‘Perhaps you did faint in the bedroom—you were a long time there.’

‘No; I bore up that I might hold the door fast. I was determined not to let anyone enter. I thought I would keep a barrier between me and the enemy.’

‘But what if your friend Mr. Malone had been worried?’

‘Malone must take care of himself. Your man persuaded me to come out at last by saying the dog was chained up in his kennel: if I had not been assured of this I would have remained all day in the chamber. But what is that? I declare the man has told a falsehood! The dog is there!’

And, indeed, Tarter walked past the glass-door opening to the garden, stiff, tawny, and black-muzzled as ever. He still seemed in bad humour; he was growling again, and whistling a half-strangled whistle, being an inheritance from the bull-dog side of his ancestry.

‘There are other visitors coming,’ observed Shirley, with that provoking coolness which the owners of formidable-looking dogs are apt to show while their animals are all bristle and bay. Tartar sprang down the pavement towards the gate, bellowing ‘avec explosion.’ His mistress quietly opened the glass door and stepped out, chirruping to him. His bellow was already silenced, and he was lifting up his huge, blunt, stupid head to the new callers to be patted.

‘What—Tartar, Tartar!’ said a cheery, rather boyish voice; ‘don’t you know us? Good-morning, old boy!’

And little Mr. Sweeting, whose conscious good-nature made him comparatively fearless of man, woman, child, or brute, came through the gate, caressing the guardian. His vicar, Mr. Hall, followed; he had no fear of Tartar either, and Tartar had no ill-will to him; he snuffed both the gentlemen round, and then, as if concluding that they were harmless, and might be allowed to pass, he withdrew to the sunny front of the hall, leaving the archway free. Mr. Sweeting followed, and would have played with him, but Tartar took no notice of his caresses; it was only his mistress’s hand whose touch gave him pleasure; to all others he showed himself obstinately insensible.

Shirley advanced to meet Messrs. Hall and Sweeting, shaking hands with them cordially; they were come to tell her of certain successes they had achieved that morning in application for subscriptions to the fund. Mr. Hall’s eyes beamed benignantly through his spectacles; his plain face looked positively handsome with goodness, and when Caroline, seeing who was come, ran out to meet him, and put both her hands into his, he gazed down on her with a gentle, serene, affectionate expression that gave him the aspect of a smiling Melancthon.

Instead of re-entering the house, they strayed through the garden, the ladies walking one on each side of Mr. Hall. It was a breezy, sunny day; the air freshened the girls’ cheeks, and gracefully dishevelled their ringlets: both of them looked pretty—one, gay; Mr. Hall spoke oftenest to his brilliant companion, looked most frequently at the quiet one. Miss Keeldar gathered handfuls of the profusely blooming flowers, whose perfume filled the enclosure; she gave some to Caroline, telling her to choose a nosegay for Mr. Hall; and with her lap filled with delicate and splendid blossoms, Caroline sat down on the steps of a summer-house; the Vicar stood near her, leaning on his cane.

Shirley, who could not be inhospitable, now called out the neglected pair in the oak-parlour; she convoyed Donne past his dread enemy Tartar, who, with his nose on his forepaws, lay snoring under the meridian sun. Donne was not grateful: he never was grateful for kindness and attention; but he was glad of the safeguard. Miss Keeldar, desirous of being impartial, offered the curates flowers; they accepted them with native awkwardness. Malone seemed specially at a loss when a bouquet filled one hand, while his shillelagh occupied the other. Donne’s ‘Thank you!’ was rich to hear: it was the most fatuous and arrogant of sounds, implying that he considered this offering an homage to his merits, and an attempt on the part of the heiress to ingratiate herself into his priceless affections. Sweeting alone received the posy like a smart, sensible little man as he was, putting it gallantly and nattily into his button-hole.