking all that was graceful and pretty (in spite of rather untidy hair, and clothes which would have been the better for a little more brushing and mending) while her mother betook herself to her eternal mending of hose and clothes, and Mary flitted about, here, there, and everywhere, in her oldest dress, neat through all its shabbiness, rapidly and quietly establishing order and comfort, wherever she went.
There is no need to write in detail the history of the next few days. The curate's family came in for no Christmas gaieties, and for a very scanty amount of Christmas cheer: but they were busy in ministering to the comfort and pleasure of all the poor around them, and even Cilla roused up into fitful interest.
Each busy day was followed by a cheery evening. The curate would then rouse himself out of his usual gravity, and prove the truth of his children's old saying, that, when he liked, nobody could be such fun as papa. And Harry and Mary and Cilla all chattered at once, and the gentle mother smiled and listened, and Jack and Laurry got between everybody and the fire, and were ordered to bed, and refused to go: and altogether it was very pleasant. For whatever their faults might be, these people thoroughly loved and believed in each other, and even Cilla would with all her heart have endorsed the proverb, that "Home is Home, be it never so homely."
"Mary!" she exclaimed one darkening afternoon, nearly a week after Christmas Day: "here is this mysterious ​brown-paper parcel lying on the chimney-piece. I have been dying all this afternoon to open it. Wasn't I honourable not to do it?"
Mary had just returned from some parish visiting, and Cilla, who considered herself to have a cold, was lounging in the armchair with a novel which Mrs. Halroyd had lent her governess to read on the journey home.
"Oh! let us open it by all means," Mary said, "only I will light the candle first, and draw the curtains, my dear; you must be killing your eyes reading by fire-light!"
As she trimmed the fire, and proceeded to close the shutters and light the candle, Cilla seized the parcel and attacked the string. Of course she could not break it, and she began a raid on Mary's workbasket, but her sister stopped her. Not even to gratify Cilla's curiosity would Mary allow her best pair of scissors to be spoilt by cutting string.
"Particular old thing!" Cilla called her, with a little impatient shrug.
"But my dear, my best scissors! my only useable pair! If you'll wait one minute till I light the candle, I'll fetch a knife from the kitchen."
Cilla turned it in her mind whether to go herself, but gave up the idea with a shiver, and applied herself to unfastening the knots.
"What do you suppose it can be, Mary? A fairy godmother's gift perhaps—eh?"
"A wishing-cap," said Mary, laughing. "Oh! dear, what a useful possession that would be, Cilla. It shouldn't be a case of black puddings with us."
"Nice rooms and pretty things, and a pony carriage that I could drive myself," said Cilla, with a sigh through all her jesting speech.
"A living for papa, and a commission for Harry, and Harrow or Rugby for the boys!"
"And what for yourself? For your very own self?"
"Quite myself, and nobody else mixed up with it? Really, I don't know. I am very lucky, I think I have everything. Oh! I suppose I should give up governessing, if I were quite sure my dear old Archie would get somebody for his governess who wouldn't be cross to him over those sums of his."
"And to go to the Nettlehurst ball? Come, Polly, I've heard you wish for that."
"Ah! to be sure! I forgot: and to be quite convinced that my polite unknown did not catch cold. There, Cilla," as she finished putting the room into its usual evening trim, "your patience shall be rewarded! I am going to fetch a knife."
"No, you need not: I have undone this knot now: the first I ever undid in my life, I think. Now, Polly!"
Mary came and knelt by her as she broke the seals, and unwound the packthread. Out fell a tightly folded roll of thin white paper.
Cilla gave a little half-laughing cry of disappointment: but Mary knew better the look of the article, and she pounced on it with an exclamation of astonishment.
"Bank-notes! how strange! Where can they possibly come from? One, two, three, ten notes! Oh, Cilla, how wonderful!"
"What are they? Five-pound notes? Ten-pound notes?"
"Thousand pound notes! Ten of them, Cilla!" and the brown eyes looked as if they never would close again.
"A wishing-cap indeed!" cried Cilla.
Mary carried off the bank-notes to the dingy little second sitting-room, where her father was generally to be found at this hour: for under such tremendous circumstances, Saturday though it was, she ventured to interrupt his sermon.
Mr. Mackworth was as surprised as his daughter, but less bewildered, and considerably less excited.
"Has it not struck you, my dear, that this money may belong to the gentleman who was so polite to you? Don't you think it probable that he may have left it in the cab, and that you may have taken it out with your other parcels?"
