rich wildness to the scene, and sustained
its forest character.

Hurstley had for many years been deserted by the family to which it
belonged. Indeed, it was rather difficult to say to whom it did belong.
A dreary fate had awaited an ancient, and, in its time, even not
immemorable home. It had fallen into chancery, and for the last
half-century had either been uninhabited or let to strangers. Mr.
Ferrars' lawyer was in the chancery suit, and knew all about it.
The difficulty of finding a tenant for such a place, never easy, was
increased by its remoteness from any railway communication, which was
now beginning to figure as an important element in such arrangements.
The Master in Chancery would be satisfied with a nominal rent, provided
only he could obtain a family of consideration to hold under him. Mr.
Ferrars was persuaded to go down alone to reconnoitre the place. It
pleased him. It was aristocratic, yet singularly inexpensive. The house
contained an immense hall, which reached the roof, and which would have
become a baronial mansion, and a vast staircase in keeping; but the
living rooms were moderate, even small, in dimensions, and not numerous.
The land he was expected to take consisted only of a few meadows,
which he could let if necessary, and a single labourer could manage the
garden.

Mrs. Ferrars was so delighted with the description of the galleried
hall, that she resolved on their taking Hurstley without even her
previously visiting it. The only things she cared for in the country
were a hall and a pony-chair.

All the carriages were sold, and all the servants discharged. Two or
three maid-servants and a man who must be found in the country, who
could attend them at table, and valet alike his master and the pony, was
the establishment which was to succeed the crowd of retainers who had
so long lounged away their lives in the saloons of Hill Street, and the
groves and gardens of Wimbledon.

Mr. and Mrs. Ferrars and their daughter travelled down to Hurstley in a
post-chaise; Endymion, with the servants, was sent by the stage-coach,
which accomplished the journey of sixty miles in ten hours. Myra said
little during the journey, but an expression of ineffable contempt and
disgust seemed permanent on her countenance. Sometimes she shrugged her
shoulders, sometimes she raised her eyebrows, and sometimes she turned
up her nose. And then she gave a sigh; but it was a sigh not of sorrow,
but of impatience. Her