'Have you made it up with him since?'

'I've never seen him since.'

'Haven't you written, then?'

'No. Where's the use? He never would understand me. He knows no more of the condition of my mind than he does of the other side of the moon. If I offered such, he would put aside all apology for my behaviour to him--repudiating himself, and telling me it was the wrath of an offended G.o.d, not of an earthly parent, I had to deprecate. If I told him I had only spoken against his false G.o.d--how far would that go to mend the matter, do you think?'

'Not far, I must allow. But I am very sorry.'

'I wouldn't care if I could be sure of anything--or even sure that, if I were sure, I shouldn't be mistaken.'

'I'm afraid you're very morbid, Charley.'

'Perhaps. But you cannot deny that my father is sure of things that you believe utterly false.'

'I suspect, however, that, if we were able to get a bird's-eye view of his mind and all its workings, we should discover that what he called a.s.surance was not the condition you would call such. You would find it was not the certainty you covet.'

'I _have_ thought of that, and it is my only comfort. But I am sick of the whole subject. See that cloud! Isn't it like Death on the pale horse? What fun it must be for the cherubs, on such a night as this, to go blowing the clouds into fantastic shapes with their trumpet cheeks!'

a.s.surance was ever what Charley wanted, and unhappily the sense of intellectual insecurity weakened his moral action.

Once more I reveal a haunting uneasiness in the expression of a hope that the ordered character of the conversation I have just set down may not render it incredible to my reader. I record the result alone. The talk itself was far more desultory, and in consequence of questions, objections, and explanations, divaricated much from the comparatively direct line I have endeavoured to give it here. In the hope of making my reader understand both Charley and myself, I have sought to make the winding and rough path straight and smooth.

CHAPTER x.x.xVI.

TAPESTRY.

Having heard what I was about at the Hall, Charley expressed a desire to take a share in my labours, especially as thereby he would be able to see more of his mother and sister. I took him straight to the book-rooms, and we were hard at work when Clara entered.

'Here is your old friend Charley Osborne,' I said. 'You remember Miss Coningham, Charley, I know.'

He advanced in what seemed a strangely embarra.s.sed--indeed, rather sheepish manner, altogether unlike his usual bearing. I attributed it to a doubt whether Clara would acknowledge their old acquaintance. On her part, she met him with some frankness, but I thought also a rather embarra.s.sed look, which was the more surprising as I had let her know he was coming. But they shook hands, and in a little while we were all chatting comfortably.

'Shall I go and tell Mrs...o...b..rne you are here?' she asked.

'Yes, if you please,' said Charley, and she went.

In a few minutes Mrs...o...b..rne and Mary entered. The meeting was full of affection, but to my eye looked like a meeting of the living and the dead in a dream--there was such an evident sadness in it, as if each was dimly aware that they met but in appearance, and were in reality far asunder. I could not doubt that however much they loved him, and however little they sympathized with his father's treatment of him, his mother and sister yet regarded him as separated from them by a great gulf--that of culpable unbelief. But they seemed therefore only the more anxious to please and serve him--their anxiety revealing itself in an eagerness painfully like the service offered to one whom the doctors had given up, and who may now have any indulgence he happens to fancy.

'I say, mother,' said Charley, who seemed to strive after an airier manner even than usual--'couldn't you come and help us? It would be so jolly!'

'No, my dear; I mustn't leave Lady Brotherton. That would be rude, you know. But I dare say Mary might.'

'Oh, please, mamma! I should like it so much--especially if Clara would stop! But perhaps Mr c.u.mbermede--we ought to have asked him first.'

'Yes--to be sure--he's the foreman,' said Charley. 'But he's not a bad fellow, and won't be disobliging. Only you must do as he tells you, or it'll be the worse for us all. _I_ know him.'

'I shall be delighted,' I said. 'I can give both the ladies plenty to do. Indeed I regard Miss Coningham as one of my hands already. Won't Miss Brotherton honour us to-day, Miss Coningham?'

'I will go and ask her,' said Clara.

They all withdrew. In a little while I had four a.s.sistants, and we got on famously. The carpenter had been hard at work, and the room next the armoury, the oak-panelling of which had shown considerable signs of decay, had been repaired, and the shelves, which were in tolerable condition, were now ready to receive their burden, and reflect the first rays of a dawning order.

