Mrs. Parsleet

ILLUSTRATED BY HENRY COLLER

HE Duchess was standing by the window of her boudoir. It was midday, and as a pile of letters on her writing-table testified, her long morning's work was over. One of her post-war economies had taken the form of giving up her good, devoted secretary. Perhaps because she felt tired, she began to count her mercies. Just now, though she trembled to say it even to herself, everything was going well with those she loved. True, last evening, Chifney, who managed the Duke's home farm, had who was what the Duchess described to herself as "a great fusser," had sent up a message to say that his Grace's prize bull, Apollo, did not seem to be quite himself. But that probably only meant that Chifney wanted the Duke to come to the farm his morning—as of course the Duke had done.

It was a fine autumn day, and beyond the walled garden, which lay immediately below the window, were two tennis courts where the younger members of the small house-party now being entertained at the castle were playing and watching the games in progress.

The Duchess singled out from among the girls there her own daughter, and she sighed an unconscious, quiet sigh. Just this time last year, little Lady Susie had gone through a tragic and humiliating experience, though one fortunately known only to her own mother. She had given her heart to a man who had been proved, to put it plainly,—and to herself the Duchess always put things plainly,—a rascal. The girl had faced the blow proudly and silently; but it had changed her from a happy child into a grave-eyed young woman, and that though she was now only twenty. Only a few days ago she had said to her mother, "I am longing for Hilda to be eighteen, for then I can become your dowager daughter, and do just what I like!" The Duchess had answered fondly, "Don't you do what you like now, my darling?"

The girl had shaken her head, and said quickly: "What I should like to do would be to go right away—over the edge of the world!"

Yet it was seldom indeed that she thus opened, even to her mother, window into her sad heart. Most of the people about her regarded Lady Susie as happy natured and high-spirited. She had received, and had refused this last spring, an offer of marriage from a young man who was not only good-looking, agreeable, and apparently very much in love, but also what the old-fashioned world in which she lived would have described as a very great parti. Sometimes the Duchess wondered, with a pang of pain, if the girl had made up her mind not to marry at all.

And now, with these disconnected thoughts floating through her mind, the Duchess saw her daughter suddenly detach herself from the group among whom she had been standing, and walk away, through an arch which led into the walled garden. A moment later a tall young man hurried after her. He was a soldier, Geoffrey Brentlaw by name, the son of very old friends and neighbours. At one time the Brentlaws had been great landowners. But they were now exceedingly poor, and lived quietly in a noble old house which was falling to pieces for want of repair, set in a park which, once a vast demesne, was now little more than a big garden.

The Duchess looked down, with indulgent eyes, at the young man. Though he was older than any of her own children, he was like a brother among them, and she was truly fond of him. As a boy he had had a bad hunting accident, while riding one of the Duke's horses, and as a result some unkind folk declared that he was slow at the uptake. Then had come the War. Young Brentlaw had made a splendid soldier, and suddenly, much against his own wish, he had become the hero of the neighbourhood, owing to his having won the Victoria Cross for an act of signal gallantry.

But no one ever alluded to that fact now, and Geoffrey Brentlaw had just exchanged into an Indian regiment, for his father could no longer afford to give him even the small allowance needed to supplement his pay in the light infantry regiment to whose annals he had contributed his share of deathless glory.

The door opened, the midday post was brought in, and on the top of the Duchess's goodly pile of letters lay a black-edged envelope.

A shadow came over her face, for she believed it to be the unnecessary answer to a letter of condolence written by her some ten days ago. She had never liked the writer, a foolish, extravagant woman, now the newly made widow of a distant cousin, to whom the Duchess had been attached, and who had been trustee to part of her own personal fortune.

Putting the other letters on her writing-table, she took the black-edged sheets out of their envelope. What a long epistle! Then, as she read the closely written pages through, the expression of her face became very grave, for they contained bad news.

There are many rich women to whom the tidings contained in those black-edged sheets she held in her hand would have appeared far more terrible than they did to the Duchess. Even so, she felt extremely distressed. The man of whom she had been truly fond and whom she had entirely trusted, had died leaving his affairs in confusion. This was a letter from his widow revealing that he had been false to his trust, and that a sum of round about fifty thousand pounds, which it had been arranged should provide a handsome competence for the Duchess's second son, had vanished.

Now the Duke—ruefully the Duchess remembered it now—had never liked her jovial, popular Cousin John. At intervals, not often, for he was not the sort of man who tenders advice often, he had suggested that the trustee should be asked to render an account of his stewardship. And always she had refused, saying that to do so would hurt Cousin John's feelings, and that she was sure it was all right. But, alas! it had been all wrong. Cousin John, to put it plainly, had shown himself a scoundrel and a thief.

