her harp which stands in the
corner of the hall. Her daughter once tinkled a little, I believe; but
the prejudices of the ruling monarch were religiously obeyed. Music
was _taboo_ at Barracombe. Dancing was against their principles, and
theatres they regard with horror, and have never been inside one in
their lives. Nothing took Sir Timothy to London but business; and
if it were possible to have the business brought to Barracombe, his
solicitor, Mr. Crawley, visited him here."

The doctor spoke in lower tones, as he recurred to his first theme.

"I don't think she found out for years, or realized what a prisoner
she was. They caught and pinned her down so young. There are no very
near neighbours--I mean, not the sort of people they would recognize
as neighbours--except the Hewels. Youlestone is such an out-of-the-way
place, and Sir Timothy was never on intimate terms with any one. Mrs.
Hewel is a fool--there was only little Sarah whom Lady Mary made a pet
of--but she had no friends. Sir Timothy and his sisters made visiting
such a stiff and formal business, that it was no wonder she hated
paying calls; the more especially as it could lead to nothing. He
would not entertain; he grudged the expense. I was present at a scene
he once made because a large party drove over from a distant house and
stayed to tea. He said he could not entertain the county. She dared
ask no one to her house--she, who was so formed and fitted by nature
to charm and attract, and enjoy social intercourse." His voice
faltered. "They stole her youth," he said.

"What do you want me to do?" said John, though he was vaguely
conscious that he understood for what the doctor was pleading.

He sat down by the fountain; and the doctor, resting a mended boot
on the end of the bench, leant on his bony knee, and looked down
wistfully at John's thoughtful face, broad brow, and bright, intent
eyes.

"You are a very clever man, Mr. Crewys," he said humbly. "A man of the
world, successful, accomplished, and, I believe, honest"--he spoke
with a simplicity that disarmed offence--"or I should not have
ventured as I have ventured. Somehow you inspire me with confidence. I
believe you can save her. I believe you could find a way to bring back
her peace of mind; the interest in life--the gaiety of heart--that is
natural to her. If I were in your place, not the two old women--not
Sir Timothy's ghost--not that poor conceited slip of a lad who may be
shot to-morrow-