CHAPTER VIII

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THE STRANGER WITHIN THE GATE.

The young man had been many days under our roof, and we knew no more of him than at the first; yet the mystery but deepened our interest in him. A handsome, fashionably dressed young man, and a fine bay horse, do not disappear out of the world every day with not a soul apparently to seek after them, or inquire of their fate. We discussed the matter at every meal. We were so much interested, indeed, that we kept more to the house than of old; and the boys had pleasure and exercise enough in cantering the stranger's horse up and down the long avenue; for the fine spirited brute soon grew hot-blooded in the stable, and he would have kicked the crazy stalls to pieces if his spirits had not had some vent.

One or other of us was always stealing in on tiptoe to the high, light room, where Oona sat sewing, her face looking very important in the shadow of her huge frilled cap.

"How is he now, Oona?" we would ask, and Oona would answer, "No better and no worse"; and then, with a glance at the rigid young face on the pillows, we would steal out again.

But the third day I found Esther sitting, in a familiar attitude of hers, on the rug at Oona's feet, with an open book on her knee, and her eyes gazing into the heart of the fire. Esther had been very silent while we gabbled about the young stranger's identity; she was never one to talk much. Yet I could see that she listened eagerly for the doctor's verdict every morning when he would come tramping down to Aline's room after visiting his patient. She did not seem quite the old Esther in those days. She had an absent manner, which no one seemed to notice but myself, and she looked a little pale, and had dark rings about her eyes, as if she did not sleep well at night.

On the sixth day the young man began to come back to life again. So Esther told us when she came gliding into her place at the breakfast-table. She had spoken to Oona outside the door, and Oona had told her. She looked glad and excited, and I felt that pity for the young stranger had been troubling her of late more than the rest of us.

Still, even when the young man was conscious, Dr. Rivers enjoined absolute quiet. We were not to trouble yet about people who might be sorrowing for his absence. As he got better he would remember of himself, and let us know.

Aline was now the only visitor to the sick-room. The sick man seemed to have got as used to her face and Oona's as if he had always known them. Aline told us that he showed pleasure in her visits, and I think that, half unknown to herself, in those days she began to lay the foundation of a warm affection for the boy, in whose case Pierce might have been.

At last he was well enough to ask her to write a letter for him. It was to his grandfather, an English clergyman, and told him in the briefest possible way, for he was not equal to much thought, about his fall, and that he was steadily recovering, so that there was no cause for anxiety.

Aline came downstairs with the letter in her hand, and when I came in from the stables, where I had been giving the bay an apple, I found her standing by the hall-table, gazing at the envelope with a puzzled line between her eyes.

"Come here, Hilda," she said, "and tell me if you have any associations with this name."

I took the letter from her hand. It was addressed to the Rev. Henry Vane, Wrixmundham Rectory, Warwickshire.

"No; I'm sure I haven't," I replied. "Never heard of a Vane before in my life, except Cromwell's Sir Harry. Perhaps you are thinking of him."

"No; I don't think so," said Aline, putting the letter into the tattered basket which served us for post-bag. "I suppose I must have only fancied it, but I certainly did seem to have heard the name before."

I often looked towards Angry in those days, and thought how hard-hearted Sir Rupert must be never to have concerned himself about his grandson's fate. It was probably true that, as people said, he hated the boy, as he had hated his mother and his father, though the latter was his own flesh and blood. Well, I was glad that in his weakness and need the poor boy was in Oona's motherly hands, rather than at the mercy of that pair of old wretches over yonder. I had him on my conscience somehow since I had made that foolish speech, which had hardly left my mouth before the accident occurred.

The rest of the household seemed to think that the mystery was solved. Our visitor was an Englishman, come over for the hunting probably, as many did every year, and whose headquarters were at some inn or other, and that was all.

Meanwhile he progressed slowly, but quite to Dr. Rivers' satisfaction. Presently he was able to come downstairs for longer and longer intervals. At first he leant on the boys as he made the journey, but after a time he was able to manage with my stick and the help of the banisters. I don't think any of us ever asked ourselves when he would be well enough to go, though he must be a strain on our resources. He looked so gentle and so young, and his manner was so grateful, that we all grew quite fond of him. And yet we had never heard his name. The omission did not seem to strike him, and it did not occur to any of us to ask him.

One day Esther suggested shyly to Aline that we should read to our guest and play to him, to relieve the tedium of his invalidism. Aline assented heartily, and made the suggestion to him when he was established on the sofa for the afternoon.

"We have no newspapers," she said, laughing, "except the _Lissycasey Leader_, and our magazines are thirty years old, but there are some novels and poetry. Or if you do not care for reading, Esther will play to you, but the piano has not been tuned for years."

He lifted up his eyes, which had begun to smile again, though they were hollow.

"I should like the poetry if Miss Hilda or Miss Esther will be so good as to read to me."

