"Eighty-six, so they say," replied Martin, "and I believe it, too; for I can remember him all my life nearly, and that's forty year."

"Has he been rector of Briarsleigh so long as that?" asked the other.

"Ay, that he have, and a kind good parson he's been too. Lord Rivers gave him this living a'most the first thing he did when he come to the estate at the old lord's death, and that was afore I was born."

"I'm afeard we shan't get such another as Parson Wentworth, whoever it may be."

"Well, he wasn't much of a preacher in his best days," was the reply, "and the curate ain't much better, though he's a good young man, but his sermons send me to sleep. You know there's lots of us go to the Wesleyan chapel; you can hear sermons there that wake a man up, and no mistake, though I like the Church prayers best, I'll own that."

"I've been to them Wesleyans once or twice, and what their parson said was very fine, but he made too much noise about it; and I don't like their ways and their singing nohow."

"Well, I like Church ways best too, and I a.s.sure you, Martin, it's made me quite miserable lately when I've been at church to see such a lot of empty pews. Why, if it hadn't been for my lord's family, and the servants and labourers from Englefield, there wouldn't have been twenty-five people in the church."

"Yes, I know, and that's why I sticks to it. I'm only one, but if I go, my wife and the children goes too, and so we make up half a dozen amongst us. Poor old parson, the poor'll miss him, sure enough."

"Well, Martin," replied his companion, whose education as well as the number of his farm acres surpa.s.sed greatly those of his neighbour, "we must hope that if the new parson gets the people back to the church, he will be kind to his poor parishioners also."

And then as farmer Martin turned into his own gate, his companion left him with a friendly farewell, and stepped on quickly towards his own home, which, though the neighbouring farm, was at least a quarter of a mile farther by the road.

From the rectory of Briarsleigh with its shrouded windows, and the homely conversation of two of the parishioners, we must lead the reader to a far different scene.

On the evening of the second day after the death of the rector of Briarsleigh, a family party were seated at dinner in the dining-room at Englefield, to which we have introduced the reader in a former chapter.

Of the five persons then seated at breakfast, two only are present now, Lord Rivers and his youngest daughter, Lady Dora, now Lady Dora Lennard.

Lady Mary Woodville, who has married a Scotch n.o.bleman, inherits her mother's delicate const.i.tution, and seldom visits Englefield. And that mother, Lady Rivers, whose gentle loving character had endeared her not only to her husband and children, but also to the lowliest worker on the estate, has pa.s.sed away from earth. Even now, after ten years, the memory of the gentle lady lives in the hearts of those who could claim no nearer tie to her than that of friend or servant.

Lord Woodville, the heir, is in London with his brother-in-law, Sir William Lennard, and thither his father and sister purpose following him on the morrow. A few intimate friends and relatives by marriage are present on this occasion, making a pleasant gathering of eight.

Lady Dora is seated at the head of the table, opposite to the earl. She has the same bright dark eyes and brunette complexion which made her brother Robert once call her a gipsy. The face and form have a matronly dignity and appearance very different from the lively girl of seventeen who was so interested in the marriage of f.a.n.n.y Franklyn; but the change is a decided improvement, and at thirty-three Lady Dora Lennard is a very handsome woman.

And the earl has changed since he paid a congratulatory visit to his old tutor on the marriage of his daughter; his hair is white as snow, but his eyes have lost none of their dark l.u.s.tre, and the finely cut features still preserve their delicate outline, and even at the age of sixty his form has lost none of its stately bearing.

The dinner has been removed, and the dessert in its rich and delicate china of green and gold has been placed on the table. The wine-gla.s.ses, finger-gla.s.ses, and decanters; the silver knives and forks, the polished damask of the tablecloth, and the prisms of the chandelier drops above it, glitter and sparkle in the light of many wax tapers. In that sombre yet n.o.ble room, with its carved oak panellings, its many and richly draped windows, chairs of mahogany and ebony, and a thick handsome carpet, beyond the bordering of which appears the oaken floor; the dinner-table, the dresses of the ladies, and the men-servants in their gay livery, form a dazzling spot of brightness by contrast.

It would seem as if nothing could enhance that brightness, yet a few moments proved the contrary. The door opened, and three children entered the room--a girl of twelve, a boy of ten, and a little one of six, who escaping from the hand of her nurse, and disregarding her elder sister's remonstrance, bounded across the room to the side of grandpapa.

"Well, Gipsy," said the earl, as he lifted the little girl on his knee, "who sent for you?"

"Mamma did," she replied; and then added quickly, "Grandpapa, I'm not a gipsy; I saw real gipsies to-day, and they are ugly; they wear red cloaks and old frocks, and the little girl gipsies have no shoes or stockings. I don't be dressed like that."

A general laugh followed this speech; most certainly the little fairy in white lace, blue morocco shoes, and silk socks was very unlike the children she described, at least in dress. But well might she claim the pet t.i.tle of "Gipsy Dora." The dark flashing eye, softened by its long eyelashes; the clear brunette complexion, through which the damask rose colour showed itself on the glowing cheek, and the long dark brown curls that fell round her dimpled shoulders, made her far more deserving of the name than her mother had ever been.

