'Perhaps the first sincere attempt to gain the heiress's heart, without any thought of her park and its broad acres.'

'I declare, Serena, _vous m'impatientez_. I verily believe you are in his interest and confidence, and trying to plead his cause.'

This was said with great excitement; the answer, however, was calm.

'Scarcely possible, if probable, because I was never alone with him in my life, and have rarely seen him except in your presence.'

'Then, why do you take up his defence? You would not have me marry him, would you?'

'Certainly not, for many reasons. In the first place, you do not love him; in the second, your father would not approve of such a match; in the third, you are not suited to him.'

'I understand. Not good enough. But why do you defend him? Do you think it was right of him to say what he did to me?'

'Well, perhaps not. But I think he has been nursing these feelings for you so long, that he began to forget whether they were right or wrong, sensible or foolish; and last night, carried away by the excitement of the day and his own success, and finding himself alone with you--you, probably, more friendly than usual--he forgot his customary prudence, and overstepped the bounds of conventionality.'

'Very well said, Nita. Then it was wrong of me to be friendly, and right of him to make a dunce of himself.'

'Perhaps if you had ever felt as he does, Freda, you might make some excuse for him.'

'I am sure you must have been in love a hundred times, you are so sentimental, and would like to see him run away with me.'

'Quite wrong again.'

'Then what would you like, for I am sure you don't approve of my conduct?'

'Simply, that you should have treated a clergyman and a gentleman as such, and at least felt grateful that a good and honest heart was offered to you, even though you would not accept it.'

'But I don't believe in the heart, you see, Serena. There is not a more mercenary race under the sun than the clergy. They all marry for money.

I can mention quite a dozen; his own uncle at the head of them. Now, you cannot suppose that he married Mrs Jonathan Prothero for anything but her fortune and her family.'

'I think he is too simple-minded a man to have considered either the one or the other.'

'Then why didn't he marry some simple-minded girl, his equal? No, you are quite out of your depth now, Serena. Depend upon it, that Rowland Prothero will soon find some English lady just as rich as _I am to be_--always provided that Lady Mary Nugent doesn't carry off papa, and get him to leave her the property. These men don't seem to know that it is not entailed; and that, after all, I may be cut off with a shilling.

I think I may venture to affirm that were such the case, there is not one of my ninety-nine adorers who would have me, except, perhaps poor Sir Hugh.'

'Perhaps, Freda, I may have been imprudent, situated as I am here, in even saying what I have in favour of Rowland Prothero. The fact is, that not only do I particularly like what I know of him, but there is a little pa.s.sage in my early history that makes me have a great pity for young men who venture to fall in love with young ladies who consider themselves their superiors.'

'If you will tell me your story, Nita, I will forgive you all the rest, and finish this sketch of Abertewey for Colonel Vaughan, meanwhile.'

Freda drew well in water-colours, and had before her, as she sat in the embrasure of one of the windows of that charming morning-room, a half-finished sketch of Colonel Vaughan's place, which he had begged her to take for him. Hitherto it had been untouched; now she began to work at it with pretended vigour, whilst Miss Hall took up the little frock she was making for a poor child, which had been laid down during the discussion, and also made believe to st.i.tch and sew industriously.

But there was a flush on her cheek, and a tremor in her voice, as she began to tell Freda the little pa.s.sage in her life to which she had alluded. Freda was conscious of this, and accordingly devoted herself more energetically to her drawing.

'It was when I was just eighteen, Freda, and during my _beaux jours_, before my father had lost his fortune, or been obliged to retire from the army on half-pay on account of that dreadful paralytic stroke--before my sister's imprudent marriage, and consequent emigration to Australia--before my dear mother's death. We were a happy and gay family, and I had then more pride and higher spirits than you would probably give me credit for now.

'I was visiting a friend who had married the head-master of one of our princ.i.p.al grammar schools. Amongst his tutors there was a young man of whom he was very fond, and who used to be a good deal with his family after the duties of the day were over. It is just possible that he was a countryman of yours, for his name was Jones.'

'Oh, Serena! you don't mean to say that you fell in love with a Jones in England, and then came into Wales to be in the midst of that very ancient and numerous family.'

'I have not come to the love part yet, Freda. He was a very quiet and un.o.btrusive person, but, my friends said, very amiable and sufficiently clever. I know that I used to take an unkind delight in teasing him, and that he was rather clever in repartee, and never spared me in return. I liked him as an amusing companion, and had no objection to his getting me books or flowers, or whatever lay within his reach that might be agreeable to me. Moreover, I pitied him, because I was told that both his parents were dead, and that he was working hard to pay for his own course at college, whither he intended to go as soon as he could get the means.

'As my father was with his regiment abroad at this time, and my mother and sister were making a round of visits amongst our Scotch friends, I stayed a long time with the Merryweathers. They were very pleasant people, and had an agreeable circle of acquaintance.

'But that has nothing to do with my story. The evening before I left them to return home, my friend, Mr Jones, managed to be alone with me; how, I never found out, for he ought to have been with the boys--and committed a similar misdemeanour to that of poor Rowland Prothero. He had unfortunately lost his heart to me--so he said, and was constrained to tell me so. Would I think of him, if, in the course of time, he could enter the church and marry me?

'Now I had the world before me, a happy home, a prospect of a certain independence, and, I suppose, a sufficient share of personal attractions. I had never considered whether I could like this young man or not; but I had well considered that when I married, I must have talent, position, personal beauty, and a hundred other visionary attributes in my husband. I was of a most imaginative, and at the same time, ambitious temperament; and on the one hand, thought a great poet or warrior would fall to my lot, and on the other, that a prince of the blood royal was not too good for me.

