Chapter III

YES, there were two of them; though in a tiny village there ought only to be one squire. Indeed, there was only one by right of ancient ownership and long family residence, and that was Mr. Spencer, of Cray Holm, who united in his own person the patronage of the living and the possession of all the broad acres which were included in Little Cray.

He had large estates elsewhere, in addition, was lord of the manor and everybody's landlord within a wide circle, but withal the kindest and most unassuming of men. He had a neighbourly greeting for young and old, the poor as well as the rich. He patted the heads of the youngsters who doffed caps or bobbed little curtseys at his approach, and had not an enemy in the world.

During the past year he had sustained a terrible loss. The partner of more than thirty years had died, and now the family at Cray Holm consisted only of the father, his old maiden sister, Adelaide, and a single fair daughter, just out of her teens. One son and an elder daughter were married, and lived elsewhere.

If you remember the figure that Arthur Glyn, the curate, saw in the little chair at his fireside, on that rainy December evening, you will not need a further description of the squire's daughter. Arthur's was but a twilight dream, which vanished at the sound of a voice. Anna Spencer was the living, breathing reality which had furnished the shadow for that vision.

She was not at the curate's fireside, but at the very moment when the dream took place, she and her father were pacing up and down the drawing-room at Cray Holm—she with her slender fingers clasped on his arm and clinging to him, as they walked together, to and fro, on the velvety carpet with noiseless footfall.

They talked softly, glancing now and then at the little old lady who was nodding by the fireside in the softest of chairs, whilst her brother and niece took the only exercise which the weather permitted.

Aunt Adelaide had complained that it was a sleepy sort of day "not a bit like Christmas," and had proved it by napping over her knitting. Anna had stolen out and forbidden the man to bring in lamps as yet, in order that the old lady might rest on till dinner-time; so only the ruddy firelight cast its gleams in and about the room.

A pretty, if somewhat sombre picture, made father and daughter—he a noble looking man of sixty, tall, well-built, erect, but with hair which had changed very fast from iron grey to silver within the last few months, since the death of his wife. Anna's fair face looked all the fairer, and her figure more slender, because of the soft black dress she wore.

Father and daughter had decided to have no family gathering at Cray Holm this Christmas. Each felt that it would be hard upon the little people to bring them to their grandfather's, and not provide for their enjoyment by gathering other children to make merry with them there.

"Poor darlings! I should love to see them all, but I could not bear fun and frolic, and pattering feet, and ringing laughter, just yet. They might all be here, but without her, Anna, Cray Holm would not look a bit like Christmas. Another year, please God, I shall have become more used to it. So we will be very quiet, dear—you, auntie, and I together. Stay—is there any lonely person who would be made the happier for joining our trio and turning it into a quartet,—one who would enjoy Christmas with us in our sober way, and help us to thank God for all the happy memories the past can furnish, and the glorious hopes born for us poor, sinful mortals with the birth of Christ, our Saviour?"

Mr. Spencer looked inquiringly at Anna. He had a motive in asking the question, and he watched a rising flush on her round cheek, which even the dim light sufficed to reveal. The girl turned off the question with a little quiet laugh, subdued for Aunt Adelaide's sake; and as she gave a half-frightened glance at the drowsy figure, then looked relieved to find that no harm had been done by the unintentional outbreak, she answered:

"There is Mr. Roger Ulyett, papa. Would he like to come, think you?"

Anna was young and loving. Somebody—we will not say who—had crept into the girl's warm heart, and would not be dislodged. She thought that no living being beside herself had the faintest guess as to the lodger that had established himself in that corner; but the loving heart gave a little flutter when her father asked his question. With a spirit of fun which even recent sorrow had not extinguished, the girl suggested "Mr. Roger Ulyett."

The rippling smile on her face broke out into a decided laugh, which made Aunt Adelaide stir upon her soft cushions. It did more. The ripple spread even to the face of Mr. Spencer himself, and he shook his head at Anna, who exulted in the success of her ruse and its effect on her father.

"I was not exactly thinking of Mr. Ulyett, Anna," replied he; "though, in spite of the way in which you have always persisted in laughing at him, he is a capital man; a gentleman, too, by birth, family, and education, for whom I have a true respect."

"And so have I, papa," replied Anna; "only I prefer to respect him at a little distance, as a rule, you know."

"He is your staunch and devoted admirer, Anna, though a hopeless one."

"That is just what I object to, papa."

"To his hopelessness, Anna?"

"No, papa; to his admiration. You know that."

"It is of a very harmless kind, my dear. I believe, when Roger Ulyett first came to the edge of Little Cray parish, built himself a grand house, filled it with costly furniture, and let the world know how fortune had favoured him by turning him into a millionaire before he was fifty, he also thought that money would buy everything. He knows better now, and has learned a great deal in his two years of residence."

