"She's reading somewhere," said Martha as they walked back, to find f.a.n.n.y standing by the gate, looking slightly flushed and very pretty, ready to smile and banter them for being away so long.

They soon ended the visit to the farm; for, after partaking of supper, and eating one of Brother William's own carefully grown lettuces, they walked slowly back, in the soft moist evening air, to the Rosery, when, during the leave-takings, Brother William said: "f.a.n.n.y, Martha's going to be my wife."

"Is she?" said f.a.n.n.y indifferently. "Oh!" And then to herself: "Poor things! What a common, ordinary-looking woman Martha is. And Brother William--Ah, what a degrading life this is!"

The degradation did not seem to affect the others, for Brother William's cheeks quite shone, and the high lights on Martha's two glossy smooth hands of hair seemed to be brighter than ever.

"Good-night," said Brother William. "Good-night, Martha."

"Good-night, William."

"You'll keep a sharp eye on f.a.n.n.y till I fetch you away; won't you?"

"I always do, William; but I'm afraid her eyes are sharper than mine."

"What do you mean?" he said quietly.

"I'm afraid she's got a sweetheart."

"Who is it?" said Brother William sternly.

"I don't know yet. Sometimes I think it's a real one, and sometimes I think it's all sham--only one out of her magazines that she talks about; but I'm not sure."

"Then look here, Martha: you've got to be sure," said Brother William, who was as business-like now as if he had been selling his hay. "You've got to make sure, and tell me, for I'm not going to have anybody play the fool with her. If any one does, there'll be something the matter somewhere;" and shaking his head very fiercely, Brother William strode away, giving a thump with his stick at every step along the road.

END OF VOLUME ONE.

Volume 2, Chapter I.

AUNT SOPHIA VISITS THE CITY.

Mr Fred. Saxby stopped in front of the Royal Exchange one morning to buy a rose, and spent some time in selecting it. Red ones would not do; yellow he despised. He wanted a delicate white rose, with a dash of blush pink upon its petals; and when he had discovered one, he made no scruple about paying the flower-girl sixpence and carrying it off with the greatest care to deposit in a gla.s.s upon his desk, for reasons known only to himself.

He had rather a busy morning in his close, cool, dark office, in a court out of Throgmorton Street--an office where the light of day had a struggle every morning to get down between two tall piles of building, and illumine the room, failing dismally seven or eight months out of the twelve, and leaving the stockbroker to the tender mercies of his gas company and the yellow flame that danced within a globe.

Mr Saxby's room was "as clean as hands could make it,"--the housekeeper's words--but all the same it did not seem clean. There was a dingy look about everything, excepting the rose he bought every morning, and himself. In one part of the room was a tiny machine, untouched save by electricity, which went on, unwinding, inking its letters and stamping mile after mile of tape-like paper, informing the reader the while that the shares of this railway were up, of that down; that foreign stocks had made this change, consols were at that, and so on, and so on, while the occupant of the office paid not the slightest heed, but divided his attention between the _Times_ and the rose.

Just in the midst of one of his most earnest inspections of the flower, during which he took a long soft inhalation of its odorous breath, a clerk entered with a card. "Miss Raleigh, sir."

"Bless my heart!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the stockbroker, hastily setting down the rose, for the act of smelling it had taken him down to a velvet lawn, sloping to the riverside; and upon that lawn he had seemed to see some one walking, wearing a similar rose; but it was not the lady who now entered, and of whom he had heard nothing since he warned her not to venture in the Cornish mine.

"Good-morning, Miss Raleigh," he exclaimed, placing a chair. "I hardly expected to see you."

"Why not?" said Aunt Sophia shortly. "Where did you expect I should go?"

"I hope you are well, ma'am, and--Sir James and Lady Scarlett?"

"No; I'm not well; I'm worried," said the lady. "Sir James and Lady Scarlett are both ill. Has--But never mind that now. Look here, Mr Saxby; you always give me very bad advice, and you seem determined not to let me get good interest for my money. Now, tell me this, sir. I have been receiving a great many circulars lately about different excellent investments; above all, several about gold mines in the north of India."

"So I suppose, ma'am," said Mr Saxby rubbing his hands softly.

"And I suppose you will say that they are not good; but here is one that I received yesterday which cannot fail to be right. I want some shares in that."

"And you won't have one, ma'am," said Mr Saxby, who was far more autocratic in his own office than at a friend's house.

"What! are they all sold?"

"Sold? Pooh! ma'am, hardly any. There are not many people lunatics enough to throw their money into an Indian gold mine."

"Saxby, you are the most obstinate, aggravating man I ever _did_ know.

Look here; will not these figures convince you?"

"No, ma'am; only make me more obstinate--more aggravating still."

"Then what do these figures mean?"

"Mean, madam? To trap spinster ladies with small incomes, half-pay officers, poor clergymen with miserable livings--the whole lot of poor genteel people, and those who like to dabble in investments--people who can't afford to lose, and people who can. Why, my dear madam, use your own judgment. If there were a safe fifteen per cent, there, the shares would be gone in one hour, and at a heavy premium the next."

"Humph!" said Aunt Sophia. "Of course you do all my nephew's business?"

"Yes, madam; it all comes here."

"You know what shares he holds?"

"I think so. Of course, he may have been to other brokers; but he would not have done so without good reason."

"As far as you can, then," said Aunt Sophia, "keep an eye upon what are sold, and I should like to be made acquainted with any sales that may take place."

"Well, really, my dear Miss Raleigh, such a proceeding--"

"Yes, yes, man; I know all about that; but you know to what a state he has been reduced. I love him like a son, and I--Now look here, Saxby; I'm telling you this, because I think you are an honest man."

"Well, I hope I am, ma'am."

"Then look here; I will speak out. I won't mention any names; but I am afraid that designing people are at work to get possession of some of his property, and I want it watched."

"Rather a serious charge, Miss Raleigh."

"Stuff and nonsense, man! Not half serious enough. Just look at this prospectus for a moment. There are some good names to it. I'll talk about those other matters afterwards."

Aunt Sophia fixed her double gla.s.ses upon her nose, and stared through them upon the neat and dapper stockbroker, who stared in return, and frowned, otherwise he would have laughed, for the spring of Aunt Sophia's _pince-nez_ was very strong, and its effect was to compress the organ upon which it rested, so that the ordinarily thin sharp point of the lady's nose was turned into a sickly-looking bulb, that was, to say the least, grotesque.

"Halt!" said Mr Saxby, reading quickly: "Society for the Elevation of the Human Race in large and Crowded Towns; patrons, the Right Hon.-- hum-ha-hum; his Grace the--hum-ha-hum; the Lord Bishop of--hum-ha-hum; directors--hum-ha-hum; M.P.--hum--Mr--hum,"--Mr Saxby's voice grew less and less distinct, becoming at last a continuance of the sound expressed in letters by _hum_, but he finished off sharply with: "Secretary, Mr Arthur Prayle!--Well, ma'am, and what of this?"

"What of it, Saxby? Why, wouldn't it be a most admirable thing to invest in a Society which will benefit my fellow-creatures and bring in a large percentage as well?"

"Admirable, my dear madam," said Saxby; "but you don't quite express the result."