While she was wondering how she would find the courage to tell her husband of this serious loss, the door opened and the Duke came in. She saw at once that something had disturbed him violently, and she felt a thrill of relief. Cousin John's lawyers had evidently written and told him the bad news.

"Laura?" he said, and his tone was very kind, "I see that you've heard what's happened!"

"Yes," she said tremulously, "I have, James; and of course I do blame myself very, very much."

"Blame yourself?"

He looked at her surprised. And then, in quite another tone, "Ah, you mean about that Argentine fellow's offer of a thousand pounds. But, my dear, I never seriously considered it! I was far too fond, far too proud, of the poor beast"

It was her turn to be surprised. "The poor beast?" she repeated questioningly.

"Weren't you speaking of Apollo?"

And at once she knew what had happened. Apollo, their prize bull, a king among beasts, was dead.

"Oh, James! What a dreadful thing! I am sorry!" And what with one thing and another, the tears welled up into her eyes.

"Come, come!" he exclaimed, "I don't want you to cry about it, my darling," and coming close up to her, he put his arm round her shoulder.

"I've had a bad blow, too, this morning." She turned and faced him bravely, "Poor Cousin John"

And then she stopped, for the Duke's mouth became grim, and in his eyes there leapt the angry light which always frightened her, if only because it was so rarely there.

"I suppose he did away with some of your money, Laura? I suspected something of the kind was going on. So it's not a surprise to me"

As she remained silent, he went on, "Well, my dear? Out with it! John had complete control of something over fifty thousand pounds. Is there any of it left?"

She shook her head.

"D'you mean it's all gone?"

"Edie says there's nothing left, only debts, and the five hundred a year which was settled on her the day they married."

"May I see her letter?" he asked.

"I'd rather you didn't, James."

"Nonsense!"

He took the black-edged sheets out of her hand, and read them through. "It's just the sort of thing one would expect Edie to write! Thinking, as usual, only of herself. Let me see? That money was supposed to be invested, if I remember rightly, at five and a half per cent. That means a hole in our income of nearly three thousand a year. And your extravagant son, Algy, will have a very lean old age, unless he marries an heiress."

They looked at one another in dismay. "Well! This has blotted out poor Apollo, at any rate," said the Duke at last.

There came a knock at the door.

"Come in," cried the Duchess; and then her downcast face lit up, for it was only her darling Susie, looking very grave. No doubt by now she had heard about Apollo.

"Mother?" she said irresolutely; and then she looked at the Duke. "Father? I—I have to say something to you."

The Duke answered, kindly enough, "Yes, my dear, what is it you want?"

He was telling himself that, after all, dreadful as it was to lose in these hard times three thousand a year, Providence had been very good in giving him such a wife as his Laura, and good, healthy, loving children who included the pretty, clever, high-spirited girl now looking at him with such an eager, confiding look in the dark eyes which were so like his own.

"I want to tell you"—she gave a queer little gasp—"that Geoffrey Brentlaw came over this morning for tennis. He asked me to marry him, and I said I would."

"What?" shouted the Duke. "I never heard of such impudence! That penniless boy, who left half his brains on a fence ten years ago, has dared to ask you to marry him? It's out of the question—absolutely out of the question from every point of view!"

"I don't see why, father."

"I'll tell you why! Apart from everything else, he has nothing to keep a wife on—any sort of wife, let alone a daughter of mine. And, incidentally, we're ruined! If you don't believe me, ask your mother. Her Cousin John—your Cousin John, not any relation of mine, thank Heaven!—diddled away on his own extravagant living the fifty thousand pounds he held in trust, with remainder to your brother Algy."

Now to Lady Susie fifty thousand pounds was very much the same as a million of money would have been, and she became very pale.

"Is that really true, mother?" she asked in a low voice.

"It's true that we've lost fifty thousand pounds," said the Duchess mildly. "But it's not true that we are quite ruined."

"You'll soon see whether we are or not, interjected the Duke grimly. "Of course we shall have to leave the castle. In fact, if I were a wise man I should ask Robin to break the entail, so that we could sell it to some American millionaire."

Then, as he caught a glimpse of his wife's horrified face, he added more quietly, "However, perhaps things won't look so black when we've gone into it all."

He waited a moment, then he said in a tone he strove to make kind, "You must make Geoffrey Brentlaw understand, Susie, that marriage with you is out of the question. I oughtn't to have spoken of him as I did just now, for I know, of course, that he's a gallant young chap, a credit to his country, and all that sort of thing. But you know as well as I do, my dear, that he is not in a position to marry any girl—you least of all. Why, his father's been put to it to give him a hundred a year! And didn't I hear something as to his exchanging into an Indian regiment?"

