Her next care was to assume the entire management of the two children, putting Lord Hartledon’s authority over them at virtual, if not actual, defiance.  The death of her daughter was in truth a severe blow to the dowager; not from love, for she really possessed no natural affection at all, but from fear that she should lose her footing in the house which was so desirable a refuge.  As a preliminary step against this, she began to endeavour to make it more firm and secure.  Altogether she was rendering Hartledon unbearable; and Val would often escape from it, his boy in his hand, and take refuge with Mrs. Ashton.

That Lord Hartledon’s love for his children was intense there could be no question about; but it was nevertheless of a peculiarly reticent nature.  He had rarely, if ever, been seen to caress them.  The boy told tales of how papa would kiss him, even weep over him, in solitude; but he would not give him so much as an endearing name in the presence of others.  Poor Maude had called him all the pet names in a fond mother’s vocabulary; Lord Hartledon always called him Edward, and nothing more.

A few evenings after the funeral had taken place, Mirrable, who had been into Calne, was hurrying back in the twilight.  As she passed Jabez Gum’s gate, the clerk’s wife was standing at it, talking to Mrs. Jones.  The two were laughing:  Mrs. Gum seemed in a less depressed state than usual, and the other less snappish.

“Is it you!” exclaimed Mrs. Jones, as Mirrable stopped.  “I was just saying I’d not set eyes on you in your new mourning.”

“And laughing over it,” returned Mirrable.

“No!” was Mrs. Jones’s retort.  “I’d been telling of a trick I served Jones, and Nance was laughing at that.  Silk and crepe!  It’s fine to be you, Mrs. Mirrable!”

“How’s Jabez, Nancy?” asked Mirrable, passing over Mrs. Jones’s criticism.

“He’s gone to Garchester,” replied Mrs. Gum, who was given to indirect answers.  “I thought I was never going to see you again, Mary.”

“You could not expect to see me whilst the house was in its recent state,” answered Mirrable.  “We have been in a bustle, as you may suppose.”

“You’ve not had many staying there.”

“Only Mr. Carr; and he left to-day.  We’ve got the old countess-dowager still.”

“And likely to have her, if all’s true that’s said,” put in Mrs. Jones.

Mirrable tacitly admitted the probability.  Her private opinion was that nothing short of a miracle could ever remove the Dowager Kirton from the house again.  Had any one told Mirrable, as she stood there, that her ladyship would be leaving of her own accord that night, she had simply said it was impossible.

“Mary,” cried the weak voice of poor timid Mrs. Gum, “how was it none of the brothers came to the funeral?  Jabez was wondering.  She had a lot, I’ve heard.”

“It was not convenient to them, I suppose,” replied Mirrable.  “The one in the Isle of Wight had gone cruising in somebody’s yacht, or he’d have come with the dowager; and Lord Kirton telegraphed from Ireland that he was prevented coming.  I know nothing about the rest.”