"Well, I should think you are cured now, my poor Joseph!" said his brother presently.

"Of what, in heaven's name?" said poor Mr. Joseph. "By Jove to think--to think of some men, George! What had I done, what had I done?"

"I do think of them," said Mr. Foxley gravely. "I do think of them.

And but for my happiness here," touching Mildred's dress reverently, "I could wish--" wistfully, "That we had never come here--'twas I who brought you my poor Joseph, 'twas I, 'twas I."

"Oh! that's rubbish!" p.r.o.nounced Mr. Joseph energetically. "The main point is now, how am I to get my living. G.o.d! I am perfectly useless!

They won't take me back in town there."

"Dear Mr. Joseph," said Mildred, with her eyes shining on the brother of her lover. "You will live with us of course, with--Dacre, Dacre and me, and my aunt. We all love you--see," and Milly rose, first pressing Mr.

George's fingers as they touched her dress in pa.s.sing and giving him a look which was meant to keep him in order for a few moments, "no one can nurse you as well as I can--ask Dacre--let me take off that bandage and put it on again more comfortably for you! Will you, dear Mr. Joseph?"

Mr. Joseph groaned and hid his face against Milly's heaving breast.

"She is to be your angel as well as mine, perhaps," murmured his brother.

"I have always been so active," groaned poor Mr. Joseph, "What is to become of me? To live here with you would have been beautiful, but now--the simple thought of existence at all anywhere is unbearable! And the money--good G.o.d, George, how can I Help giving way!"

Some few other such scenes had naturally to be gone through before any course could be suggested to Mr. Joseph. Mrs. c.o.x had been taken into confidence, and Farmer Wise made to understand that nothing must be said about the unhappy affair. Mr. Joseph wrote into town explaining in some way his resignation of the rather important clerkship he had but just begun to fill creditably, and sending for all his belongings took to Mrs. c.o.x's remaining little room under the roof in the character of an invalid. The secret was admirably kept, even by the doctor who had been written to and who had seen a similar case some years ago.

"A jealous devil, I suppose," said he, when he read Mr. George Foxley's note.

"Well, he might have come off worse. But I should like to know who the country la.s.s was that he'd been sparkin', and who revenged herself like that."

A few weeks afterwards Mildred was married to George Albert Dacre Foxley, of Foxley Manor, Notts, by the Rev. Mr. Higgs in the village church. Her lover looked wonderfully well and strong on the occasion and was so happy that he was actually mischievously inclined during the ceremony, nearly causing his bride to laugh out audibly. Handsome and distinguished and aristocratic a gentleman as he looked, Mildred was not unworthy of him, as a straighter, firmer, more composed and more smiling a bride never entered a church. The girl was too happy to know what nervousness meant nor self-consciousness. She sat with her lover after he was dressed and had lain down a few moments to rest, until it was time to start in the carriage which Mr. Rattray had in the most unexpected manner offered them and which Mr. George accepted with the easy languid grace that characterized his acceptance of most things in this world excepting Milly. He had plenty of force and pa.s.sion and to spare concerning _that_ gift. Stipulating that "Squires" must sit on the box seat, he and Milly and Mrs. c.o.x, an ideal little wedding party, drove off in actually high glee, laughing and chatting and joking immoderately to the amazement of the villagers, prominent among whom were Mrs. Woods and "Woods" himself, rescued in a dazed condition from the back premises of the "Temperance Hotel" according to popular local tradition, and Mrs. Lyman, B. Rattray, _nee_ Maria Higgs. Mr. Joseph alas! could not be present.

In the year that followed this remarkable marriage, the relative positions of the Mr. Foxleys underwent a great change. So much love and so much care lightened the elder brother's existence so materially, that his health actually improved, and by the end of the sixth month of marriage he was able to shoot and fish once more, and walk with his adoring wife without the help of her strong arm and shoulder. Indeed it was she who about this time began to need his a.s.sistance during those long strolls by the side of the brook or through the tall grain grown meadows--a matter which astonished them both to the extent of stupefaction. Mr. George took his trouble to Mrs. c.o.x.

"I don't know what you expected, Mr. George, I don't indeed," said she, secretly amused at his simplicity. "You went and got married, as was only natural, and now you are frightened at the results, as is only natural."

"But, my dear lady," expostulated the perplexed gentleman, "it involves so many things, all manner of complications. For instance, money. I shall have--I really believe, my dear good Mrs. c.o.x--I shall have to make some money."

"You!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Mrs. c.o.x.

"I know. It appears hopeless. I never turned a penny, honest or otherwise in my life. Joseph you see--ah! poor Joseph!"

Poor Joseph indeed, darkness for light, solitude for society, enforced idleness for long-continued habits of activity, who could enjoy life under these circ.u.mstances--and careful of him as Mildred was, and sympathetic as his brother was, these two were too intensely absorbed in each other to give him all the amus.e.m.e.nt and attention he craved.

He grew thin and weak and slightly perverse and seemed to care more for Mrs. c.o.x's company than for his brother's. And yet there was nothing wrong with him except his terrible affliction. Mrs. c.o.x was sure he had something on his mind, and one day she ventured to tell him so. He flushed all over his pale freckled skin, and feeling for her motherly hands took them in his own.

"There is," he said. "I wonder no one has ever guessed it. Miss Dexter, where is she? Does anyone ever see her?"

"My poor boy, my dear Mr. Joseph," cried Mrs. c.o.x. "You did not really care for her, did you? Surely! You did not care for her!"