"Yes, father, he has done so, and"

"And what?" asked the Duke angrily.

"—I want to be married at once, so that I can go out to India with him."

The two looked at one another each with the same set, determined, and what the onlooker, to herself, called obstinate, mouth.

The Duchess took a step forward, and put her arms round her daughter. "Darling," she whispered in a strangled voice, "I don't believe you really love Geoffrey"

"I do—I do—I do!" the girl exclaimed chokingly.

Then she went on, a little wildly: "There are such different kinds of love, mother. I should have thought that you would know that. I have come to love Geoffrey because he's so good, and—so dependable"—the tears were running down her cheeks now—"also because he does love me so very much! He's always loved me, and I've always known it, of course. You and father never noticed it. But Mrs. Parsleet did!"

And then she wrenched herself from her mother's arms, and turning, ran out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

"Now you see the result of your system of bringing up your children," said the Duke angrily. "You're always boasting of how superior they are to other people's children, how much more loving and obedient to us, their fortunate parents. You see a sample of Susie's obedience now."

As the Duchess said nothing, he went on savagely, "What did the silly child mean by saying there are different ways of loving? Why, she doesn't know the meaning of the word, love,—"

"One never knows what one's children know nowadays," said the Duchess feebly.

"You mayn't know, but I know! Only in July Susie told me she meant to remain single, like your Aunt Lolly. That was when she had refused that nice chap, Latterdale, after whom all the girls, and the mammies too, were in full cry."

"She didn't like him," said the Duchess quickly. "And apparently she does like poor Geoffrey."

"Stuff and nonsense! But Laura"

"Yes?"

"Did you notice hat she said about Parsleet? I'm afraid the old woman has had a hand in this."

"I'm sure she hasn't! I'm sure she'll be horrified."

"That's all very well. But she evidently saw the way the wind was blowing, and she ought to have told you."

"I expect she saw only what I ought to have seen—that Geoffrey was in love with Susie. The dear old thing certainly knew I was in love with you long before I knew it myself! In fact, I'm not sure that Parsy didn't put the idea into my head. But then, you know?"

The Duchess stood on tiptoe and whispered low into her husband's ear, "You were already my Lord Duke. Parsleet didn't forget that!"

, once the Duchess's nurse, was now the highly respected and, in a sense, the greatly feared, housekeeper of the castle.

But Mrs. Parsleet was very much more than that, not only in her own estimation, but in the estimation of every man, woman, and child there, from the Duke to the pantry-boy. She had been not only the Duchess's nurse, but her foster-mother as well. Indeed, her connection with her Grace's family, as she sometimes told herself with satisfaction, had begun before the Duchess was born, for Mrs. Parsleet, as plain Miss Parsleet, though even then a middle-aged woman, had been chosen as maid to the great heiress who had been the Duchess's mother.

In those days, at any rate, considerable trouble was taken to provide a bride dowered with a sufficiency of this world's goods with a responsible "own woman" who, it was hoped, would accompany her in her voyage through life, beginning with her honeymoon.

The choice, in this case, had been a singularly happy one. The maid had proved worthy of the trust reposed in her, and when, after two years of faithful service, she had stood by her dear lady's dying-bed, it was to her that the young mother had, in her extremity, turned.

"Parsleet," she had whispered, with a look of agonised urgency on her pallid face, "you will never leave my little baby, will you? I don't feel I can trust her with anyone but you." And the other had replied quietly, almost dryly, "You can rely on me, ma'am. I'll stay with the precious lamb as long as her papa will let me."

That promise had been given a good many more years ago than the Duchess now cared to remember, and though the nurse, to her regret, for she held Victorian views as to the upbringing of children, and especially of young ladies, had never been able to break her darling nursling's spirit, it was touching how their deep love for one another had endured.

It was to Parsy, as she had always called her, and as she still called her, though never, now, in the presence of anyone else, not even in that of her children, that the Duchess had always gone with her troubles, her anxieties, and. what perhaps is the greatest test of love, her intimate joys.

Here in the castle, Mrs. Parsleet—for she had chosen to assume brevet rank when her young lady had done so—reigned as absolute sovereign over the great household. And as time went on, her power grew rather than diminished.

Though she was very, very old—no one knew her age even approximately, and it was the one question the Duchess had never dared, at any time of her life, to ask her—till last year Mrs. Parsleet had always insisted on taking certain tourist parties round not only the castle, on the two days when the state-rooms were shown, but also the keep. Among those who did not love the housekeeper some would whisper that she was uncommonly fond of money, and that though it was well known by those whom such matters interested, that Mrs. Parsleet must be a very warm woman indeed! For one thing, not only her Grace's mother, but many years later, her Grace's father, had left this faithful friend a tidy bit of money. That being so, it seemed strange to these same folk that the old lady went on occupying a position which more than one younger woman, known to all and sundry, could have filled quite as adequately, and far more pleasantly.

