CHAPTER II.
It was long past five o'clock on the following afternoon, when the third-class train, dragging its slow length along, crawled into the gas-lighted station belonging to the large and important county town of Brigham. Mary Mackworth was chilled, and cramped, and hungry, and weary, but nevertheless full of delight, which had been increasing for the last hour or two, as the names of well-known places were shouted out, and as now and then through the darkness dimly loomed the outline of hills, towers, and churches, all familiar landmarks.
As her bright face appeared at the window, a hand was laid on the door, and a tall, well-grown lad, a year or two younger than herself, and very like her, helped her eagerly from the carriage.
"Well, Mary!" "Well, my dearest old Harry!" were the greetings of the brother and sister; and then followed the inevitable questions and answers about luggage; and then followed the rush to secure it; and then they emerged into the street where several vehicles were waiting.
"There is the van!" exclaimed Mary, "and old Dobson and his old horse, all just as ever."
"Yes; but you're not going in the van," said Harry, importantly; "Dobson will take your box, but I have borrowed Farmer Murch's gig for you and me. Here it is; you haven't forgotten how to climb into a gig, Mary, have you?"
"Not I," laughed Mary, as she scrambled into her place, and let Harry draw the leathern apron over her knees; "jump in, Harry, I long to be off; how are they all?"
"All flourishing except Cilly—she's a poor piece of goods this winter—but there's nothing much the matter with her."
"And Jack and Laurry?"
"Oh! they're all right—grown like beans," answered Harry.
"How home-like it all looks!" cried Mary, with sparkling eyes, as they left the town, and emerged into the dark country road.
"Better than all the swell London shops, eh?" said Harry with a smile. "Hollo!"
The exclamation was caused by a mail phaeton, drawn by a pair of high stepping horses, which met them at the moment. A groom was driving; otherwise the carriage was empty.
"What a grand affair for this part of the world!" cried Mary. "Who can it belong to, Harry?"
"Can't imagine. Oh, yes, I can, though. The great banker, Mr. Langley, has bought Nettlehurst, and I dare say it is one of his concerns going to meet the down express, at five-fifty."
"Mr. Langley who has the Bank of Brigham? Why I thought he was dead?"
"To be sure: he died a year ago—the old man did, that is—and left the bank and money, and all the rest of it, to his cousin, who was as rich as Crœsus before, they say. The London bank of the same name belongs to him; but that's always the way. Wealth attracts wealth."
"And the new man has bought Nettlehurst! Then the poor old Hathaways are quite gone out of the land, I suppose! That seems sad."
"A precious good thing, bad lot that they were. There have been painters and paperers, and all sorts of doings there, all the summer, and the banker is coming to take possession now, they say. I bet anything he's coming to-night."
"I dare say it will be a good change for all the poor people about Nettlehurst, especially if his wife is nice."
"He has no wife, I believe, another old bachelor, like Mr. Langley. But he's going to give a ball, I heard some people saying, by way of house-warming, so I suppose he must have some sort of womankind belonging to him to do the honours."
"Oh how I should like to go!" cried Mary, eagerly.
"Much chance of that! Do you suppose he'll ever hear of your existence? Why, Nettlehurst isn't even in our parish, you know; it's right over the hill; and we don't know this man, nor anything about him, except that he's first cousin to old Langley,—and beastly rich," concluded the boy, giving a vicious cut to Farmer Murch's steady old Dobbin.
"But how delicious it would be! Fancy seeing Cilla at a ball! She would be the prettiest girl there, and how I should enjoy watching her, and hearing what people said!"
"My dear, you don't suppose any of us could ever go to a ball? Why a fly from Brigham would cost fifteen shillings, let alone clothes and gloves and things. Balls are not much in our line, nor anything else worth having."
The tone was even more desponding than the words, and Mary leaned forward to look into his face, which he immediately turned, so that the light of the gig lamps should not fall on it.
"What is it, dear old boy?"
"Oh! nothing—only the old story," said the lad in the same tone. "I'm sure you've heard enough of it, Polly, in my letters;