"But, papa, would any one carry about ten thousand pounds in this way? And then forget it? It doesn't seem credible."
"It is the only explanation I can see, however. And I think we must try to draw up an advertisement for the Times, which the owner would understand and nobody else. And now give me these things, and let me finish my sermon in peace."
Mary obeyed; but her father called her back to caution her against talking on the subject before the children or the servant.
"It is just as well," he said, "that all the world should not know that we have ten thousand pounds locked up in my table drawer." So nothing was said about it during tea; but when the boys were gone to bed, little else was talked about, and everybody had some solution of the mystery to offer, in which nobody else could see any probability.
"We shall be like some of Miss Edgeworth's goody poor people," said Cilla; "we shall send back the bank-notes, and be re​warded for our integrity, and turn into a deserving family. Shan't we, Mary?"
"Or the unknown will assure us that he intended it as a delicate little attention to Mary, and will beg her acceptance of the token," said Harry.
"My dears," urged the curate, "we have had almost enough of that joke; family wit is all very well, but it becomes depressing when the sun is allowed to go down upon it."
"Has it depressed you, old Polly?" said her brother. "You are all in the downs this evening."
"Well, I think I am," said Mary. "If this money really belonged to that kind man, I can't bear to think what a scrape his good-nature must have got him into."
"His gross carelessness rather," said Mr. Mackworth; "probably some banker's clerk. No doubt he has lost his place for it. Serve him right, I should say."
The next day was Sunday, and the ladies of the family betook themselves to the school for the space of time between breakfast and church.
Harry and the little boys joined them at church, and Mary soon saw that her eldest brother was suffering under some unusual excitement. The moment the sermon was over, he was out of church like a shot, and she found him waiting at the door with a newspaper in his hand. He seized her arm, and drew her off a little way, among the tombstones, while he eagerly explained:
"Look here, Polly, it is such a queer go! I was looking over the paper old Murch lent us this morning, and I lit on this advertisement. Look."
Mary read:
"Five hundred pounds reward.
"Left in a Hansom cab, at the door of Grueby's Library, on the 21st ult.; a small brown paper parcel fastened with twine and with four seals in red wax, bearing the initials 'V. L.' in a monogram. Any one bringing the same with the contents intact to Messrs. Langley and Co's Bank, Lombard Street, City, or to the same Bank, High Street, Brigham, shall receive the above reward."
Before Harry and Mary had exchanged a word of comment, the curate was upon them, astonished and scandalised at seeing them apparently deep in the Times within the churchyard precincts. Mary gave him the paper, and pointed out the paragraph.
"That's a comfort," was his first exclamation: "now I am saved the trouble and expense of advertising. We must not lose a moment in restoring the money. I am doubtful whether it is not our duty to take it to Nettlehurst. I know Mr. Langley is there. It is not a very Sunday-like bit of business, but I can't bear to keep such a sum in our cottage with no proper lock-up place for it."
"Oh! by all means, papa," cried Mary, eagerly; "and might not I go with you? If that poor clerk has got into trouble, I might perhaps say something for him; at all events I might explain how it all happened; might I not?"
Mr. Mackworth decided that Mary's presence would be desirable, and they hastened home to eat a hurried dinner before setting out.
Evening service at Farley was not till six o'clock, so there was ample time for the walk to Nettlehurst, as both Mary and her father were quick walkers, and thought nothing of the three miles out, and three back, even in the dirt and gloom of a raw January afternoon. Mary was well defended from the weather, and enjoyed thoroughly the rare treat of a tête-à-tête with papa. The walk itself too was enjoyable. It lay through country which would have been lovely in summer and which was picturesque even in the dead of winter; the first part through flat green fields guarded by very impracticable stiles, and then they emerged into the road, which gradually mounted, until plantations and well-kept fences on each side of it showed that they were passing through some gentleman's grounds.
"Here is Nettlehurst," said Mr. Mackworth as, after following a low park wall for some distance, they found themselves close to tall iron gates, spick and span, and fresh and neat, as was the picturesque lodge, its trim garden, and the broad carriage drive. A woman, as tidy as everything else, in her Sunday garb, admitted them, and they walked on through well-kept plantations first, and then through a small park, somewhat dreary now, with its tufts of blackened heather and dead bracken. A flower-garden was laid out close to the house, which was a picturesque building, all gable ends. The flower-beds were tilled with branches of holly-evergreen, a device which neither Mary nor her father had ever seen before; and all along the south front of the house was a glittering conservatory giving a peep at gorgeous hues and graceful trailing forms, a welcome contrast to the bleak desolation of the ordinary out of door world.
