votedly her one
sister, and that sister--so much was known as a fact--had become Lady Le
Marchant: was not her monument in the church between the Deeplish Hall
and the Hallam Grange pews? Was not the tale of her virtues and her
years--seven-and-twenty only did she count of the latter--there
recorded? That Barbara Hallam had been married to Sir Peter was matter
of history: what was not matter of history, but of tradition which was
believed in quite as firmly, was that the baronet had ill-treated his
wife--in what way was not distinctly specified, but I have since learned
that it was true; she was a gentle creature, and he made her life
miserable unto her. She was idolized by her elder sister, who, burning
with indignation at the treatment to which her darling had been
subjected, had become, even in disposition, an altered woman. From a
cheerful, open-hearted, generous, somewhat brusque young person, she had
grown into a prematurely old, soured, revengeful woman. It was to her
that the weak and injured sister had fled; it was in her arms that she
had died. Since her sister's death, Miss Hallam had withdrawn entirely
from society, cherishing a perpetual grudge against Sir Peter Le
Marchant. Whether she had relations or none, friends or acquaintance
outside the small village in which she lived, none knew. If so, they
limited their intercourse with her to correspondence, for no visitor
ever penetrated to her damp old Grange, nor had she ever been known to
leave it with the purpose of making any journey abroad. If perfect
silence and perfect retirement could hush the tongues of tradition and
report, then Miss Hallam's story should have been forgotten. But it was
not forgotten. Such things never do become forgotten.

It was only since Sir Peter had appeared suddenly some six weeks ago at
Deeplish Hall, that these dry bones of tradition had for me quickened
into something like life, and had acquired a kind of interest for me.

Our father, as vicar of the parish, had naturally called upon Sir Peter,
and as naturally invited him to his house. His visits had begun by his
coming to lunch one day, and we had speculated about him a little in
advance, half jestingly, raking up old stories, and attributing to him
various evil qualities of a hard and loveless old age. But after he had
gone, the verdict of Stella and myself was, "Much worse than we
expected." He was different from what we had expected. Perhaps that
annoyed us. Instead o