But Mrs. Parsleet never even thought of retiring! According to her lights she would have committed a grave dereliction of duty in doing so. Why, how could life be carried on in the castle, either below or above stairs, without herself being there to make sure that no wicked advantage was being taken of their over-confiding Graces?

Not that she was one to bustle about making herself cheap. She ruled by her vigorous power of speech, and her remarkable gift of inspiring awe, aye, and even fear. Even Mr. Rowley, that greatest of gentleman's gentlemen, the Duke's own man, had once in a moment of expansion admitted to the very attractive upper housemaid (whom he afterwards married) that in Mrs. Parsleet's presence he had known himself to shiver and shake. As for the under-servants, they regarded her with inexpressible terror, and averred, sometimes with tears, that she must surely have eyes at the back of her head.

Mrs. Parsleet was mistress of two apartments: the one, known as the Housekeeper's Room, was large and gloomy, handsome in its appointments, but not comfortable or really liveable. Different indeed was that known as Mrs. Parsleet's Room.

When you stepped through the heavy mahogany door of Mrs. Parsleet's Room you walked not forward, as you doubtless imagined yourself to be doing, but backward, right into the middle of the nineteenth century. Bright mahogany and highly polished rosewood vied there in friendly rivalry. The wallpaper was bright, blue starred with gold fleurs-de-lis, and Mrs. Parsleet had felt extremely gratified when one of the maids in attendance on a royal visitor had informed her that that very same wallpaper had lined the corridors of Windsor Castle in Queen Victoria's day! Mrs. Parsleet's ideal of womanhood had always been Queen Victoria. This was in a sense strange, as the Duchess, who was the bright sun round whom everything in Mrs. Parsleet's high little world revolved, was very unlike Queen Victoria in everything, save that both those great ladies had had a large family of children.

Mrs. Parsleet had an indulgent affection for her young lords and her young ladies, as she called them, but not one of them had ever challenged the place of their mother in her heart. Also, much as she admired and approved of the Duke, his only place in her universe was that of the fortunate nobleman who's privilege it had been to make her cherished darling a Duchess.

"Come in," quavered the voice which had now been for, well, not so very far off half a century, the one voice which had made even the Duchess tremble, and the only voice to whose admonitions she would, even now, lend a really attentive ear....

As the door opened, Mrs. Parsleet rose, not very easily, from her high chair. And then, when she saw who it was, she made a little curtsy—the sort of curtsy she had seen the Duchess once make to the Queen.

"Parsy, darling!"

The Duchess ran forward and folded the old woman in her arms. Then she felt a little pang of fear and pain, for, in spite of her still fine appearance, Mrs. Parsleet was certainly growing smaller. It was as if she was shrinking, rather than fading, away.

"Sit down," said the visitor, and very gently she put her old nurse back into the high arm-chair.

Then she drew forward a stool covered with Berlin-wool work, and sat down in front of her. "How smart you look!" she said fondly.

And indeed Mrs. Parsleet did look very smart, in her full black silk dress, black satin apron, and real lace cap. Round her neck and hanging on her bosom was a jet chain to which was attached a large oval jet pendant. On one side of the pendant were the initials, in pearls, of the owner's long-dead lady, the Duchess's mother, and on the other side of it was a miniature of a fat, not over-attractive-looking baby: the Duchess, at eighteen months, painted by a then fashionable miniature painter, as a commission from the infant sitter's papa.

Sometimes, when no one was looking, Mrs. Parsleet would just move the locket along, two or three inches to the left, so that it might rest just above where she supposed her stout old heart to be placed in her now fragile body.

"Sad news about poor Hapollo," said Mrs. Parsleet gravely. Though she had never been known to drop an h, she did occasionally add an h where none should be. "I fear his Grace is very much upset about it."

"He is indeed," said the Duchess sadly; "he is terribly upset, Parsy, but"

Before she could finish her sentence the old woman went on, "Luckily poor Hapollo left some very coming-on little ones; that should comfort his Grace."

"How clever of you to think of that!" exclaimed the Duchess. "But I doubt if among Apollo's sons and daughters there's any beast who'll take his place in the Duke's heart."

Mrs. Parsleet put out her thin, blue-veined hand, and laid it on the Duchess's shoulder. "Anything upsetting you, my dearie—apart, I mean, from poor Hapollo?"

"Yes," said the Duchess in a low voice, "I've been very much upset this morning, and I couldn't help remembering, Parsy dear, what you used to say when I was a child—that bad luck always comes in threes! Apart from Apollo, I've heard two other very bad pieces of news this morning."