Plenty of talk went on during the dusting and arranging of the books by their size, which was the first step towards a cosmos. There was a certain playful navete about Charley's manner and speech, when he was happy, which gave him an instant advantage with women, and even made the impression of wit where there was only grace. Although he was perfectly capable, however, of engaging to any extent in the _badinage_ which has ever been in place between young men and women since dawning humanity was first aware of a lovely difference, there was always a certain indescribable dignity about what he said which I now see could have come only from a _believing_ heart. I use the word advisedly, but would rather my reader should find what I mean than require me to explain it fully. Belief, to my mind, lies chiefly in the practical recognition of the high and pure.

Miss Brotherton looked considerably puzzled sometimes, and indeed out of her element. But her dignity had no chance with so many young people, and was compelled to thaw visibly; and while growing more friendly with the others, she could not avoid unbending towards me also, notwithstanding I was a neighbour and the son of a dairy-farmer.

Mary Osborne took little part in the fun beyond a smile, or in the more solid conversation beyond an a.s.sent or an ordinary remark. I did not find her very interesting. An onlooker would probably have said she lacked expression. But the stillness upon her face bore to me the shadow of a reproof. Perhaps it was only a want of sympathy with what was going on around her. Perhaps her soul was either far withdrawn from its present circ.u.mstances, or not yet awake to the general interests of life. There was little in the form or hue of her countenance to move admiration, beyond a complexion without spot. It was very fair and delicate, with little more colour in it than in the white rose, which but the faintest warmth redeems from dead whiteness. Her features were good in form, but in no way remarkable; her eyes were of the so-called hazel, which consists of a mingling of brown and green; her figure was good, but seemed unelastic, and she had nothing of her brother's gaiety or grace of movement or expression. I do not mean that either her motions or her speech was clumsy--there was simply nothing to remark in them beyond the absence of anything special. In a word, I did not find her interesting, save as the sister of my delightful Charley, and the sharer of his mother's griefs concerning him.

'If I had as good help in the afternoon,' I said, 'we should have all the books on the shelves to-night, and be able to set about a.s.sorting them to-morrow.'

'I am sorry I cannot come this afternoon,' said Miss Brotherton. 'I should have been most happy if I could. It is really very pleasant notwithstanding the dust. But Mrs...o...b..rne and mamma want me to go with them to Minstercombe. You will lunch with us to-day, won't you?' she added, turning to Charley.

'Thank you, Miss Brotherton,' he replied; 'I should have been delighted, but I am not my own master--I am c.u.mbermede's slave at present, and can eat and drink only when and where he chooses.'

'You _must_ stay with your mother, Charley,' I said. 'You cannot refuse Miss Brotherton.'

She could thereupon scarcely avoid extending the invitation to me, but I declined it on some pretext or other, and I was again, thanks to Lilith, back from my dinner before they had finished luncheon. The carriage was at the door when I rode up, and the moment I heard it drive away, I went to the dining-room to find my coadjutors. The only person there was Miss Pease. A thought struck me.

'Won't you come and help us, Miss Pease?' I said. 'I have lost one of my a.s.sistants, and I am very anxious to get the room we are at now so far finished to-night.'

A smile found its way to her cold eyes, and set the blue sparkling for one briefest moment.

'It is very kind of you, Mr c.u.mbermede, but--'

'Kind!' I exclaimed--'I want your help, Miss Pease.'

'I'm afraid--'

'Lady Brotherton can't want you now. Do oblige me. You will find it fun.'

She smiled outright--evidently at the fancy of any relation between her and fun.

'Do go and put a cap on, and a cotton dress, and come,' I persisted.

Without another word she left the room. I was still alone in the library when she came to me, and having shown her what I wanted, we were already busy when the rest arrived.

'Oh, Peasey! Are you there?' said Clara, as she entered--not unkindly.

'I have got a subst.i.tute for Miss Brotherton, you see, Clara--Miss Coningham--I beg your pardon.'

'There's no occasion to beg my pardon. Why shouldn't you call me Clara if you like? It _is_ my name.'

'Charley might be taking the same liberty,' I returned, extemporizing a reason.