Anna pursed her lips a little saucily, then answered—

"If you wish for Mr. Ulyett's presence on Christmas Day, papa, ask him, by all means; though I should think he will be spending it with one or other of the nephews and nieces of whose devoted attention he says so much."

"I happen to know that he is meaning to stay at Fairhill until the middle of January, at any rate. He has not invited any of his dutiful relatives, but intends to have the rector, Mrs. Worthington, and their children to dinner, and afterwards to give the cottagers of Little Cray and their youngsters such a treat and a Christmas-tree as they have never had or seen before. We could not have them here this time, and I meant to make up the loss in another way, and was considering how best to do it, when Mr. Ulyett told me his plan."

"'I do not wish to interfere with your old rights and privileges,' he said; 'but I know you cannot be in tune for this sort of thing yet. Let me do the Christmas business, just for this once, and you can give the youngsters a summer treat under the grand old trees in the park at Cray Holm. You see, my trees are not grown yet; yours are part of a grand heritage which only Time can give; money has to wait upon the old Reaper, after all. Besides, you know,' he continued, 'I must have some engagement to plead for not accepting the invitations I have received from nieces Georgiana, Amelia, Lucia, &c., and nephews too numerous to mention.'"

"I do dislike to hear Mr. Ulyett sneer in that way at his relatives. Just as though they were moved by nothing but mercenary motives in asking him. He shows that he mistrusts his own qualifications for winning their affection," said Anna, warmly.

"Not quite so, my dear. Roger Ulyett's kith and kin all turned their backs on him, because, seeing there were too many branches to the old family-tree for the soil to support, he betook himself to trade. They turned up their noses at him and it, when he accepted the invitation of a wealthy merchant, his godfather, to take a seat in his counting-house. Roger went, cared not a straw for being called a disgrace to the family; used his brains and his hands, too, wherever anything was found for either to do, and won a great fortune, whilst the brothers and sisters nursed their family pride in idleness, and consequent poverty. Do not fancy, Anna, that Roger Ulyett neglects the claims of kindred because he laughs now and then at their having discovered so many merits in the successful man, which were not perceptible in the youth who went out from among them to seek his fortune. I know that while he laughs, he also helps all of them who need it, in the most liberal fashion, and that his open-hearted kindness has won him the real esteem and affection of his relatives, who would fain make up for past slights."

"I am so glad to hear all this, papa. Indeed, I wish now that Mr. Ulyett could come on Christmas Day. His racy, shrewd talk might have amused you."

"To say the truth, my dear, I did ask him, and through doing so found out that he and Mr. Worthington had been laying their heads together, with the result aforesaid."

"That is just like you, papa," said Anna, "inviting guests, and saying nothing to me until they have either accepted or refused your invitation."

If the young speaker had a lingering hope that another invitation might have been given and accepted, she was mistaken; for Mr. Spencer meekly replied, "It was only the one, Anna, and Mr. Ulyett did not accept. Would you like to suggest another?"

There was Mr. Spencer throwing the responsibility on his daughter a second time. If he had only asked Arthur Glyn without leave, he need not have feared a scolding; as if he ever did fear one from such gentle lips!

Perhaps he guessed her thoughts, for he said, "Well, Anna, darling, there is only the curate, and surely Mr. Ulyett would not ask all the people from the new rectory, and neglect the solitary occupant of the old one."

"Mr. Glyn was expecting a sister, papa."

"True, my dear. I remember he told me so. Suppose, then, we ask the two to join us. He is a fine fellow, and a good man. He will talk to me without causing a jar on any tender string, and the young lady will be a little company for you and Aunt Adelaide, who has been sorrowfully remarking that she cannot believe this is the 21st of December, for it is 'not a bit like Christmas,' in-doors or out."

Anna did not wait for more to be said. She slipped quietly out of the room, and before Aunt Adelaide was finally roused by the second dinner-bell, the note of invitation was on its way to Little Cray Rectory, addressed in the clear writing of Anna Spencer. Guess, if you can, how the curate's brow smoothed, and the firelight seemed to dance again, as he read the kindly worded note, and felt that, in spite of drizzle and downpour—of the little sister's absence and his own loneliness—he could no longer look forward to the 25th of December with the thought that for him it would "not be a bit like Christmas."

Miss Spencer had not to wait long for a reply. In fact, the curate carried it himself. Despite the remonstrances of Esther Morris, who persisted that the weather was "not fit for a dog to go out in, much less a Christian and a passon," he donned stout boots and macintosh, and, heedless of rain overhead and mud below him, arrived at Cray Holm just when the little party had adjourned to the drawing-room after dinner.

Mr. Spencer rose and met him with words of welcome, adding that he was just wishing for a worthy opponent at chess; Aunt Adelaide thought Mr. Glyn very kind to venture out on such a night. And if Anna's words were few, her father put his own interpretation on her heightened colour, as she shook hands with Arthur, the last of the three. The father could scarcely forbear a smile as he mentally noted how quickly the invitation had been despatched to Mr. Glyn, and how prompt was the curate's response thereto.

