overgrown with fungus and moss; and those which were standing were bare, and many of them half dead. The moat was overfull of turbid water; and some of the woodwork of the draw-bridge had fallen into it. The house had a mouldy appearance on the open side; and where the trees sheltered the other walls, the blackened old bricks and stone mullions were streaked with green moss from breaches in the rotting spouts above. Things were better inside, however; and, besides a blazing fire in the great hall, there was abundance of warmth in the welcome the old gentleman had ready for his kinswomen.
“On my life, a pretty brace of Puritans as ever I saw,” said he, giving each of them a hearty hug: “and as good as you are pretty, to come and be company to your solitary old uncle in fog-time. We must have a bargain. You find all the duty; and I must see whether I cannot find some pleasure without waiting for Christmas. We do contrive to brighten up the old place at Christmas: but we will have a dance between this day and that. Hey, Henrietta! You have not grown too starched for a dance, I hope.”
“My dear uncle, no!” Henrietta replied. “We dance every evening at home in cold weather.”
“Who dances? Not your grim father?”
“My father is never grim, uncle. How can you fancy it? He is our favourite partner; and he favours us all round.”
“Right good, my dear! And Aunt Carewe?”
“Yes, she dances, when she is not playing for us. We are so many at home that we can make out a country dance without guests, when by chance no guests are there.”
“On my life, I am glad to hear it. By John Hampden’s surliness about the King’s affairs I was afraid he had gone gospel-mad, like his cousin Oliver. You never see him dance, I will warrant.”
The girls laughed.
“If you got him to stand up, he would break out into praying, instead of making the figure. He would twang out a grace before dancing, loud enough to drown the music. Now tell me, Henrietta, were not you ashamed to be seen riding with such a cavalier? You, Helen; were you not glad that he turned whence he came? Why, you would have seen your grooms laughing behind his back.”
Helen hastened to explain that all the servants of all the Mashams revered Cousin Oliver, and would on no account jest at his expense. Henrietta, being questioned, admitted that his boots were muddy, and his coat rusty, and his beaver battered; but, so far from being ashamed of him, she had felt as if in a great man’s train, all the way from Huntingdon. Sir Oliver listened courteously while she related the incidents of the journey, and then observed:
“Ay! they do call him the Lord of the Fens, the disloyal wretches! When the fogs are gone, and the land is in its spring green, we must get the real Lord of the Fens to come.”
“The Earl of Bedford?” Helen asked.
“Bless my soul, no! We will give the people something better than an Earl to look at. No, child, I mean the King. And why not? His father came to me at Hinchinbrooke, once upon a time, to hunt; and he, and the Queen too, may come here to hawk. Our fowling here is sport for a king, I can tell you: and it is a rare country for the Queen’s hawks, if she will come and try.”
The girls looked at each other in some dismay at the thought of having to play hostess to such a party.
“I agree with you,” said Sir Oliver, looking round upon the somewhat dingy walls and shabby furniture of the great dining-room in which they sat. “This is no proper banqueting-hall for princes. But I lost a fortune twice over in entertaining the Court all day, and in gaming with them at night: and the King knows that poor old Sir Oliver is a wrecked man. He would take kindly what I have to offer, and excuse shortcomings. Times are altered with him too, as with his friends. He finds shortcomings everywhere, and no offers. But I must not forget that I am talking to little Puritans. If I trouble them with an old man’s loyalty, they will be running away, and telling all I say to the crop-ears.”
“Uncle Oliver, you do not know me,” Henrietta said, very emphatically, and with a flushing cheek.
Helen observed that there was nobody of her acquaintance, she believed, who did not wish to serve and please the King within the limits of an Englishman’s duty.
If so, Sir Oliver replied, all was well. They would drink His Majesty’s health, with one voice, every day. Meanwhile his young cousins must make themselves at home in their own apartments; and he summoned servants to show them the way.
As they were leaving the room, Henrietta’s turn came last to make her curtsey at the door; and she was beckoned back with such caution as to show her she was to return alone. The old man took her in his arms, seated her on his knee, and said in her ear:
“This is the way we used to tell each other our secrets when you were just high enough to peep into this pocket. Come! tell me your little secret now. What is this between you and Harry Carewe? There! you can hide your face against my shoulder, as you did when I told you ghost stories. And now tell me what is the matter about Harry Carewe.”
“I thought you knew, uncle. I thought—”
“I have heard something; but I want to hear your account of it. Is Harry a disloyal rascal?”
“O, no, no! Do not blame Harry. I dare say I am more to blame than Harry. I know Aunt Carewe thinks so.”
“Likely enough!”
“But my father thinks so too; and I believe it is true. But, uncle, we cannot live together. So we have parted.”
“If Harry is not a disloyal rascal, why have you parted? I don’t understand.”
“I know I am to blame; but my temper will not stand the things he says. And he thinks the same of his temper.—What things? O! I cannot tell you about them. I cannot bear to think of