"Very nice all this is," said the curate, approvingly; "you should have seen this place as I did in old Hathaway's time, when I was taking Morton's duty. Everything was going to wrack and ruin!"
​Their ring at the bell was answered by a tall footman, whose gorgeous appearance made Mary blush for her own splashed stockings and her father's threadbare coat. But he was affable, though "not sure that his master was at home," and on hearing that they came on business, he gave them over to a still more sublime personage out of livery, who, having taken Mr. Mackworth's card, conducted them through a small carpeted hall and long passage, and left them in the library.
CHAPTER IV.
It seemed to Mary Mackworth as if she had suddenly entered a different world: a world of soft carpets and sweet perfumes, and warm summer air: the sort of world which such creatures as Cilla ought naturally to inhabit, but which was quite out of keeping with her own muddy boots and dank cloak, and with the untidy state to which the winter wind had reduced her bonnet and hair. She was glad to see a mirror in which she could arrange those fluttering ribbons and rebellious locks. A very few touches made her feel tidy again, so she rested quite content, though not at all aware that she was looking much more than tidy, and that her three miles uphill walk, through wind and cold, had given a glow to her gipsy colouring, and a brightness to her clear dark eyes, which made her, for the moment, quite sparklingly pretty.
Her father walked to and fro, admiring and approving.
"Very nice! very nice! Thorough good taste this man must have. All new and fresh, and yet grafted so cleverly on the style of the old place, that there is no jarring in the fitness of things. And all the old books here, I see, and well cared for now! Not as it used to be in Hathaway's time, when it was enough to break one's heart to see the way in which they were used."
His speech, which was almost a soliloquy, broke off as the door opened, and Mary started to her feet and well-nigh exclaimed aloud with surprise, as she found herself face to face—not with the portly middle-aged banker whom she had expected to see,—but with her unknown friend, the hero of the Hansom cab!
The recognition was mutual, for he started and coloured almost as vehemently as Mary; while the curate, at a total loss to account for these manifestations, stared from one to the other in blank astonishment.
Mary was the first to recover self-possession. "I am very glad to see you," she said, holding out her hand. "Papa, this is the gentleman I told you of, who was so very kind to me when I was caught in the snow."
"I am very glad to have this opportunity of thanking you," said Mr. Mackworth, "and I must apologise too for paying you a business visit on Sunday: but I considered it a case of necessity. I think Mr. Langley advertised some days ago for a parcel which, I fear, must have been lost on the occasion when you were so good-natured to my daughter."
"Yes, I did advertise," said the gentleman. "I am Mr. Langley," he added with a smile, as he saw that both father and daughter looked bewildered. "I advertised and offered a reward. Five hundred pounds."
"The reward will not be necessary," said Mr. Mackworth, as he put his hand in his breast-pocket. "I beg your pardon," he added, hesitating, "perhaps I ought to ask you to describe the contents."
"Ten notes of one thousand pounds each. I can't tell you the relief of getting them back. Thank you a thousand times! It is much more than my carelessness deserves."
The curate held his tongue: if he had spoken his thoughts, he would have said "Just so!" Perhaps his face expressed something of the kind, for when the banknotes had been counted over and locked up, Mr. Langley attempted an apologetic sort of explanation.
"You mustn't suppose that I was such a fool as to leave the money in the cab while I went in at Grueby's," he said; "I thought it safer in my hand than in my pocket, and I had just put it on the seat before getting in when the sudden snow-storm attracted my attention,—and"—he hesitated.
"And then you were so kind as to take pity on me," said Mary, and the curate smiled as he murmured some commonplace about virtue not being its own reward.
"And now, Mary, my dear," he said to his daughter, "we had better be setting off homewards; it is getting dusk already, and we must be back for our evening service."
"Oh! no," said the banker, warmly; "do pray take a cup of tea before you go; my sister will be extremely glad to make your acquaintance. And you must really let me send you home in the brougham. I don't generally have it out on Sunday, really," he added, as he read some disapproval of the ready offer in the curate's face; "but this is an exceptional case—you said so yourself, and I do hope you will let me have the pleasure of sending you back in it."