"I'm sorry to hear that," said Mrs. Parsleet feelingly.

Yet her old heart felt full of joy, for she knew that the Duchess had come to her to be, in a manner of speaking, cheered up.

"You remember Cousin John, Parsy?"

"Yes, I do mind him very well. He's dead, poor gentleman. I read a bit about him in my paper. Very well liked and popular they said he was," answered Mrs. Parsleet, in a rather peculiar voice.

"He was left sole trustee to part of my marriage settlement, after Mr. Willington died."

"Aye, I mind that."

"Well, somehow or other—you know he wasn't a man of business, and I suppose he always lived beyond his means"

"A very extravagant gentleman," said Mrs. Parsleet dryly.

"—he muddled away about fifty thousand pounds of my money."

"There now! He never did?"

Mrs. Parsleet looked horror-struck, as well she might.

She reminded herself with satisfaction that never had she liked Cousin John. She had always thought him something of an artful dodger, for all his pleasant, hearty ways.

The Duchess went on, speaking a little breathlessly: "But it's no good crying over spilt milk, as I told his Grace just now. But, of course, the loss of fifty thousand pounds is a very serious thing"

"And what may the third bad thing be?" asked Mrs. Parsleet anxiously.

"The third thing," said the Duchess slowly, "is to me, by far the worst, Parsy. Lady Susie went and told Captain Geoffrey Brentlaw this morning that she will marry him!"

And then Mrs. Parsleet showed that she was indeed getting very old, for instead of appearing shocked, she murmured, "I always knew the Captain haspired to her little ladyship. And more than once I says to myself lately, when I noticed out of my window how friendly they seemed together, 'None but the brave deserve the fair.'"

"That's all very well," said the Duchess crossly, for she felt just a little irritated. "But not even the brave, let alone the fair, can live long on bread and cheese and kisses. Now, Parsy, do be honest!"

"I do be honest, your Grace. And of course I needn't say that the Captain's not the exact young gentleman I would have chosen. But then I wouldn't have picked out Mr. Harmitage, and you let Lady Lettice have him!"

This was an allusion to the Duchess's existent son-in-law. Once Gerald Armitage had so far forgotten himself as to try and patronise Mrs. Parsleet; and ever since then, though she knew how wicked it is to hate, she had really hated him.

"And that isn't all," went on the Duchess. "Geoffrey is going to India almost at once—and the child wants to go with him!"

"To India? Ho dear! Ho dear!"

"And the poor fellow has exchanged into an Indian regiment which is stationed, I believe, in a very hot, unhealthy part of India. His mother was bemoaning the fact to me the other day. You can't wonder at his Grace being horrified at the thought of our daughter facing such a life."

"I hope she's not much set on it," said the old woman anxiously.

"She does seem very much set upon it, unfortunately. And, after all, it's rather absurd—as she's known Geoffrey Brentlaw all her life!"

"Maybe she's not forgotten the day he came home as a conquering hero?" observed Mrs. Parsleet. "We was all very proud of him then."

Sad, troubled, uncomfortable days followed at the Castle. Indeed, only those who have gone through the experience of staying in a country house where an engagement is in process of being broken, either gently, or by violence, realise how painful and depressing such a situation can be, not only for the two unhappy people most concerned, but also for everyone about them.

Again and again, during those long days, when looking into her daughter's pale, unhappy face, the Duchess felt a feeling of doubt and misgiving. But the Duke seldom asserted his authority, and when he did assert it, his wife always supported him. But she felt the more wretched because the primary cause of all the trouble, as she bitterly reminded herself, had been her Cousin John's callous dishonesty. In the Duke's, if not in the Duchess's imagination, that vanished fifty thousand pounds had grown and grown until it had become a mountain of money, the loss of which must mean the condemnation to poverty of all their younger children. In vain did Lady Susie declare tearfully that she and Geoffrey would be able to manage very well on his pay joined to the good allowance her parents made her for her clothes, and for what her father called her fal-lals. But in answer to this assertion the Duke reminded her, not unkindly, that she had never managed to keep within that allowance, and that in spite of the presents her mother was always giving her.

At last, after innumerable discussions and interviews with Geoffrey Brentlaw, his apologetic father, and his tearful mother, the Duke so far gave way as to say that if, at the time of the young soldier's first leave home, he was still of the same mind, and found Lady Susie also of the same mind, they might begin to consider a formal engagement.

"If in two or three years," said the Duke to his daughter, "you and Geoffrey still wish to be married, your mother and I will see what we can do. Even then we shall not be able to do much, but no doubt we shall have been able to retrench here and there, and we shall know better where we stand."

