LITMIR.BIZ

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was the awful answer.

      The young people knew what that meant. When Temperance said “Dear heart!” she was just a little surprised or put out; when it was “Lancaster and Derby!” she was very much astonished or provoked; but when she supplicated the help of “Northumberland, Cumberland, Westmoreland, and Durham!” it meant from Aunt Temperance what swearing would from any one else.

      “I should like to know, if you please, Mr. Aubrey Louvaine, whether you are a king, a sick woman, or a baby?”

      “Well, Aunt, I don’t think I am any of them at present.”

      “Then you have no business to ride in a caroche till you are. I never heard of such a thing in my life. A man to ride in a caroche! We shall have them hemming handkerchiefs to-morrow.”

      “You won’t have me,” said Aubrey.

      “I won’t have you in there,” retorted Temperance bluntly, “without my Lady Lettice call you in, and that she won’t. Will you, Madam?”

      “Certainly not, my dear, after your decision,” she replied. “Indeed, I do think it too effeminate for men, persons of high honour except, or them that are sick and infirm.”

      “That rascal’s not sick, any more than he’s a person of honour.—Thee bestride thy horse, lad—without thou canst find an ass, which would suit with thee better.—Now, Hans, come and help me to mount.”

      When all were mounted, the six great horses tugged and strained at the big coach, and with a good push from the four farm-servants, it moved forwards, at first slowly, then faster. The farm-servants stood bareheaded, to see the family depart, crying, “God bless you, my Lady, and bring you home in peace!”

      Faith sank back sobbing into the corner, and there were tears in Edith’s eyes which she would not let fall.

      “Farewell!” said Lady Louvaine, leaning forward. “Farewell, my good, kind old friends—Thomas, William, Isaac, and Gideon—I wish you God’s blessing, and a better head than I.”

      “Nay, nay, that’ll ne’er be, nor couldn’t, no wise!” cried old Gideon, and the rest all echoed his “Nay, nay!”

      “Farewell!” said his mistress again, somewhat faintly, as she sank back into the corner. “Friends, God will bless me, and He shall bring me home in peace.”

      Note 1. The thrum is the fringed end of a weaver’s web; a thrum hat was made of very coarse tufted woollen cloth.

      Note 2. This was quite a common occurrence at that time, when men-servants were usually better educated, and ladies and gentlemen much less so, than now.

Chapter Two.

       Table of Contents

      The Journey to London.

      “And yet, I do remember, some dim sense

       Of vague presentiment

       Swept o’er me, as beyond the gates we turned

       To make the long descent.”

      At the bridge-end, as they came up, were Milisent and her husband, with seven of their nine children—even little Fortune, but five years old, whom Milisent lifted into the coach and set on her Aunt Edith’s knee, saying “she should say all her life that she had sat in my Lord Dilston’s earache.” Then Milisent came in herself and sat down for a moment between her mother and Faith, whilst her husband talked with Aubrey, and all the children crowded about Hans, always a favourite with children. After a few minutes’ conversation, Robert came up to the coach-door with—“Time to go, Milly. We must not tarry Mother on her journey, for she is like to be weary enough ere she come to its end.”

      Then Milisent broke down, and threw her arms around her mother, and cried—“O Mother, Mother, how shall I do without you? Must I never see you again?”

      “My Milisent,” said Lady Louvaine, “I shall not carry God from thee. And thou wilt surely see me again, sweet heart, where we shall part no more for ever.”

      For a few minutes Milisent wept as if her heart would break; then she wiped her eyes, and kissed them all round, only breaking down a little again when she came to her sister Edith.

      “O Edith, darling sister, I never loved thee half well enough!”

      Edith was calm now. “Send me the other half in thy letters, Milly,” she replied, “and I will return it to thee.”

      “Ay, we can write betimes,” said Milisent, looking a little comforted. Then to her niece—“Now, Lettice, I look to thee for all the news. The first day of every month shall we begin to look out for a letter at Mere Lea; and if my sister cannot write, then must thou. Have a care!”

      “So I will, Aunt,” said Lettice.

      Milisent alighted with a rather brighter look—she was not wont to look any thing but bright—Robert took his leave and then came all the cousins pouring in to say good-bye. So the farewells were spoken, and they went on their journey; but as far as they could see until hidden by the hill round which they drove, Milisent’s handkerchief was waving after them.

      Lady Louvaine bore the journey better than her daughters had feared; and our friends deemed themselves very happy that during the whole of it, they were not once overturned, and only four times stuck in the mud. At the end of the fourth day, which was Friday, they came up to the door of the Hill House at Minster Lovel. And as they lumbered round the sweep with their six horses, Edith cried joyously—“Oh, there’s old Rebecca!”

      To Edith Louvaine, a visit to the Hill House was in a sense coming home, for its owner, her father’s cousin, Joyce Morrell, had been to her almost a second mother. When people paid distant visits in the sixteenth century, it was not for a week’s stay, but for half a year, or at least a quarter. During many years it had been the custom that visits of this length should be exchanged between Selwick Hall and the Hill House at Minster Lovel alternately, at the close of every two years. But Edith, who was Aunt Joyce’s special favourite, had paid now and then a visit between-times; and when, as years and infirmities increased, the meetings were obliged to cease for the elders, Edith’s yearly stay of three or four months with the old and lonely cousin had become an institution instead of them. Her feeling, therefore, was much like that of a daughter of the house introducing her relatives to her own home; for Lady Louvaine was the only other of the party to whom the Hill House had been familiar in old times.

      Its owner, the once active and energetic old lady, now confined to her couch by partial paralysis, had been called Aunt Joyce by the Louvaines of the second generation ever since their remembrance lasted. To the younger ones, however, she was a stranger; and they watched with curious eyes their Aunt Edith’s affectionate greeting of the old servant Rebecca, who had guarded and amused her as a baby, and loved her as a girl. Rebecca, on her part, was equally glad to see her.

      “Run you in, Mrs. Edith, my dear,” said she; “you’ll find the mistress in the Credence Chamber. Eh, she has wearied for you!—Good evening, Madam, and I’m fain to see your Ladyship again. Would you please to allow of my help in ’lighting?”

      While Rebecca and Hans assisted her mother to descend, Edith ran into the house with as light and fleet a step as if she were fourteen instead of forty, and entered a large, low chamber, hung with dark leather hangings, stamped in gold, where a bright lamp burned on a little table, and on a low couch beside it lay an old lady, covered over with a fur coverlet. She had a pleasant, kindly old face, with fresh rose-colour in her cheeks, and snow-white hair; and her face lighted up when she saw Edith, like a candle set in a dark window. Edith ran to her, and cast her arms about her, and she said, “My Edith, mine own dear child!” as tenderly as if she had been her own mother.

      Lady Louvaine followed her daughter, leaning on Hans and Rebecca, who took

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