​He spoke so very much as if he meant what he said, that Mr. Mackworth gave way, greatly to his daughter's satisfaction, and followed their host across the hall to a long drawing-room, fragrant with the sweet breath of the conservatory on which it opened. Here, as elsewhere, all was fresh and new: and on the walls were pictures which riveted her father in a moment. He had a great natural taste for art, and during a tour he had once made in Italy as tutor to a friend, that taste had been highly cultivated. His remarks showed such thorough knowledge and discrimination that Mr. Langley felt rather out of bis depth, and turned to Mary:
"Do you care for pictures?" he asked her.
"I care," she answered, " but I am quite ignorant about them. I know what I like, and that is all."
"And that is exactly my case," said Mr. Langley. "I know nothing else about them."
"You must have had excellent taste to begin with," Mr. Mackworth put in, "to select as you have selected. See, Mary," he added, pointing out one of Millais' gorgeous pieces of colouring; "is not this what you once described to me?"
"Oh! yes," cried Mary eagerly, as pleased as if she were greeting an old friend: "it was in the Royal Academy two years ago."
"Do you often go to the Royal Academy?" asked Mr. Langley.
"Whenever I can. Mrs. Halroyd likes her children to go sometimes, and then I take them. I am their governess," she said, in answer to Mr. Langley's inquiring look.
"I treat myself to an hour there, too, whenever I can; it does one good after a dull day's work."
"Oh! doesn't it?" said Mary: "I always think, after a few months in London, that one gets so weary of never seeing anything but what is ugly."
"You don't like London, I see," said Mr. Langley, smiling.
"Who can? I like the people I am with there—I am as happy as possible—but, as to London itself! I do so long for something green to look at: something really green and wild, not all prim and spoilt, like the parks."
"I believe," said her father, amused by her genuine earnestness, "that my daughter would have everybody agree that London is unfit for human habitation. Now I, on the contrary, think London life is one well worth the living."
At this moment, when the curate had given up his study of the pictures on account of the gathering darkness, tea made its appearance. Lamps were brought by one or two soft-treading servants, and a square table seemed to start from the large bow window, covered with shining silver, exquisite china, and the whitest of napery. Mary's perfect enjoyment was a little marred by her almost self-reproachful regret at being there instead of Cilla, and also by a slight degree of shyness which crept over her when the comfortable twilight no longer sheltered her. This feeling was rather increased by the entrance of a small pretty woman dressed in handsome half mourning, whom Mr. Langley introduced as "my sister, Mrs. Lester." He briefly explained to her the affair of the bank-notes, and she turned to Mary with warm thanks and expressions of the greatest relief.
"It is more than you deserve, Vincent," she said, shaking her head at her brother. And then she took her place at the table, and dispensed most welcome cups of tea; and the conversation grew so animated that both Mary and her father were sorry when the brougham was announced. As they rose to go, Mr. Langley came up to the curate rather nervously, and offered him something enclosed in an envelope.
"You must let me pay my debts," he said. Mr. Mackworth looked at him for a moment in bewilderment: then suddenly examined the packet, and tendered it back, shaking his head.
"But I really shall not feel satisfied unless I pay the reward, as I have publicly offered it—for your poor people, Mr. Mackworth," said the banker.
"For his penance, Mr. Mackworth, on moral grounds you ought to take it," interposed Mrs. Lester: "don't you think so?" She turned her agreeable face on Mary, who laughed and hazarded no opinion. To tell the truth, she would have had no objection at all to those five hundred pounds and the comfort they would bring to her mother and Cilla, the advantages to Harry, the addition to every one's well-being. No doubt papa was right, and she was low-minded and ignoble, but still!—so she said nothing, and her father rejoined:
"As to my poor people, if you like to spend the sum in charity, there are plenty of ways of doing so, which I am sure I need not point out to you. I thank you very much for your hospitality, and above all for the sight of those pictures: you don't know the treat it has been to me."
"You must come by daylight: this evening it was too dark to see them well," said Mr. Langley. "Will you not bring him?" he added, as he handed Mary to the carriage.
​"We shall be delighted," Mr. Mackworth answered for her; and the brougham drove off.
Of course the home party were in some excitement as to the visit at Nettlehurst; and after service, as all gathered round the fire, Mary was eagerly questioned and cross-questioned. The discovery that her unknown friend was the banker himself caused great amusement to the younger branches, and Mr. Mackworth gave a little sigh of resigned surprise at the folly of youth and womankind, when he found that even his wife seemed more interested in hearing all about Mr. Langley and his sister, than in what he had to say about that beautiful Millais, those exquisite Landseers, and that Madonna after Sassofer Zata, which he really almost thought must be an original.
