“You’ll do it much better after a walk. I can’t understand anything after the fumes of the school, unless I do a bit of visiting first; and that pheasant is a real stunner. It really is parish work, Jenny. Look here, this is what I’m reading her.”
“Learn to die!” said Jenny, laughing heartily. “Nothing could be more appropriate, only you should have begun before October.”
“You choose to make fun of everything!” answered Herbert, gruffly; and Jenny, deciding that she would see a specimen day, made her peace by consenting to share in the pastoral visit, whether to pheasant or peasant. Indeed, a walk with Herbert was one of the prime pleasures of her life—and this was delightful, along broad gravelled drives through the autumnal woods with tinted beech-leaves above, and brackens of all shades of brown, green, and yellow beneath. And it was charming to see Herbert’s ways with the old woman—a dainty old dame, such as is grown in the upper ranks of service, whom he treated with a hearty, bantering, coaxing manner, which she evidently enjoyed extremely. His reading, for he did come to more serious matters, was very good—in a voice that without effort reached deaf ears, and with feeling about it that did a great deal to reassure his sister that there was something behind the big bright boy.
But by the time he had done the honours of all the pheasants, and all the dogs, and all the ferrets, and all the stuffed birds, and all the eggs (for the keeper was a bit of a naturalist), and had discussed Mr. Frank’s last day’s shooting, it was so late, that Jenny had only just time to walk back to the Hall at her best pace, to see Mrs. Poynsett for a few minutes before luncheon; and her reception was, “Is that Herbert’s step? Call him in, my dear!—You must make the most of your sister, Herbert. Come in to all meals while she is here.”
He heard with gratitude—his sister with consternation. If forenoon pastoral visits were to be on that scale, and he dined out whenever he was not at school or at church, how would his books fare? and yet she could not grudge his pleasure. She could not help looking half foolish, half sad, when she met the Rector’s eye.
Julius thought so much of her advice, as to knock at Cecil’s sitting-room door, and beg to ask her a question; and as she liked to be consulted, she welcomed him hospitably into that temple, sacred to culture and to Dunstone—full of drawings, books, and china.
“I was thinking,” he said, “of offering Anne some parish work. I wanted to know if you saw any objection?”
“Certainly not; I have not been able to make acquaintance yet with all our tenants, but they seem quite to understand the difference in our positions,” said Cecil, with due deliberation.
Julius choked his amusement, and waived that point. “But did you not feel obliged to decline her services at the Wil’sbro’ work-room?”
“That was quite another thing. What was most undesirable in such an institution would be all very well for your old women.”