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CHAPTER III.

A REAL TREASURE.

(Conclusion.)

But

It must not be supposed that Nancy Seaward deliberately set herself in the first instance to avoid her kinsman. She had on taking up her duties at Laurel Grove been diffident of her own powers, and the excuses she made for not obtruding herself upon him were perfectly natural. Her hands were full, and she had no time for society. as the days went on and she realized how entirely John Whipp's thoughts were centred upon his own comfort, a certain contempt for him grew up in her heart. Being for the moment the custodian of his purse she could not fail to know that his charities were many and unstinted. Spending largely upon himself, he also gave freely to those in need; but his generosity was fatally flawed in her eyes by the readiness with which he pandered to appetite. There is perhaps no fault so contemptible in a young girl's estimation as a love of good eating. John Whipp lived but for the pleasure of dining; in her scorn for his weakness she disowned him as a cousin. As his hired handmaid she would give him faithful service; since to eat was the chief aim and pleasure of his life, his board should be spread with delicate cakes, but as one of her own blood she would have none of him.

Her resolution was the more easily supported since at this season of the year all the younger members of the Whipp family, as well as their neighbors and acquaintances, were seeking refreshment at the sea; even Ethel had gone upon a round of visits, and Grannie was left alone at the White House. As for her own people, stress of summer work at the farm kept them too busy to pay many visits. Once or

twice, when he had occasion to be in Brierly-Stoke, she saw her father; but Thomas Seaward was a quiet man, indisposed to curiosity, and he asked few questions. For the rest, Henry the milkman, who supplied Laurel Grove, sufficed as the bearer of any needful message.

Grannie, who vastly enjoyed the dignity of her solitary state, was very kind to the girl. She smoothed her path with the refractory and jealous Eliza, she lent her books, she insisted on taking her out for airings in the oldfashioned barouche, careful, however, not to pass the bank.

Nancy alone of the sisters had inherited her father's reticence. She was a girl whom it was not very easy to know, but few young people could long remain proof against Grannie's stately charm, and Nancy half unconsciously yielded to it like the rest. As for Grannie, the more she knew of the girl the better she liked and respected her; she even began to ask herself whether after all-then came a vision of the sisterhood at Roots, and she shrank back timidly from the wandering idea. Better let things take their course.

They pursued their tranquil way till the heat of August as it merged into September parched the land. John had long ceased to trouble himself about his mysterious inmate; he had almost forgotten her existence, save when a worse report than usual came to him of Eliza's condition or some new dish attracted his attention.

A thunderous night had kept him tossing wakefully, and at six o'clock he was fain to rise, feeling it vain to woo sleep longer. He drew the blind and looked out upon his garden. The twelve years of its growth had established the lawn, now glittering with the

night's dew-it lay in fair expanse before him, flanked by glowing beds of crimson, yellow and white dahlias. A few well-grown oaks spared in the laying out of the ground gave a mature look to the smiling acre. John took pride and pleasure in his garden, but, a late sitter at night, he had seldom seen it at so early an hour. He resolved to wander out in it now. As he turned from the window, two women, each provided with a basket, emerged upon the side path and rapidly made their way to the end of the garden. A narrow and little frequented lane there divided the pleasure portion of his domain from the large and well-stocked kitchen garden and orchard, but a light rustic bridge, overarching the lane, connected the two. He watched until the maidens appeared upon its crest, and disappeared from his view as they tripped down the steps on the opposite side. The one he recognized as Jane, the other he supposed to be some kitchen helper; he had heard that an attendant had been secured for Eliza.

The balm and freshness of the morning air rewarded him for his exertion. He sauntered, delighted and admiring; a twitter in the tree-tops, the last faint echo of summer's full song, held him. Unseen himself, he watched a brighteyed robin flit from the oak-tree intent upon the early worm; the swallows in conference over their coming flight sunned themselves upon the eaves. The blaze of flower beauty was over, but scarlet geranium and white marguerite still gaily crowned the tree-stumps masked with ivy; a late rose or two still scented the air. With a rare impulse of vanity, he selected the most perfect and placed it in his button-hole. Then, with no thought but of prolonging the pleasure of his walk, he turned his steps towards the rustic bridge and crossed it. Here utility alone prevailed; the paths between the espaliers were turfed, and he moved onward noise

lessly, investigating with interest the promise of fruit. Suddenly at the end of a long alley which diverged to the right he perceived the two maidens, whose existence he had forgotten. Jane, selecting Victoria plums from a sunny wall, saw her master and dropped a little timid curtsey; the other girl stood motionless, lost in a reverie. The basket at her feet was half filled, and indeed Nancy was thinking of nothing more serious than the menu for the day. The French beans were growing too old even for the most skilful cookery. She cast a critical eye over the beds; parsnips, cauliflowers, carrots, cabbage, parsley-her basket already held these; vegetable-marrow-she shook a doubtful head; artichokes-her lips pursed themselves thoughtfully; spinach-one had spinach so often.