The questions followed one another thick and fast; but perhaps Mary's answers were not quite so ready as usual: she described the house and grounds with animation, and drew a clever picture of Mrs. Lester, "a small, sharp, pretty little woman, with a face like a good-natured hawk;" but she had so little to say about Mr. Langley that Harry reproached her for ingratitude, and the fire of family wit kindled again, reducing the curate to fall back on one of his often repeated and most utterly disregarded injunctions: "My dears, do try to talk about things; not people."
"I suppose," Cilla suggested, as the evening drew to a close, "there is no chance of our being asked to the Nettlehurst ball."
Mary shook her head. "Though," she said, colouring a little and glancing at her father, "Mr. Langley did say he hoped we would come again."
"He was obliged to say that," Mr. Mackworth observed; " but I certainly shall not take him at his word: by this time tomorrow he will have forgotten our very existence."
"Oh, papa!" Mary looked so much aggrieved by this speech, that her mother glanced at her in surprise, and then said gently: "Darling, I wish you could go to this ball: it would be a great treat for you."
"Oh! I don't mind about that a bit, mamma," said Mary, rallying her spirits. "Come, Harry; you help me to go and get the supper. It is growing quite late."
At that same moment, Mr. Langley, sitting over his dessert with Mrs. Lester, had just said abruptly:
"Kate, I want you to call on the Mackworths and ask them to the ball."
"Call on them, of course I will; but as to the ball, Vincent, I wouldn't if I were you. Depend upon it they have no clothes for such an occasion."
"What does that matter? Surely they could do up a muslin gown or a something or other of some kind," said her brother with masculine vagueness. "Do call, Katie, and take them a card; won't you?"
"My dear! considering that the ball is yours, and I'm only a guest myself, you need not speak so imploringly," said Mrs. Lester, laughing. "Is it necessary to call on them to-morrow?"
"I suppose not."
There was a silence; then Mr. Langley got up and walked to the fire-place.
"I say, Kate, I wish you would though, if you don't mind."
"Wish I would do what? Oh! are you thinking about the Mackworths still? Of course, dear, I'll do exactly what you wish about it, and about asking them too."
"And, Kate. Don't ask them so that they feel bound to say no."
"You are wonderfully interested about these people, Vincent," she said, looking up at him.
"Well—isn't he an interesting man? And I have heard so much of the good he does at Farley. It would fare ill enough without him, for old Lowther scarcely ever goes near the place."
"Mr. Lowther is dying, is he not?"
"He is by way of being ill, but he has cried wolf so often, that he is sure to live for ever. People of that sort always do."
"I will call to-morrow," said Mrs. Lester, rising; "and, as to the ball, though I dare say they won't come, people like to be asked. However, to tell you the truth, we have quite girls enough already."
The Mackworths were spoken of no more that evening, but Mrs. Lester thought that she had never known her brother so silent and pre-occupied.
CHAPTER V.
The result of the above conversation was that, early in the afternoon of the following day, the village street of Farley was enlivened by the appearance of Mr. Langley's barouche, with Mrs. Lester inside. The powdered footman attached to this equipage, descending at the curate's door, gave such a succession of bangs with the rarely used knocker, that the whole house shook, and poor Mrs. Mackworth nearly jumped out of her chair. In another moment the open-eyed maid-servant had shown in Mrs. Lester: a mass of black velvet and white fur, so flowing and voluminous that the tiny square parlour seemed hardly large enough to contain her drapery.
Mrs. Mackworth, always gentle and self-possessed, was not at all discomposed by this apparition, nor by the consciousness of her own well-worn merino, and the ungainly basket of tattered garments, which lay, as usual, at her feet.
Mary was in the kitchen, her sleeves tucked up and her arms all over flour, engaged in the manufacture of certain cakes, the recipe for which she had obtained from Mrs. Halroyd's cook, and which were destined to tempt Cilla's fanciful appetite at supper. She was singing gaily at her work, when Cilla burst in, her pale cheeks flushed scarlet, her blue eyes dancing with excitement.
"Mary! Mary! What do you think? Mrs. Lester is here in the parlour with mamma—oh! my hair! my hair!"
"Oh! my cakes! my cakes!" said Mary; "however they're in a state that they can be left, luckily." And as soon as she could free her hands from flour, and divest herself of the great apron which defended her dress, she helped to arrange those bright tanglesome locks of Cilla's, which never would lie flat, but which happily looked all the prettier for disarray.
