MITCHELHURST PLACE VOL. II [Illustration] MITCHELHURST PLACE A Novel BY MARGARET VELEY AUTHOR OF "FOR PERCIVAL" "Que voulez-vous? Hélas! notre mère Nature, Comme toute autre mère, a ses enfants gâtés, Et pour les malvenus elle est avare et dure!" IN TWO VOLUMES VOL. II. London MACMILLAN AND CO. 1884 _The Right of Translation and Reproduction is Reserved._ Bungay: CLAY AND TAYLOR, PRINTERS. CONTENTS OF VOL. II. PAGE CHAPTER I. NO LETTER 1 CHAPTER II. ONE MORE HOLIDAY 27 CHAPTER III. MOONSHINE 44 CHAPTER IV. REYNOLD'S REGRET 69 CHAPTER V. LOVE'S MESSENGER 85 CHAPTER VI. A PERPLEXING REFLECTION 112 CHAPTER VII. TWO GLANCES 144 CHAPTER VIII. IN NUTFIELD LANE 157 CHAPTER IX. A VERSE OF AN OLD SONG 185 CHAPTER X. JANUARY, 1883 232 MITCHELHURST PLACE CHAPTER I. NO LETTER. The Mitchelhurst postman, coming up to the Place in his daily round, found a young man loitering to and fro within view of the gate. The morning was a pleasant one. The roadside grass was grey with dew, and glistening pearls and diamonds were strung on the threads of gossamer, tangled over bush and blade. The hollies in the hedgerows were brave and bright, and there were many-tinted leaves yet clinging to the bramble-sprays. Sun and wet together had turned the common road to a shining, splendid way, up which the old postman crept, a dull, little, toiling figure, with a bag over his shoulder, and something white in his hand. The young man timed his indolent stroll so that they met each other on the weedy slope, which led to the iron gate, with its solid pillars, and white stone balls. There, with the briefest possible nod by way of salutation, he demanded his letters. The old fellow knew him as the gentleman who was staying with Mr. Hayes, and touched his cap obsequiously. He had carried his bag for more than thirty years, and remembered old Squire Rothwell, and Mr. John, and he fumbled with the letters in his hand, half expecting a curse at his slowness, and hardly knowing what name he was to look for. The other stood with his head high, showing a sharply-cut profile as he turned a little, looking intently in the direction of the Place. Through the black bars shone a pale bright picture of blue sky, and level turf, and the gnarled and fantastic branches of the sunlit avenue. There were yellow leaves on the straight roadway, and shadows softly interlaced, and at the end the white, silent house. The postman finished his investigation, and announced in a hesitating tone, "No, sir, no letter, sir. No letter at all, name of Rothwell." The young man turned upon him. "Harding, I said." "Yes, sir. No, sir, no letter name of Harding." "Are you sure? Give them to me."