"No," said he decidedly. "No, I did not care for her--I didn't, never could have cared for her as George cares for Mildred, say--but she was a lady and kind to me, and I liked to go there, and the fact is--I miss her--and I am so sorry for her! and yet, you know, I am half frightened of her too and afraid to go out, thinking she may meet me and I wouldn't see her coming, you know! Yet she wouldn't do it again, I think!"

"Heaven save us, no, Mr. Joseph! And you so forgiving! Mercy me, and people say men make all the trouble!"

"It's half-and-half, Mrs. c.o.x, dear old soul," muttered Mr. Joseph, leaning back on his cushions. "I suppose we were both to blame. I can't, for the life of me, fall to talking of it as a judgment, for before heaven, I had done nothing. Yet I forgot how lonely she was and how proud, and I forgot too, that Ellen--that Ellen--"

"Ay, Mr. Joseph. It was Ellen too. Poor Ellen, that pa.s.sed away out of it all!"

"And she--Miss Dexter--is still here, still living by herself in the cottage by the oak! I remember so well, Mrs. c.o.x, the first time my brother and I ever saw that oak!"

"I daresay, Mr. Joseph, I daresay. Yes, she is still there, living in her cottage unloved and unheeded, Mr. Joseph. And may she ever continue so!"

"Oh! don't say that, dear old soul! Don't say that! Do you know, I should like to see her--I mean--meet her once again!"

Mrs. c.o.x was certain he was not in "his right head" as she said to herself.

"See her again! Meet her, talk to her! The woman who served ye like this! what can you be thinking of? Let me call your brother. There he is coming along the road, brown and bonny, with his wife on his arm, bless them both?"

"Did you say he was brown, Mrs. c.o.x? My brother brown! What a change! He looks so well then, dear old soul!"

"If you could but see him, Mr. Joseph, you would see how well."

"Well and brown! And Mildred, she is pale, I suppose, and with her eyes turned up to his and her lips brushing his shoulder every now and then--O I can see them--I suppose they go on a worse than ever."

"Indeed and they do, Mr. Joseph. After, breakfast this morning I sent them up into the drawing-room to be out of the way of the drover's meeting to be held in the bar, and when I went up to ask them about the lunch they would take with them on the river this afternoon I heard no sound like and just whispered at the door a bit if I might come in. When I went in, there was your brother standing behind her in a chair, with all her hair down, and a brush in his hand and his wife fast asleep!

He looked frightened for a minute when he saw me and I besought him to bring her to, thinking he'd mesmerized her. He'd been brushing it and playing with it and the morning over warm--she had fallen asleep. And I left them, Mr. Joseph, I left them, for they love each other so. And when I think of the honor he has done my girl, and how particular he is that she shall be called Mrs. Foxley--it--"

"Well, well, Mrs. c.o.x, ours is a good name, and I do not think my brother would have ever allowed any but a good girl to bear it. And if a girl is lovely and gentle and pure-minded, and innocent, and neat, and clean, and refined as your niece was, it matters not about her birth.

Birth! O my dear old soul, I am sick of the word! Miss Dexter now, is a lady, you know."

"Ay."

"And I must see her again," enforced Mr. Joseph, brought back to his one idea. "I must see her again."

Mrs. c.o.x communicated this intelligence to her niece, Mrs. Foxley.

"I think I can understand why," said she, lying back in her husband's arms one hot summer night under the trees at the back of the blouse. "It seems a hard wish to understand and a harder one to comply with, but it may have to be done. Dacre--"

"What my darling!"

"When are you going to tell me about your life in England and--and--about the woman who sent you out of it?"

"The woman! I never told you about a woman, child!"

"No. But I guessed. It is sure to have been a woman, Dacre."

"Well, I don't mind when I tell you. Nothing of all that time is anything to me now. Shall I tell you now?"

"If you please, dearest Dacre. For I must be close to you when I listen to that, and must not have you see me, for I know I shall cry."

"Dearest child! Well then, it shall be now, for you could scarcely be closer to me than you are now? And if you cry, as you must try not to do, you shall be allowed to cry here upon my breast and I will not look.

I can hardly see you as it is, it is so dark. Let me think, how I shall begin. You know Joseph--our poor Joseph--is my only brother and I never had any sisters. My father--you know this too--is an English country gentleman living in one of the most beautiful seats in England. If I were to describe the old place to you, you would want to go, and I could not spare you, so I will only say--well, you have seen those photographs?"

"Yes, dearest Dacre."

"They only give you a faint idea of what it is. It is Tudor you know--do you know what Tudor is, Mrs. Foxley--and all red brick, weathered all colors, and terraced, with lots of little windows and some big ones with stained gla.s.s in them, and urns on the terrace, and a rookery, and an old avenue of poplars, haunted too, and so on, and so on--there's no end to it, Mildred! Yes, it's a fine old place, without doubt Well, that is where I was born. I don't remember my mother. I wish I did. She died when Joseph was born, he is just four years younger than I am. Our youth was pa.s.sed there--at the Manor, of course, and we had the usual small college education not extending to a university career that gentleman's sons have in England, you know. I didn't make many friends at school, and where we lived, there was no one to visit, and we had very few relations. It is quite unusual I believe for two boys to grow up as we did, in comparative isolation. My father was a kind of Dombey--you know Dombey, Mildred--wrapped up in his old place and the a.s.sociations of his youth and in his family pride. The Foxleys are better born I believe than half of the aristocracy; we go back to the Conquest on my father's side--a thing which he never permits himself to forget for an instant.