The sisters entered together to hear Mrs. Mackworth saying:
"It is very, very kind, and it would be a great pleasure to the girls, and my son too—but I don't know."
"I must get them to intercede," said Mrs. Lester, as she shook hands with Mary and gave a kind greeting to Cilla: "my brother has charged me to say how much he hopes you will all come to his ball on the 13th. Mrs. Mackworth says it is out of the question for herself or Mr. Mackworth; but as I tell her, I should be charmed to be your chaperone. Persuade her to let you come."
Mary and Cilla looked at each other, and never did two pair of eyes beam with greater delight. But then Mary glanced at her mother.
"If you don't mind our going, mamma, I can manage everything," said Mary, in a low voice.
The end of the discussion was that Mrs. Mackworth promised to consult her husband, and, if he gave his consent, to allow her daughters and son to go to this famous ball.
So when the curate came home in the evening, he found all his household in a state of feminine bustle; a snowy shower of muslin heaped on the sofa: and a bewildering mass of ribbons and tapes lying on the table. As he stood amazed at the door, Cilla danced up to him, all excitement, with the wonderful news that they were going to the Nettlehurst ball; Mary hastily adding that it depended on whether he liked them to do so.
"My dears, do you really wish to go? Won't you feel very much at a loss? You can't dance, any of you."
"Can't we, indeed?" cried Mary, "haven't I sat by and seen Carrie and Archie figuring away under Mr. Caracol, every Friday of my life for the last two years? I will undertake to coach Harry and Cilla—if we may, papa."
"But your clothes? Where is the money for them to come from?"
"I believe Mary is a conjurer," said her mother; "she produced all this finery at a moment's notice."
And then Mary began explaining how she had bought the white muslin some months before, when she found it necessary to have a best evening dress tor Carrie's birthday, and how, just as she had done so, Mrs. Halroyd had made her a present of another white muslin, ready made up, silk under skirt, and all.
"So the new muslin will just come in for Cilla, and she can have the silk petticoat," said Mary, eagerly; "and all this green ribbon, her own favourite green, will run under the muslin—all about—so. How lucky I brought it for her!"
​"And yourself, Mary?" asked the curate, who had listened with some amusement to this explanation.
"Oh! my dress will do up nicely: I can make it quite fresh with a little ironing and plaiting," said Mary, briskly. "Only say we may, papa!"
Though all papa said was "Foolish children!" it was said with a smile which made his daughters fly round him with kisses and delighted thanks.
A very pleasant little note from Mrs. Lester arrived a few days before the ball, hoping that they would allow the brougham to be sent for them, and reminding the sisters that they were to consider themselves in her charge for the evening.
At last came the great day itself; and a busy, bustling, happy day it was, such as young ladies who go habitually to two or three balls a night can form no idea of. Such a perpetual buzz of chatter and laughing went on, as would have driven the curate wild, but for his peculiar power of abstracting himself from what went on about him. But even he showed some interest when the girls made their appearance in the parlour early in the evening, ready dressed, in order that they might not keep the brougham one moment waiting.
Laurry and Jack, who had insisted on the unwonted extravagance of two pairs of candles, in order that their sisters' magnificence might appear to advantage, capered about in a high state of excitement, in dangerous proximity to the floating muslin robes.
"You really are worth looking at, I must say," cried Mr. Mackworth, smiling approvingly; while his wife's eyes glistened with pride at sight of her bright pair of girls.
"Doesn't Cilla look charming?" Mary cried, her eyes riveted on her sister: who certainly did look remarkably pretty in the white draperies, exquisitely fresh and crisp, as if the sewing and trimming had been performed by fairy fingers; wavy lines of green, pale yet bright, wandered about under the muslin, and peeped out more decidedly in the folds of the bodice; and a wreath of real holly encircled the small head, only the green, white-speckled leaves in front, and a few bright berries mixing with her soft, loose hair at the back, like coral set in gold. Mary's best care and skill had not been able to give her own often-worn dress quite the fresh, full sit of her sister's, but it was well made and appropriate, and a few bright dashes of holly trimmed it here and there, matching the wreath, in which, mindful of her own dark colouring, Mary had left a larger number of berries than she had allowed to Cilla. Nothing could have been more becoming than the rich full colour was to her; and at her openly expressed admiration of Cilla, the parents exchanged a smile which meant that Mary herself was by no means unworthy of being admired and sought after. Harry appeared to less advantage than his sisters. It was not in Mary's power to make his dress anything very first rate; and he was at the age when a lad is painfully conscious that he has ceased to be a boy, and is a very poor imitation of a man.
