I had started early, and there was still an hour of the short autumn day left when I descended at the little wayside station, from which a six-mile drive brought me to the Grange.A dreary drive I found it--the round, gray, treeless outline of the fells stretching around me on every side beneath the leaden, changeless sky.The night had nearly fallen as we drove along the narrow valley in which the Grange stood: it was too dark to see the autumn tints of the woods which clothed and brightened its sides, almost too dark to distinguish the old tower,--Dame Alice's tower as it was called,--which stood some half a mile farther on at its head.
But the light shone brightly from the Grange windows, and all feeling of dreariness departed as I drove up to the door.Leaving maid and boxes to their fate, I ran up the steps into the old, well-remembered hall, and was informed by the dignified man-servant that her ladyship and the tea were awaiting me in the morning-room.
I found that there was nobody staying in the house except Alan, who was finishing the long vacation there: he had been called to the Bar a couple of years before.The guests were not to arrive for another week, so that I had plenty of opportunity in the interval to make up for lost time with my cousins.I began my observations that evening as we sat down to dinner, a cozy party of four.Lucy was quite unchanged--pretty, foolish, and gentle as ever.George showed the full five years' increase of age, and seemed to have acquired a somewhat painful control of his temper.Instead of the old petulant outbursts, there was at times an air of nervous, irritable self-restraint, which I found the less pleasant of the two.But it was in Alan that the most striking alteration appeared.I felt it the moment I shook hands with him, and the impression deepened that evening with every hour.I told myself that it was only the natural difference between boy and man, between twenty and twenty-five, but I don't think that I believed it.Superficially the change was not great.The slight-built, graceful figure; the deep gray eyes, too small for beauty; the clear-cut features, the delicate, sensitive lips, close shaven now, as they had been hairless then,--all were as I remembered them.
But the face was paler and thinner than it had been, and there were lines round the eyes and at the corners of the mouth which were no more natural to twenty-five than they would have been to twenty.
The old charm indeed--the sweet friendliness of manner, which was his own peculiar possession--was still there.He talked and laughed almost as much as formerly, but the talk was manufactured for our entertainment, and the laughter came from his head and not from his heart.And it was when he was taking no part in the conversation that the change showed most.Then the face, on which in the old time every passing emotion had expressed itself in a constant, living current, became cold and impassive--without interest, and without desire.It was at such times that I knew most certainly that here was something which had been living and was dead.Was it only his boyhood? This question I was unable to answer.
Still, in spite of all, that week was one of the happiest in my life.The brothers were both men of enough ability and cultivation to be pleasant talkers, and Lucy could perform adequately the part of conversational accompanist, which, socially speaking, is all that is required of a woman.The meals and evenings passed quickly and agreeably; the mornings I spent in unending gossips with Lucy, or in games with the children, two bright boys of five and six years old.But the afternoons were the best part of the day.
George was a thorough squire in all his tastes and habits, and every afternoon his wife dutifully accompanied him round farms and coverts, inspecting new buildings, trudging along half-made roads, or marking unoffending trees for destruction.Then Alan and Iwould ride by the hour together over moor and meadowland, often picking our way homewards down the glen-side long after the autumn evenings had closed in.During these rides I had glimpses many a time into depths in Alan's nature of which I doubt whether in the old days he had himself been aware.To me certainly they were as a revelation.A prevailing sadness, occasionally a painful tone of bitterness, characterized these more serious moods of his, but I do not think that, at the end of that week, I would, if I could, have changed the man, whom I was learning to revere and to pity, for the light-hearted playmate whom I felt was lost to me for ever.
II
The only feature of the family life which jarred on me was the attitude of the two brothers towards the children.I did not notice this much at first, and at all times it was a thing to be felt rather than to be seen.George himself never seemed quite at ease with them.The boys were strong and well grown, healthy in mind and body; and one would have thought that the existence of two such representatives to carry on his name and inherit his fortune would have been the very crown of pride and happiness to their father.But it was not so.Lucy indeed was devoted to them, and in all practical matters no one could have been kinder to them than was George.They were free of the whole house, and every indulgence that money could buy for them they had.I never heard him give them a harsh word.But there was something wrong.Aconstraint in their presence, a relief in their absence, an evident dislike of discussing them and their affairs, a total want of that enjoyment of love and possession which in such a case one might have expected to find.Alan's state of mind was even more marked.
