Nor did the many troubles heaped on England, the drained purses, the swollen hearts, the anxious minds, the bereaved houses, the ruptures, the sorrows, and the hatreds, yet reach to dull in any large measure the merriment of the season at Raglan.  Customs are like carpets, for ever wearing out whether we mark it or no, but Lord Worcester’s patriarchal prejudices, cleaving to the old and looking askance on the new, caused them to last longer in Raglan than almost anywhere else:  the old were the things of his fathers which he had loved from his childhood; the new were the things of his children which he had not proven.

What a fire that was that blazed on the hall-hearth under the great chimney, which, dividing in two, embraced a fine window, then again becoming one, sent the hot blast rushing out far into the waste of wintry air!  No one could go within yards of it for the fierce heat of the blazing logs, now and then augmented by huge lumps of coal.  And when, on the evenings of special merry-making, the candles were lit, the musicians were playing, and a country dance was filling the length of the great floor, in which the whole household, from the marquis himself, if his gout permitted, to the grooms and kitchen-maids, would take part, a finer outburst of homely splendour, in which was more colour than gilding, more richness than shine, was not to be seen in all the island.

On such an occasion Rowland had more than once attempted nearer approach to Dorothy, but had gained nothing.  She neither repelled nor encouraged him, but smiled at his better jokes, looked grave at his silly ones, and altogether treated him like a boy, young—­or old—­enough to be troublesome if encouraged.  He grew desperate, and so one night summoned up courage as they stood together waiting for the next dance.

‘Why will you never talk to me, cousin Dorothy?’ he said.

’Is it so, Mr. Scudamore?  I was not aware.  If thou spoke and I answered not, I am sorry.’

‘No, I mean not that,’ returned Scudamore.  ’But when I venture to speak, you always make me feel as if I ought not to have spoken.  When I call you cousin Dorothy, you reply with Mr. Scudamore.’

’The relation is hardly near enough to justify a less measure of observance.’

‘Our mothers loved each other.’

‘They found each other worthy.’

‘And you do not find me such?’ sighed Scudamore, with a smile meant to be both humble and bewitching.

’N-n-o.  Thou hast not made me desire to hold with thee much converse.’

‘Tell me why, cousin, that I may reform that which offends thee.’

’If a man see not his faults with his own eyes, how shall he see them with the eyes of another?’

‘Wilt thou never love me, Dorothy?—­not even a little?’

‘Wherefore should I love thee, Rowland?’

‘We are commanded to love even our enemies.’