The brougham arrived, the trio started, and, after a rather nervous and silent drive through the dark lanes, entered the gates of Nettlehurst, and came in sight of the house, blazing with lights: the conservatory, with its coloured lamps and lovely flowers, looking like an enchanted palace.
The library was the reception-room, as the drawing-room was given up to the dancers. At the door stood Mrs. Lester, in the handsome black robes which she had never cast off since her early widowhood. Her cordial greeting set the fluttered girls at once at their ease. The brougham had been sent so early that they were almost the first arrivals. Very soon Mr. Langley joined them:
"I am so very glad to see you here," he said to Mary; "I was afraid Mr. Mackworth would not let you come now."
"He was very glad for us to have the pleasure," said Mary.
"Yes, but I feared that now perhaps he might change his mind. It would have been very cruel."
"But why should he?" asked Mary, bewildered.
"Have you not heard——?" Mr. Langley was beginning; but a fresh arrival called him away, and the guests began rapidly to assemble.
It was a great amusement to Mary to watch them, and to see so many people who had hitherto been only names to her. All the higher class of professional people from Brigham were the first to arrive: and a little later the county families, of whom there were many. Mary noticed with what marked cordiality they appeared to welcome the banker into their ranks, and her heart swelled with a feeling of pride, for which she laughed at herself, as she recalled all she had lately heard her father and brother say of the high reputation for honour, libera​lity, and public spirit which Mr. Langley had always borne.
"As if I had any right to feel proud of him!" she thought, and then glanced at Cilla, the real object of her pride; and a delightful vision began to float before her, dispersed in a moment as she remembered how papa would despise such castle building. Mrs. Lester did not forget her young charges: she had promised her brother to be kind to them, and she thoroughly fulfilled her promise. She had little difficulty in finding partners for two such attractive girls; and indeed when Cilla had once been noticed, her chaperone had numerous applications for an introduction. Mary's bright eyes danced with pleasure as she watched her sister, and Mrs. Lester looked at her often and with much interest.
"She is the nicest girl I ever saw in my life," Mrs. Lester thought: "and if it is to be, I won't forbid the banns. Still it would be a pity." And she glanced at her brother who was dancing with a very handsome girl, daughter to one of the county magnates.
It was not until late in the evening that Mr. Langley came up to Mary again.
Cilla, who had just been dancing, was resting on a seat, looking flushed and weary, but full of enjoyment. Mary had had her share of dancing too; Harry alone had found the evening rather slow.
"Won't you come and have something to eat? The hall is open now."
Mary and Mr. Langley passed into the conservatory, which opened also into the hall, now converted into a supper-room.
"What a crowd of people!" he said, pausing. "Don't you think it would be better to stay here among the orange-trees than to plunge into that hungry multitude? Shall I get you something? An ice?"
"If you please," said Mary, and they were soon comfortably established on two low green seats in the conservatory. The coloured lamps twinkled among the dark foliage, bright figures passed and repassed, a soft continuous ripple of voice and laughter mingled with the music from the ballroom.
"I have been trying to get near you all this evening, but I have been obliged to attend to so many people. I hope my sister has taken care of you."
"She has been so very kind, and my sister and I have enjoyed ourselves extremely."
"I suppose it is her first ball—and yours too. Is it?"
Mary laughed:
"Our first, and probably our last. You do not know what a treat you have given us: it was so very kind of you and Mrs. Lester to think of asking us."
"Kind?" he repeated, smiling; "it was very kind of you to come, I think."
"By-the-by," asked Mary, suddenly, "what did you mean by asking me if we had heard something?"
"You have not heard it, evidently," said Mr. Langley, hesitating. "I am sorry I said anything about it. Is there no second post at Farley?"
"Not unless we send to Brigham."
"That accounts for it; they wrote to tell me as soon as it happened. Poor old Dr. Lowther died yesterday morning."
Mary felt shocked.
"I had no idea he was really ill," she said in an awe-struck voice.
"It is the old story of boy and wolf," said Mr. Langley. "Poor old fellow! I really fancy he might have lived to ninety if he could have thought less about his health; but a man can't go on taking physic all his life without taking too much of it at last."