In answer to her submissive "Thank you, father," he went on ruthlessly: "I should be a hypocrite, my dear, if I said that I hoped that in the end you would marry Geoffrey Brentlaw. In you, Susie, pity has been akin to love. Once you see someone you can really care for—as a woman ought to care for the man she marries—once you're what people call 'in love,' you'll thank me, my child, for having saved you from this marriage."

And yet, though the Duke was adamant outwardly, even he felt a touch of doubt as to whether he was doing right or wrong. The more he saw of Geoffrey Brentlaw the better he thought of him, and the less he believed the spiteful old tale that as a boy he had left half his brains on a fence! He even secretly told himself that if his little Susie went on feeling as apparently she did feel, now, he would try and see, long before young Brentlaw's leave home was due, whether anything could be done.

" would be grateful if your Grace could arrange to see her for a few moments to-day. If your Grace will indicate what time would be convenient, Mrs. Parsleet will wait upon your Grace."

The Duchess looked up into the butler's impassive face. She felt just a little surprised, for Mrs. Parsleet had made it a rule, from the day she had become housekeeper at the castle, never to ask to see her mistress. This wise rule she had broken only twice, and each time there had been a grave and sufficient reason. That the Duchess should intimate her desire for her housekeeper's presence was only right and proper, but Mrs. Parsleet hoped she knew her place too well to force herself on her Grace.

"Please tell Mrs. Parsleet that I do not wish her to disturb herself, and that I will come to her sitting-room at three o'clock."

Mrs. Parsleet received the Duchess standing; she always did this when she knew that she was to be honoured by a visit from her illustrious nursling.

After the welcome visitor had entered the room, the old woman went slowly across to the door and locked it, and, as she walked back, the Duchess noticed how old and shrunken she looked.

"Parsy?" she said solicitously. "What's the matter, darling? Don't you feel well?" She was filled with vague apprehension. Perhaps for the first time in her full life she apprehended what a terrible loss out of that full life her old nurse would be, and how much of a happy past would vanish with Parsy....

"Nothing's the matter with me that I know of, dearie. But I'm a bit nervous, for I've got to ask you to let me do something, and I'm so afeard that you'll be frazzled, and maybe say 'no'!"

When Mrs. Parsleet was really agitated she sometimes uttered a word which belonged to the dim days of her early-Victorian childhood.

"I could never say 'no' to you, Parsy. And I don't think you ought even to suspect me of being able to do such a thing!"

She tried to make Mrs. Parsleet sit down in her high arm-chair, but the old woman resisted the loving effort. Instead she put her long thin arms round the Duchess.

"I've been thinking," she said, in a muffled tone, "a great deal of our little Lady Susie, and of that fine young gentleman of hers."

"So have I, Parsy. But what can I do? I told you yesterday what had been settled. The Duke feels sure that it won't do either of them any harm to wait a while if, that is, they truly care for one another."

"I don't believe much in waiting—not when one's young," said Mrs. Parsleet. "When a body's old 'tis easy-like to stand up to disappointment."

As the Duchess made no answer to this, she went on, in a voice that shook a little: "Something once happened to me, dearie. Something I never told anyone. But I've not forgotten it, though"—she began to count in her own mind—"'tain't far from sixty years ago it happened. His name was Charlie, and it was all the fault of his mother, who said she didn't see why we couldn't wait. So we did wait, and he got to like another young person. I never got over it—no, that I never did!" There came a strange tone of passion and pain in the old voice. "And since then I've always been chary of parting two loving hearts."

The Duchess felt very much moved. She knew now what had always been rather a puzzle to her—why Mrs. Parsleet, in that one matter of lovers, had always appeared so curiously soft. When it came to a question of matrimony the housekeeper would always do anything in her power to hasten the wedding.

"I agree with you, Parsy. Yet I don't see what I can do," she murmured distressfully. "The Duke does not feel that we are in a position to give our daughter a sufficient allowance to make her as comfortable as we both feel she ought to be. The loss of that really huge sum of money has quite upset his Grace."

"It were enough to quite upset a lesser nobleman," said Mrs. Parsleet solemnly.

"Times have changed," went on the Duchess in a low voice. "Our sons will have to make their way in the world, and to start them will cost money."

"Aye, I know that," said the old woman eagerly, "and your Grace saying so makes it easy for me, so it do, to tell you what I wants to say. I don't suppose"—she smiled a thin wintry smile—"that you've ever given much thought to my money?"

"Your money, Parsy?"