John stood arrested in wonder, staring in forgetfulness of his manners. Surely this was no maid-servant, this tall, slim girl with the delicate profile? He studied her amazed. She wore the plainest of close-fitting indigo-blue cottons; a pair of gauntletted gloves protected her hands; a white sun-bonnet tied loosely had slipped from her head to her neck, leaving revealed the coil of warm brown hair. For a full minute he looked at her unperceived, then, with a subtle consciousness that she was no longer alone, she turned and faced him.

Instinctively he lifted his hat. Nancy returned his greeting with a very distant movement of her stately head, while she untied and replaced her sunbonnet. She looked at him from out its tunnelled depths with a pair of calm, beautiful gray eyes, and said, seeing his embarrassment— "My name is Seaward." John took a step forward.

"You-you have come to help your sister?" he asked. "She has so kindly been taking charge for me during the last few weeks."

"I am Nancy," she said coldly, correcting, his mistake.

He reddened in the immensity of his surprise; she could not refuse his cordially outstretched hand, but she allowed her own to remain impassive in his grasp.

"Then it is you," he said, still bewildered-"you whom I have to thank.” "You owe me no thanks, Mr. Whipp," said Nancy, with dignity. "I was in search of work and you employed me. You pay me amply for my services." "But-there is a debt which money can't pay."

She accepted the assertion without comment, and turned forthwith to her neglected task. In a very few minutes her basket was filled. He found it impossible to help watching her; she was so quick, cool, adroit, so absolutely indifferent to his presence. When she was about to turn away he sprang forward.

"Let me carry the basket," he said. "Thank you, it is not too heavy for me."

But John had a masterful fibre in him and his spirit was roused.

"If you forbid me to thank you." he said genially, "at least you must allow me to take my own way in my own garden." He seized the basket, and courteously motioned her to precede him; the grass path was not wide enough for two. As he followed her he could not take his eyes off her. This a Seaward-this the stirring, lively, velveteen-clad Nancy of his imagination? How could he possibly be so mistaken? But-could it really be? Could Roots produce so rare a creature? How slim she was, and how straight she carried herself-Nancy, indeed, was quite capable of assuming an extra dignity, as she felt herself under his scrutiny-and with what a cold composure she had met his embarrassed greeting! The Nancy Seaward he had pictured would have blushed

and bridled, minced and giggled, addressed him perhaps after the first abashed moment as John; yet the real Nancy's formal "Mr. Whipp" failed equally to please him. With this Nancy he was willing to be on terms of cousinship.

They walked apart until, the bridge crossed, they reached the wide gravelled paths of the garden; he hastened then to join his companion.

"I think," he said, "it must be a long time since we met. I recall your sisters very well ('only too well,' to himself) but you-"

"I have been away from home for a number of years."

"Ah," he said, "that accounts for it. Had you been at home I should certainly have remembered you. I couldn't possibly have forgotten you. You must have been a child when I last saw you."

To so obvious a statement she made no reply. He found her unresponsiveness a little disconcerting.

"Why have you hidden yourself so persistently?" he made a fresh attempt at liveliness. "It was very cruel of you since you knew, you must have known, what a pleasure it would have been to me to see you and-and-talk to you. Why, when I met your father the other day I could only tell him I believed you were all right. How odd it must have sounded, how absurd!" It seemed so to John himself now.

She looked at him calmly. "It was not necessary for us to meet; you yourself"-with the faintest accent of disdain-"did not think it necessary until this morning. I am here to carry out your wishes, your orders, and so long as you can transmit them through Jane "

"Orders-that's an ugly word!"

"It is the only one that expresses our relation." She turned to the little maid behind her: "Jane, take the basket from your master; I will carry the

plums." With a lofty "Good-morning," she dismissed him, and, taking the side path behind the laurel screen that led to the kitchen premises, was quickly lost to view.

Quiet, methodical John Whipp, as he sat in his well-furnished private room at the bank that day, had a tingling sensation as of one who has tasted adventure. He was both amused and annoyed-amused with the airs of Miss Nancy, annoyed at his own misconception of her. Yet why should he trouble himself about her now any more than he had done during the two months she had been under his roof? Why, indeed, but that she was handsome while he had thought her plain, proper while he had assured himself she would be boisterous.

Now the conduct of John Whipp after this date can only be recorded as unbecoming, and, if you like, undignified in a responsible man of forty with the reputation of a confirmed bachelor to maintain. For instead of accepting Nancy's view of the situation, and contenting himself with playing master to so willing a handmaid, he must needs suddenly remember and press the claims of kinship. Miss Seaward vanished in Nancy, Nancy the youngest of the Roots cousins, Nancy the unique in that rough-and-ready household. On all possible occasions he waylaid her: in the dewy early morning when she went to the garden; on market-days, when he was lost in admiration of her judicious skill in selection; even on Sundays when, prayer-book in hand, she walked sedately to church. She submitted with an annoyed impatience she did not always keep in check; she answered his questions shortly, she altogether refused to consult with him.