"Poor Dr. Lowther! I hardly knew him, but he used to be kind to us when we were little. Once he gave me a prayer-book. I wonder," Mary added, after a pause, "who our new rector will be!"
Mr. Langley hesitated. Mary looked up, and saw something in his face which made her fancy that her remark had been somehow mal-apropos.
"I beg your pardon," she said, instinctively.
"For what?" he asked, amused by her perplexity; "I only thought that perhaps you knew the Farley living to be in my gift. I bought it with the Nettlehurst estate. I hoped—I do hope—" Mr. Langley hesitated. "Do you think that Mr. Mackworth would kindly undertake the responsibility? He has long done all the work, I know."
Mary's breath was absolutely taken away by surprise and emotion. She looked up with a wondering, incredulous gaze: then tried to speak; then stopped, and nearly broke down altogether. Mr. Langley brought her a glass of water.
"I am ashamed of myself," she said, as soon as she could; then his looks of warm interest encouraging her to speak frankly, she went on. "But you don't know the relief! You don't know what life has been all these years for papa and mamma, Cilla and Harry. They will thank you better than ​I can." She held out her hand, looking up to him with glad tearful eyes. Mr. Langley pressed the hand warmly, as if the thanksgiving look had gone to his heart.
"Nobody need thank me, Heaven knows, except the people of Farley. What would they be without Mr. Mackworth? I believe the rectory is in pretty good repair, and the garden well kept up; but Mr. Mackworth and I must go over it together."
"It is perfect," said Mary, as a vision of the pleasant roomy house and bowery garden rose before her. "Thank you, thank you! You may think I care a great deal about money, but it is not that. It is such pain to see one's own dear people wanting anything, and not to be able to give it to them."
"You will, at all events, be freed from your slavery now, I hope," said Mr. Langley.
Mary looked surprised.
"I have nothing to complain of, though it will be nice to be at home of course, nicer than anything."
"A fine lad your brother is. Does he think of the church?"
"No, he wishes for the army, but lately he has been thinking of going into Mr. Bagshawe's office. He hated the idea, but he wouldn't trouble papa with making difficulties. He is so unselfish," said the sister, proudly. "But there will be no trouble about the army now, thanks to you."
Mr. Langley was touched by this simple girl's great idea of the capabilities of their new income.
"How should I feel?" he thought, "if I were obliged to live on nine hundred a year! Well; this lad's commission may be a means of paying my five hundred pounds."
"You will let me come to-morrow?" he said aloud: "I must see your father, and go over the rectory with him; and I shall see you too, shall I not?"
"Certainly," said Mary; "I don't go back to London until the 20th."
"And then only to say good-bye to it, I hope. A new dance is beginning, will you come?"
As Mary rose, she could not help saying, "I seem to have been talking of nothing but my home concerns."
"You could not have given me greater pleasure," was the answer. "Miss Mackworth, I must say it. Whatever happens hereafter, I shall never forget what I owe to that brown-paper parcel."
At night, when all the guests were gone, Mr. Langley, pacing the deserted conservatory with a cigar, mused much as follows.
"She is too grateful to me—by far too grateful. When she looked up at me with those innocent thankful eyes, I could hardly help speaking then and there: but I must wait till she forgets that I am something of a benefactor, and only remembers me as a friend. Please God, the best friend she will ever have! blessings on the fog, and on the snow, and on the brown-paper parcel, and on the hansom, and on everything else. And blessings on old Lowther, wherever he is now, for going off at the convenient moment! Well, to-morrow I shall see her again—those clear eyes that went straight to my heart in the cold and dark that day; and the sweet smile, and the earnest quiet mouth, worth all her sister's beauty, twenty thousand times! If her heart is not too full of father and mother, and sister and brothers, to leave one corner for me! Well, I must hope and try, and I shall see her again to-morrow."
And at the same hour, Mary, who kept her precious secret for the morrow to disclose, lying wakeful beside her sleeping sister, poured out her earnest thanksgivings for troubles over, and peace beginning.
"How kind he is!" she thought with tears. "How nicely he spoke of Harry! How he listened when I talked so much! How could I talk so much to a stranger? But somehow, I don't feel as if he were a stranger; I feel as if he must belong to us some day. Is that prophetic, I wonder! Is he to be the knight I have always dreamed of, who was to come and carry off my Cilla? May be. And yet, I don't know. There are some people in the world who seem too good for any one even for Cilla."
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
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