I brought down my old Tennyson and selected Maud, which I love best of all the poems. I read on in a silence only broken by the crackling of the logs in the grate. Aline had left us, and Esther had gone over to the fire, and was sitting on the old sheep-skin rug, with her arms leaning on a chair, propping her cheek. Outside there were blue skies and keen frost, and the room with its painted wreaths on the wall, and the faded old brocade of curtains and chair-covers, looked warm and pleasant.

"I have led her home, my love, my only friend; There is none like her, none. And never yet so warmly ran my blood, And sweetly, on and on, Calming itself to the long-wished-for end, Full to the banks, close on the promised good.

"None like her, none. Just now the dry-tongued laurels' pattering talk Seemed her light foot along the garden walk, And shook my heart to think she comes once more; But even then I heard her close the door; The gates of Heaven are closed and she is gone.

"There is none like her, none, Nor will be when our summers have deceased. O, art thou sighing for Lebanon; In the long breeze that streams to thy delicious East, Sighing for Lebanon. Dark cedar, though thy limbs have here increased Upon a pastoral slope as fair, And looking to the South, and fed With honeyed rain and delicate air, And haunted by the starry head Of her whose gentle will has changed my fate, And made my life a perfumed altar-flame."

When I had read so far, a sense of something electrical in the room made me look up suddenly from the page. The invalid had lifted himself a little on his elbow, and was gazing at my sister's lovely unconscious face, with such a curious intentness and yearning that I felt a shock of surprise and consternation. As my voice ceased he fell back on his pillow, and at the same moment Esther turned slowly like one waking.

"Oh, do go on, Hilda," she said; "it is lovely!"

I read on, but no more forgot myself in the poem. My thoughts were perturbed. Was it possible that my foolish speech the other day could come true? Was there really such a thing as love at first sight? And if the young fellow was in love with Esther, and if she should respond to him, how would things be? The hereditary enemy--why, it would be Romeo and Juliet over again.

The romance of it fluttered my pulses a little, but I have a certain measure of plain common-sense, which Esther has not, where it is a question of romance. I didn't see how such a love affair could end happily, for Sir Rupert would move heaven and earth to keep his grandson from marrying a Brandon, and no doubt the young fellow was dependent on him till his death.

These thoughts came between me and the page. I knew I was reading badly, for the invalid sighed once or twice uneasily, and even Esther turned and looked at me in wonder. At last I went over and put the

## book into her lap.

"Go on, Essie," said I, "I am tired."

I wanted to go and tell Aline who I guessed the stranger to be, as I ought to have done at first when I suspected it.

"Do you know, Aline," I cried, bursting in on her where she was sitting with a huge pile of mending beside her, "I believe I've guessed who our visitor is."

"Indeed, Hilda! And who is he?"

"Why, Sir Rupert's grandson."

Aline dropped her piece of mending, and stared at me aghast.

"Why should you think so, Hilda? He hasn't told you?"

"I've been putting two and two together, and I think we are a parcel of dunderheads not to have thought of it before. Don't you remember that the boys told us, a couple of days before the accident, that Sir Rupert's grandson had come home, and about the horse following? Then who in the world would be so unnatural as to make no inquiries after the boy except that same horrid old Sir Rupert?"

"You are probably right, Hilda. I wonder we didn't think of it. And that, of course, was why I thought I recognized his grandfather's name. Of course his mother's name was Mary Vane. I remember now to have heard it from our own dear mother."

"It is plain enough to me," I said. "I only wonder we didn't think of it all along."

"Ah, you see you are the wise Hilda! But it wouldn't have made any difference. We couldn't have let him die outside our walls if he were twenty times our hereditary enemy."

"Which he hardly is."

"No, poor boy," said Aline, a little sorrowfully, I thought. "He surely is not. Clearly, he knows nothing about the feud or he would have recognized our name as soon as he heard it."

"If he knew, I don't suppose it would make any difference," said I; "those musty old hatreds can't go on for ever."

"I don't believe any ever existed, except in Sir Rupert's heart. I know our grandfather, whom he had wronged deeply, forgave him fully, and, when he spoke of him in his latter days, wept, I have heard, because at one time he had thought of him like a brother, and, being the good man he was, the old affection had come back."

"You will ask him, I suppose, if we are not right?"

"Oh yes, I shall ask him! but it can make no difference at present. Here he must stay till he is fit to go, and I shall make that plain to him."

"But afterwards?"

"Afterwards?" said Aline, looking sad. "I fear we shall see no more of him. By the way, I left you reading to him."

"Yes, I handed over the reading to Esther when I felt I had to come and tell you."

"Better go back now, dear Hilda," she said gently. "Of course it must make no difference in our treatment of him while he stays, but we must remember that when he goes, he goes finally."

From this I guessed that she, too, had a vague uneasiness about Esther.