The Duchess was genuinely astonished. Somehow she had always thought of her dear old nurse as having no money, save of course her handsome wages. Then she remembered, as one remembers a thing that has made a certain impression on the mind at the time, though it has been forgotten since, that her father had left Parsleet a legacy of two thousand pounds. She also recalled, now, how at the time when some family friend had spoken of this legacy as of an amazing proof of generosity, she had told herself what a poor recompense was two thousand pounds, if measured by the immense wealth left to herself, for all that her old nurse had given so freely and so gladly in the kind of care and devotion that no treasure, however great, can buy.

So now she said hesitatingly, "I know that papa left you a little money, Parsy."

"He left me," said Mrs. Parsleet quietly, "just the same as had done your mamma, dearie. And very, very good it was of the dear gentleman! And then I had one or two lucky hits in what they call hinvestisments, but though maybe you'll hardly believe it, I made just about as much again in the long years I was showing the castle!"

She lowered her voice. "Very generous some folk were before the war! One American gentleman went so far as to give me a five-pun note just because I'd gone out of my way to tell him something of the history of the family when showing him our portraits! And as for the Countess of Bellborough—I mean, your Grace, the Dowager Countess, she always sent me a sovereign whenever I showed any of the grand folk who came over from her ladyship's house round the castle."

"That was certainly very generous," said the Duchess with a touch of discomfort. All this was something of a revelation to her.

Did these confidences portend that Parsy wished to leave them—to end her life, may be, in some little home of her own?

Human nature is an incalculable thing. The Duchess was too intelligent a woman not to know that. Yet the thought that Parsy should think of leaving her, even if only to live close by in the town, filled her with an extraordinary sense of pain, of loneliness, and of loss.

"I wonder if your Grace can guess how much money I have?" Mrs. Parsleet was smiling mysteriously.

"I have no idea how much money you have, Parsy. How could I guess? This is the first time you and I have ever talked of money."

"I know that, dearie. And I never meant you to know till my will was read. But now there's a reason for your knowing"

Mrs. Parsleet took a little slip of paper out of her black satin apron pocket, and held it close up to her dim eyes, though she knew the figures hat were written there by heart.

"It's nine thousand three hundred and forty-nine pounds fifteen shillings," she exclaimed, in a triumphant tone. "And I want you and his Grace to let me just give it now, as a wedding present to Lady Susie. I know it isn't a fortune to such as her, and even to such as her young gentleman. But still it's a tidy bit of money even for them, your Grace; and it'll make it easy for them to be married now, and for them to get along comfortable till his Grace feels he can come down handsome again."

The Duchess pushed the old woman into her high chair, and then she sank down and put her head on her nurse's lap.

She hadn't done that for years—not since she had been in an extremity of grief over the loss of one of her little boys.

Mrs. Parsleet put her hand on her darling's hair.

"In a little while—though not, please God, just yet—this money of mine would have been your money, dearie. There's no one left in the world belonging to me, so of course I've left it all to you—who else is there I could leave it to? So it's you I'm robbing, really, by this plan of mine."

The Duchess raised her head. "It would be an impertinence for me to thank you, Parsy. I'll tell the Duke of your generous thought, and I'll tell him that in my opinion we ought to do whatever you want us to do. But, Parsy? I can't answer for him!"

"Pray tell his Grace that no one will ever know," said Mrs. Parsleet. "Also, that it isn't thanks I'm after. All I wants is for them two young folk to be happy together."

After the Duchess had left her, Mrs. Parsleet felt suddenly not only very tired, but full of unease and apprehension. Her interview with her beloved lady had gone off better than she had expected, but she now felt very much afraid of the Duke!

Yet the Duke had always been peculiarly kind and courteous to the Duchess's old nurse, and that from the very early days of his married life when, truth to tell, he had sometimes been very jealous of Parsy, and of Parsy's influence over his wife.

The shades of evening began to gather over the room. But Mrs. Parsleet, sitting upright in her high arm-chair, did not ring the bell for someone to come to turn on the lights for her.

Perhaps, without knowing it, she dozed awhile, for it was almost dark when the door opened, and the only voice she loved said gently, "May we come in, Parsy?"

"Why, certainly, your Grace."

And then, as Mrs. Parsleet stood up, she saw that by the Duchess's side loomed up the tall figure of the Duke.

Now his Grace came into Mrs. Parsleet's Room only once a year, on Christmas Day, to bring her in person his Christmas gift, and his goodwishes [sic].

But now there he stood, silent and impassive, as was his wont, and the old woman's heart sank within her.

"My wife has told me, Mrs. Parsleet, of your most generous thought—of the splendid gift you wish to bestow on our child. And I have come to thank you myself."

He uttered the words with a certain difficulty, for he was shy, as well as very proud.

"I trust her Grace has told your Grace that that money really belongs to her Grace?" said Mrs. Parsleet in a trembling voice.

"To her Grace?" said the Duke in a surprised voice. "What do you mean, Mrs. Parsleet?"