'Your pride, my dear Freda, is too matter-of-fact, as is your general character, thoroughly to understand me. At that time I was touched and flattered by the devotion of this young man, and felt, that had he been differently placed, and had he more of the attributes either of station or romance about him, I might have taken him under my august consideration; but as I had never even looked upon him in the light of a lover, or supposed it possible that he could be one, I at once, and decidedly refused him.

'I shall never forget the pained and melancholy expression of his features when I did so, or the few words he uttered. He said that he had not ventured to hope for a different answer, though he had dared to speak, and that his one slight prospect of happiness had vanished. He had now nothing but a life of labour before him, without a gleam of hope to cheer his way, but that he should think of me always, and of the happy hours we had pa.s.sed together. I felt so sorry for him that I could really say nothing, either to cheer or discourage him. He simply asked me to allow him to remain my friend, and to forgive his presumption; and so we shook hands and parted. He did not join the family that evening, and the next day I left the Merryweathers.

'I do not know how it was, but when I returned home, I thought more of this young man than of any one else. Although my sister and myself were surrounded by men of a very different, and I may say, superior cla.s.s, still he haunted me very much, for a time at least.

'Then came my sister's marriage, which proved, as you know, unfortunate in a pecuniary point of view, and her and her husband's emigration to Australia in search of fortune. Then followed our own ruin, and my father's paralytic seizure. To help my parents and support myself, I came to you as governess. You know, dearest Freda, how happy your dear mother made me as long as she lived, and how ardently I desired to fulfil her dying wish that I should finish your education. Most thankful I am that I was permitted to do so.

'I need not tell you, over and over again, the sad story of my mother's death, and my return home to live with my father, and become a daily instead of a resident governess. All the happiness I have known--at least the greatest--since our troubles, has been in this house.

'But this has nothing to do with Mr Jones. I heard, casually from my friend, Mrs Merryweather, that he had left them and gone to college; what college, she did not say. For some years I had quite enough of painful duty to perform to make me forget the weeks pa.s.sed in his society, and their termination; or to think of a person of whom I had quite lost sight. About six or seven years ago, however, I heard of him, strange to say, through my sister. I had, of course, told her of his proposal and my refusal.

'She and her husband were among the early settlers at Melbourne, and in the course of time became tolerably prosperous. He, you know, was obliged to leave his regiment for drunkenness, and contrary to the usual course of things, became steadier, though not steady, in Australia. My sister lost two children in one week from fever, and during her great sorrow, was constantly visited by the clergyman of her parish, who turned out to be my early friend, Mr Jones. I do not think he knew she was my sister for some time; but she described his untiring kindness and gentleness as her greatest comfort during her troubles. He was also of great benefit to her husband, by taking advantage of the opportunity offered by the loss of his children, to press upon him the necessity of a reformation in his own course of life, which, I am thankful to say, has been gradually effected. They became very intimate, and, I suppose by mutually comparing notes concerning Old England, found one another out, so to say. But he seldom spoke of me. If my sister tried to draw him into the subject of his acquaintance with me, he changed it as soon as possible, as if it were disagreeable to him. And no wonder.

'However, my sister looks upon this man as her greatest benefactor--him, whom I, in my pride and ignorance, considered beneath me in every respect; and when he left Melbourne a year or two ago, she said they had lost their best and dearest earthly friend, and that the children cried when he wished them good-bye, as if they were parting from a father.'

Whilst Miss Hall was telling this simple narrative, Freda was very attentive. As it drew to a close, she rose from her drawing, and kneeling, as she sometimes would do, by Miss Hall's side, put her arm affectionately round her. There was something in the action at that moment which drew tears from Miss Hall's eyes.

'But he is not married, Serena, I know he is not married,' she exclaimed. 'Who knows!'

'My dear child,' said Miss Hall, smiling, and stroking Freda's shining hair, 'I have long given up all thoughts of matrimony. But the recollection of old times always affects me, and your love affects me still more. I have not told you this because I regret not being married to Mr Jones--it was mercifully ordained that I should not marry any one.

What would my dear father have done if I had? but simply to show you how the very people we think the least of frequently become our best friends; the "weak things of the earth confounding those that are mighty," in scripture phrase.'

'Oh, Serena! do you hear?' interrupted Freda, 'there is Miss Nugent in the hall. Of all the bores! we never can be free from those people. Yes it is; I hear her _lithp_;' and Miss Nugent was announced.

She had walked over, she said, to ask how they all were after the delightful Harvest Home, and to bring an invitation from her mamma to dinner the following Tuesday.

'I do hope you will come, Freda, and you, Mith Hall, and bring that charming Colonel Vaughan with you. He ith tho nithe. Don't you think tho.'

'Very,' said Freda, drily.

'But, do you know, I don't admire him half ath much ath Mr Rowland Prothero. Mamma thaith he ith tho gentlemanlike and that the meanth to athk him Tuethday.'

'Really!' again said Freda, not daring to look at Miss Hall.

'We are going to Llanfach to-morrow to hear him preach. Hith thermon wath beautiful in the school-room. Don't you think he ith like the picture at the beginning of "Evangeline." Dear me, who wath he, Freda?'

'Longfellow, you mean, I suppose.'

'Of courth. And hith language ith tho poetical. Mamma thaith the thouldn't wonder if he turned out a great author by-and-by. Thould you, Mith Hall?'

'It takes so much to make a great author, dear; but it is just possible.'