When I opened the door of the room and went in, I saw that the reading had evidently been over for some time. Tennyson lay on the floor unheeded, and the two were talking like old friends. The boy looked flushed and happy and a little shy. Esther, more unconscious, was listening to his talk at her ease, but evidently much interested.

"We have been talking, Miss Hilda," said the boy. "Your sister disclaimed any idea of reading poetry after you, so we talked instead; at least I talked, all about myself, and your sister listened."

"Essie is always a good listener," said I absently.

Presently Aline came in to pay the invalid her usual afternoon visit. I was relieved when, a minute or two afterwards, Esther went out. Somehow I wanted to tell her first, not to have it sprung on her suddenly, that the young stranger was one we must not permit ourselves to like.

After a few commonplace phrases had been spoken, Aline said:

"By the way, it is a little odd that we don't yet know your name. It hasn't struck you that we have no name to call you by?"

The young fellow blushed and laughed.

"By Jove, how stupid of me! It never struck me that all your goodness was shown to a man whose name actually you were in ignorance of. I am Harry De Lacy."

"Sir Rupert De Lacy's grandson?"

"Yes. Do you know him? But I don't suppose you do. He is like an ogre shut up in his castle; but you will know of him by repute. He was rather a shock to me, Miss Brandon, for my dear old grandfather in Warwickshire had not at all prepared me for him. He is rather odd, you know."

"Perhaps your English grandfather did not know," said Aline with her face averted.

"Perhaps not. I know they haven't met for years. I always understood that they weren't very good friends, but my English grandfather is not one to rub it in. He probably thought that Time would have changed Sir Rupert."

"Else he would hardly have let you come."

"There was no question of letting. He would have thought it my duty. Beyond that, I think he could scarcely bear me to leave him. But still he could have had no idea of the difference," said the lad impulsively.

"The difference?"

"Between what I had been used to and what I was coming to. He is a saint if ever there was one. I have been brought up there from babyhood, in an atmosphere of peace and love for God and man. Within these four walls I have never heard a rough word. We lived not in luxury, indeed, for so much is given to the poor, but in refinement, and among books and pictures, and all beautiful things. And then to come to Castle Angry--"

He broke off abruptly.

"Miss Brandon, I am talking freely to you, but do you think my grandfather--Sir Rupert, I mean--is mad?"

Aline did not answer at once. Knowing, as we do, Sir Rupert's wickedness, she found it difficult to speak of him to his heir, who apparently knew nothing. At last she answered, looking down:

"Perhaps he is. Only God knows."

"I found the place so filthy," he went on excitedly; "why, a decent kennel would be sweeter and cleaner. The floors are rotting, the plaster falling from the walls and ceiling; everything is going to pieces with damp and neglect. It is horrible, horrible!"

"Poor boy!" said Aline, turning her large limpid eyes upon him; "poor boy!"

The tears suddenly started into his eyes. He was still weak, of course, from his illness, and was likely to be for a long time.

"It isn't the ruin and dirt and discomfort--it is--other things. I believe my poor grandfather is mad, and that fellow Gaskin, his bailiff,--if ever I saw scoundrelism in a human being it is in that fellow. I flogged him soundly the first day I was at Castle Angry. I found him savagely ill-treating one of those wretched dogs, which he had taken care to tie up securely first."

"Oh!" said Aline in a low voice, which, I am afraid, trembled with pleasure. "And what did your grandfather say when he heard?"

"He came out in the middle of it, and roared with laughter. Gaskin was cutting capers to make anyone laugh if the thing hadn't been so sickening. He's a coward too. He slunk off as gray as lead when I let him go. It made me feel that to flog such a creature was degradation."

"Oh no," cried Aline, "surely not! It was right to make him feel something of the pain he had inflicted. Still, you must be careful of the man. I am sure he would make a dangerous enemy. But perhaps you will not go back to Castle Angry when you leave us. You will return to Warwickshire?"

A cloud came over his face.

"I think not; my place is here. My grandfather is very old, Miss Brandon, older than anyone would think. His age will find him out suddenly, as age does with people who have defied it beyond the natural time. He will want me then, even if he does not want me now. Think of him, old and alone, with Gaskin, in that isolated house! No, I shall stay."

"You will be right," said Aline slowly. "But it is a heavy burden for young shoulders. May God protect the right!"

He looked at her gratefully. Then, with a sudden impulse he took up a fold of her skirt and kissed it, and Aline put her hand on his head as if she were blessing him. They seemed to have forgotten me, so I just came out of my corner and extended a hand to him, which he took and pressed warmly.

That night when I was going to bed Aline called me into her room.

"Do you know, Hilda," she said, "I never thought of telling him, after all, that he was the hereditary enemy."

"No more you didn't," said I cheerfully.

Aline looked at me, and then smiled broadly.

"You didn't conduct the interview on those grounds at all," said I; but all the same I felt that there might be a serious side to the matter.

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