"I mean," she said in firmer tones, "that first it was her mamma, then it was her papa, left me what accounts for more than half my money. As for the rest, well, by rights"

He cut her short a little sternly. "I think I see what you mean. But, Mrs. Parsleet? I feel glad to be able to tell you that we shall not have occasion to profit by your most generous thought. I've been going into my private affairs this very day, and I find that I shall be able to give Lady Susie an allowance quite sufficiently adequate for a poor man's wife—that, of course, she will be, and to the end of her life if she now marries Captain Brentlaw."

"I see," said Mrs. Parsleet; and then again she said falteringly, "I see."

She could not speak: she was so very disappointed; and yet, so she told herself pitifully, how could she have expected anything else from so proud and high a gentleman as was my Lord Duke? She felt that she had indeed been a foolish old woman.

"Oh, James, we've hurt her! She's horribly disappointed," murmured the Duchess, and she melted into tears.

The Duke took an eager step forward. "I know just how you feel!" he exclaimed; and his voice now sounded extraordinarily soft and kind, quite different from what it had appeared to be, a few moments ago.

He took Mrs. Parsleet's hand. "I'm afraid you must think me ungrateful—but indeed, indeed I'm not!"

He turned to his wife. "You tell her, Laura, what you told me would be your idea in, I trust, a very distant future."

"Shall I? I will!"

The Duchess ran up to her old nurse.

"I told the Duke," she said breathlessly, "what you'd told me—I mean that you have left me all your money, darling Parsy! And I said to him that if you didn't change your mind—then on the day, a very, very distant day, please God, when I get your fortune, I shall hand it over to Susie, and tell her that it is from you to help her to an easier life. For, of course, poor Geoffrey Brentlaw will never have any money. So, you see, they will benefit—our lovers—after all, by your great kindness."

"I am very pleased to hear you say that, your Grace," murmured Mrs. Parsleet.

"You can go now," exclaimed the Duchess, giving the Duke a little push. "I'm staying with Parsy for a little while."

And after they had heard the firm step echoing down the stone passage, the Duchess whispered, "It's all owing to you, Parsy, that his Grace has given in! Your splendid generosity shook him into behaving as a father should! I'm going to tell Susie now, at once, that she owes it all to you."

"There's no call for your Grace to do that," murmured Mrs. Parsleet.

"Of course I am! And now I must go off and see the child. It's a wonderful thing to be able to change sadness into gladness, defeat into victory; that's what I'm going to do with that little girl of mine—and all thanks to you, Parsy!"

She ran across to the door, and she turned on the electric light. Then she came back, and bending down, she kissed Mrs. Parsleet. "You must have a rest now," she said tenderly. "Even I feel quite tired!"

The old woman caught hold of her hand. "Good night, good night, my Blessing."

It was years and years since Mrs. Parsleet had called the Duchess that.

Late that same evening, after the engagement had been announced, the happy couple's health drunk above and below stairs, and the ladies had gone into the drawing-room, the Duchess went upstairs. She wanted to find a miniature of her mother, to show her prospective son-in-law, for it was thought to be very like Susie.

As, alone, she hurried towards her bedroom, her mind turned to her old nurse.

It hurt her, somehow, to know, as know she did, that a woman of so fine and generous a nature should inspire such fear in those under her rule and care. She wondered, deep in her heart, whether they were as overawed as was always said to be the case, and whether Mrs. Parsleet, at any rate, as she grew older, did not really rule by love rather than by fear?

With this in her mind she went into her bedroom, to find, to her surprise, the room lit up. Then, suddenly, she became aware that in front of her dressing-table stood a little under-housemaid, and that round the girl's neck hung a splendid necklace of emeralds and diamonds which she, the Duchess, had intended to wear to-night and had discarded at the last moment.

Hearing the sound of footsteps the naughty girl turned round, and a look of awful terror came into her eyes, so awful, indeed, that the kind Duchess felt mollified.

"Jenny?—it is Jenny Fearon, isn't it?—don't look so frightened, my dear! Of course you did wrong, for no one ought to touch anything that doesn't belong to her. But I suppose you were tempted, and longed to see how you would look in my necklace! Did you come in here to make up the fire?"

The girl opened her lips, but she could not speak. She stood still, transfixed with fear, her mouth open, her eyes, as the Duchess put it to herself, popping out of her head.

"Take off the necklace, and put it down, child!"

With fumbling fingers the girl at last undid the old-fashioned clasp, and the necklace fell to the floor. But all unheeding of that the child—she was only fifteen—joined her hands together, and cried in a shrill tone of supplication and anguish, "Oh, please, please, please, your Grace—don't tell Mrs. Parsleet!"

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