The sisters were dressed alike, but May, the elder, differed greatly from Dora in appearance; tall and slight, with blue eyes and fair hair, her gentle manner and delicate face showed a striking resemblance to the late Lady Rivers. The boy, who stood by his mother, his blue velvet tunic contrasting with her light silk dress, appeared a manly, spirited little fellow, yet neither so gipsy-like as one sister nor so fair as the other. So far as the change of conversation is concerned, we need only have introduced Gipsy Dora, excepting to add brightness to the picture in the earl's n.o.ble dining-room, which children on such occasions so often do.

"Papa," said Lady Dora, presently, "talking about gipsies reminds me of that morning so many years ago, when I read the notice of Miss Halford's marriage in the paper at Englefield Grange, and you gave me an imaginary cause for the origin of the word Englefield."

Lord Rivers smiled, but he did not reply.

"What was it, Rivers?" exclaimed an old squire, who with his wife and daughter were guests at the table. "I have often wondered myself at the singular t.i.tle."

"Most likely from Engle, or angle, a corner," said the earl, demurely, "the corner of a field being no doubt the earliest possession of my ancestors."

"Papa, that is worse than your other definition," cried his daughter; and then with her usual vivacity she related the conversation in which Lord Rivers had suggested that his family were descended from the gipsies.

"At all events, Mary and Willie are not gipsies," said the earl, quietly.

He was thinking of the other subject referred to by his daughter--the marriage of f.a.n.n.y Halford; and while those round the table were discussing the gipsy question with Lady Dora, his memory recalled the sad events that had occurred since that time in his own family, as well as in that of his old tutor. Many years had pa.s.sed after the visit of congratulation which he had paid to the residents at Englefield Grange on the occasion of f.a.n.n.y's marriage, before the earl visited Dr. Halford a second time. The health of Lady Rivers had rendered it necessary for her to reside in the south of France for years before her death, and on the return of Lord Rivers to England after that sad event he could not for a long period visit the friends of his youth who so well remembered the fair, gentle lady who became the earl's bride. He answered Dr.

Halford's sympathising letter, but it was not till he read in the _Times_ the notice of f.a.n.n.y Franklyn's death that he visited his old tutor again, and witnessed with sincere regret the effects of sorrow in the change and wreck of the friend of his boyhood, Clara Marston.

Henry Halford was on this occasion absent at Oxford, and the earl renewed his promise that the first living in his gift that fell vacant should be his. Of Mrs. Halford's death he had been informed in a letter from the bereaved husband; since then, in the very midst of the excitement occasioned by the tragic end of the second Mrs. Franklyn, an account of which appeared in the papers, he had also read Henry Halford's name in the list of ordinations by the Bishop of London.

Rapidly all these memories pa.s.sed through his mind, and he started almost perceptibly when Squire Hartley exclaimed--

"You've heard of Parson Wentworth's death, I suppose, Rivers?"

Opposite to the squire sat another guest, a bluff old colonel, also a neighbour of the earl's, who exclaimed--

"Heard of a living in his gift having become vacant, squire! What an unnecessary question! Why, man, the parson died on Sunday, and this is Wednesday! I for one shouldn't like to have to read all the letters on the subject, which Rivers has no doubt by this time received."

The earl glanced at his daughter. Lady Dora rose, and, accompanied by the ladies and her children, left the three gentlemen to themselves.

Then the squire made another attempt to introduce the subject so abruptly interrupted, by saying--

"I suppose the living of Briarsleigh is not already given away?"

"No indeed," was the reply, "although you are correct in your surmises, colonel, respecting the letters I have received; but I never decide hastily on such matters. Come, squire, help yourself, and pa.s.s the decanter," added the earl, in a tone far less serious; "and tell me how you have arranged about Henley's farm."

This reference stirred up the squire to descant on a personal matter with great gusto, and changed the subject.

The gentlemen did not delay to join the ladies in the drawing-room; indeed, very little time elapsed before the visitors had taken their departure. A drive of four or five miles is not very pleasant after ten o'clock on a cold spring night even in a close carriage. And yet how often is a visit of this kind followed by a drive home of even more than ten miles during a night in winter!

Lady Dora had taken leave of her guests, and finding herself alone in the drawing-room with her father, she approached him as he stood with his back to the fire in true English fashion, and said--

"Papa, I believe I understand why you dismissed me so suddenly from the table this evening."

The earl smiled as he replied--

"Well, my daughter, and what is it you understand?"

"Your intentions, papa. You mean to give the living of Briarsleigh to the son of your old tutor."

"I have some thoughts of doing so, Dora--at least of making him the offer, although I have had more than one letter on the subject."

"Has Dr. Halford written to you?"

"No, my dear, he is not a man likely to do so; yet I know the doctor's son is ordained. I saw his name in the list of ordinations. The old rector of Kilburn has given him a t.i.tle."

"Is this son the clever little boy you became acquainted with when you visited Dr. Halford after his daughter's marriage?"