There was, apparently, no other person near enough to listen, and it occurred to her that she might at any rate make a friend of this old man.  His name, he said, was Enoch Gubby, and the girl was his grandchild.  Her name was Patty Gubby.  Then Patty got up and had her head patted by her ladyship and received sixpence.  They neither of them, however, knew who her ladyship was, and, as far as Lady Ongar could ascertain without a question too direct to be asked, had never heard of her.  Enoch Gubby said he worked for Mr. Giles, the steward—­that was for my lord, and as he was old and stiff with rheumatism he only got eight shillings a week.  He had a daughter, the mother of Patty, who worked in the fields, and got six shillings a week.  Everything about the poor Gubbys seemed to be very wretched and miserable.  Sometimes he could hardly drag himself about, he was so bad with the rheumatics.  Then she thought that she would make one person happy, and told him that his wages should be raised to ten shillings a week.  No matter whether he earned it or not, or what Mr. Giles might say; he should have ten shillings a week.

So Enoch Gabby got his weekly ten shillings, though Lady Ongar hardly realized the pleasure that she had expected from the transaction.  She sent that afternoon for Mr. Giles, the steward, and told him what she had done.  Mr. Giles did not at all approve, and spoke his disapproval very plainly, though he garnished his rebuke with a great many “my lady’s.”  The old man was a hanger-on about the place, and for years had received eight shillings a week, which he had not half earned.  “Now he will have ten, that is all,” said Lady Ongar.  Mr. Giles acknowledged that if her ladyship pleased, Enoch Gubby must have the ten shillings, but declared that the business could not be carried on in that way.  Everybody about the place would expect an addition, and those people who did earn what they received, would think themselves cruelly used in being worse treated than Enoch Gubby, who, according to Mr. Giles, was by no means the most worthy old man in the parish.  And as for his daughter—­oh!  Mr. Giles could not trust himself to talk about the daughter to her ladyship.  Before he left her, Lady Ongar was convinced that she had made a mistake.  Not even from charity will pleasure come, if charity be taken up simply to appease remorse.

The price was in her hand.  For a fortnight the idea clung to her, that gradually she would realize the joys of possession; but there was no moment in which she could tell herself that the joy was hers.  She was now mistress of the geography of the place.  There was no more losing herself amidst the shrubberies, no thought of economizing her resources.  Of Mr. Giles and his doings she still knew very little, but the desire of knowing much had faded.  The ownership of the haystacks had become a thing tame to her, and the great cart-horses, as to every one of which she had intended to feel an interest, were matters of indifference