Arthur said pleasant words to and made inquiry after the health of Aunt Adelaide, told Mr. Spencer he fearlessly accepted his challenge to the mimic battle, only he must first answer Miss Spencer's kind note verbally. This took some little time, for he had to tell that Gertrude was not coming to Little Cray, and to add the reason why.

Congratulations and inquiries followed, and Anna was not the least pleased to hear that the little dark-eyed governess was actually going to be the wife of a man whose position and means were similar to those of her own brother.

Mrs. Esther Morris had looked out after the curate as he started on his wet walk to the squire's, and had fervently wished that Mr. Glyn, "as kind a gentleman as ever trod on shoe leather, might not find sour grapes at Cray Holm." We shall see.

We must peep into the other great house, in which Mr. Roger Ulyett and Mr. Worthington are having a confidential chat. The rector has dined at Fairhill, and has arranged with his host all the details of the Christmas treat to the villagers.

We already know something of Mr. Ulyett, so we will not describe his gorgeous mansion or say much about its master. Mr. Spencer's portrait was sufficiently correct, so far as character goes, though few knew how much of good was hidden under brusque manners and a somewhat caustic mode of speech affected by the millionaire of Fairhill.

"By the way," said Mr. Worthington, "you will pardon my saying it, but Glyn seems to be rather left out in the cold. All the details of this Christmas festival have been settled without him."

"And far better so. He knows our plan, and has promised to look in and help to amuse the folk, if needful."

"Which will not be the case. You have devised a programme which will give Little Cray folk enough to talk of till Christmas comes again. But what is he going to do with himself at dinner-time? Surely he will not be left to spend that hour in solitude? I should have asked him, only we are all coming to you, and I thought—"

"I thought his sister was coming."

"She is not." And again the story of Arthur's letter and its contents is told, by a friend's tongue this time.

"Well, to say the truth, I did not want Glyn to be engaged to me, in case a more congenial invitation should reach him. I may be a disappointed man, you know," and the grimace which accompanied this remark made Mr. Worthington burst into a hearty laugh, "but I am no dog in the manger."

It was a favourite notion with Roger Ulyett to air his hopeless admiration of Miss Spencer in the presence of his sympathetic friend, Mr. Worthington.

Not that Roger Ulyett had ever made a formal proposal for the hand of Anna Spencer, for, as he told the rector, he was resolved to do nothing that would close the doors of Cray Holm against him. If he could not win the fair young mistress, he should like to see her and touch her hand as a faithful friend. "Men know they cannot reach the sun, but they like to bask in its warm rays," he said.

The rector laughed at this speech, and replied, "A truce to your joking. You know this sentimental talk is only meant in fun. You never had a serious thought of Anna Spencer."

"I never asked for her, for the excellent reason that she would have said 'No,' and would have been in the right to say it. But she is a gem of a girl, and if she only make a wise choice, Roger Ulyett will be the first to pray, 'May God bless her, and make her very happy with him ever after!'"

Mr. Worthington noted the unusually deep feeling with which Mr. Ulyett spoke. All the sharp, sarcastic ring had left his voice; the keen glance of his dark eyes softened into positive tenderness, and a phase of character rarely exhibited by him was laid bare to the rector's astonished gaze.

But his host only paused for an instant, and was his old self again.

"It takes a fairly wise man, Worthington, to find out that he is an old fool. Happily for me, I made the discovery, and took myself to task for it instead of indulging the world with a laugh at my expense. But, old cynic as people think me, I have a soft place in my heart. One article of faith with me is that 'true love ever desires first the happiness of the beloved object. It cannot be true or worthy of the name if its first aim is self-pleasing.'"

The rector nodded approvingly.

"You have got some other notion into your head about Anna Spencer," he said.

"I have. I believe that there is a man to whom she would not say 'No,' were he to ask the question I never dared to put into words. Not, mind you, that she would, even by a look, do aught to draw a man on for the sake of a petty triumph, or even betray her real feelings unsought. But I suppose certain feelings of one's own, make a looker-on clear-sighted. I have my opinion on the subject."

"More's the pity, for your words can only point to one individual. Poor fellow! His circumstances bind him to silence. He can never speak, let him feel what he may."

And Mr. Worthington was going to tell part of what he knew about Arthur Glyn's past and his quiet self-devotion, but Mr. Ulyett stopped him.

"I knew Worsley Glyn, his father. No need to tell me what a weight that young fellow's shoulders have had to carry from his very boyhood."

Then, turning the conversation, he went into some little details concerning a blanket distribution amongst the fishermen's wives at Cray Thorpe, and these lasted until the carriage came to take the rector home. I am afraid, when Arthur Glyn returned to his fireside at the same hour, his dream repeated itself, and even Esther's entrance with the bedroom candle did not put an end to it this time.