"You know what you want," she said, "there is no need for discussion. Express your wishes, and I will do my best to fulfil them."

"You do that admirably, but-can't 449

LIVING AGE.

VOL. VIII.

you imagine that it is a pleasure to see you? If you had taken your proper place we should at least have dined together. What have poor Aunt Anne and I done that you should avoid us so persistently?"

"Miss Whipp doesn't complain of me," she said with lifted chin.

"She misses you-she would like more of your society."

"She is a woman. She understands that one cannot be in two places at once. If I have to cook your dinner, Mr. Whipp, I cannot at the same time eat it in your company." "Mr. Whipp!"

She took no notice of the reproach. "Nancy, how long do you mean to be so formal? Do you wish me to call you Miss Seaward?"

"I should prefer it," she said coldly. "When I entered your service I became your housekeeper-your cook, if you will. While I remain in it, please remember that I am that and nothing more."

"Not even a third cousin?"

"We have not found you so anxious to press the relationship at Roots," she said disdainfully.

He reddened consciously, but said with an amazing simplicity: "I didn't know you then."

"Nor do you know me now."

"You give me no chance"-he pressed his advantage. "Why, even as my housekeeper you would naturally preside at my table-"

"I have already explained to you why that is impossible."

"Then let the dinner cook itself," he said impulsively.

She laughed at that, a gay, girlish laugh. It was the first time he had seen her merry, and it pleased him amazingly, even though she was merry at his expense.

"Mr. John Whipp to make such a proposal! Mr. John Whipp willingly, voluntarily, to forego the pleasures of

the table! Mr. John Whipp to renounce the crowning glory of the day, the one end for which he lives! Do I hear aright?" She apostrophized the pictures on the wall, sober Whipp ancestors, who followed her with serious, disapproving eyes.

"You do hear aright," cried John, nettled yet amused; "try me, and see if I do not mean what I say." He held out his hand as if to clinch a bargain, but she evaded it and fled. He heard the echo of her stifled laughter as the baize door, beyond which he never penetrated, fell to behind her.

But the more she eluded him the more he found his thoughts occupied with her. She was very handsome; he could not recall such another pair of eyes in Brierly-Stoke, a mouth that could be so suddenly stern, yet so suddenly sweet and childlike in its laughter. Nobody except Aunt Emily at the White House had a finer carriage, a greater dignity. And then her cooking -it was superb! It was instinctive in her, no tuition could have reached the same perfection. She lifted it into a fine art; it was only equalled by her skill in household management. She might have been a matron of twenty years' standing instead of a mere slip of a girl, her judgment was so mature, her decisions so judicious. He began to bemoan the day when he should lose her. Of course she would go back to Roots. She hinted already at a speedy departure. Only yesterday Aunt Anne had told him that if Eliza were not soon able to resume her duties, dear Nancy would be leaving; she had only come as a stop-gap.

"I don't see why she should go," he said crossly. "Isn't she comfortable? Is the work too hard?"

Aunt Anne did not think so, but her own family might require her. "Nonsense," he said brusquely, "there are women enough yonder."

But after that John, who had always

been kind, redoubled his attentions. He secured an efficient kitchen maid, he found out her taste in books and kept her sitting-room well supplied. When Grannie left the White House to join her daughter Ethel, he insisted that Aunt Anne should take her for a daily airing.

It was not till the doctor, a week or two later, hinted that Eliza was not making the progress he expected, and might never be fit for work again, that it occurred to him how he might secure Nancy's services permanently. He was greatly perturbed at the doctor's news. Then suddenly, like a ray of light, it flashed across him that he might marry Nancy. The first effect of this idea was stunning. He suffered as if from an electric shock; but in ten minutes it had acclimatized itself, in twenty it began to seem desirable, in half an hour he felt as if he had purposed the wooing of Nancy from the first moment his eyes fell on her. It was in every way a capital plan, both for himself and for her; he could give her a better home than she could ever hope to have at Roots.

With John to resolve was to execute. He found Nancy once more in the cool of the garden while yet the night mists were scarcely sucked up, and on some flimsy pretext dismissed the attendant Jane.

Nancy had ceased to look annoyed at interruption, she had even learned to find a certain amusement in this big cousin's imperturbable methods. He refused to be snubbed, therefore she ceased to snub him. Women, whatever they may say, like a masterful man.

But when he began, stammeringly at first, then with growing composure, to make known his wishes, the blood turned to fire in her veins. She would have given a great deal to answer him with dignity, but the floods of her indignation were let loose. He held out his hand so confidently, as if he ex

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