Mrs. Clinton sat in Lady Birkett's drawing-room prepared to interview, one by one, twenty or more of the ladies who had answered her advertisement for a governess for the twins. She expected to devote two consecutive mornings to her task, and was prepared to listen, to weigh, and to judge with all her faculties alert. On the table by her side was an orderly pile of letters, most of them running to two or three sheets of notepaper. They were the residuum of some scores, and she had read the contents of each several times over.
Punctually on the stroke of ten entered Miss Winifred Player, twenty-five, French, German, and Italian, elementary Hebrew, music, drawing, thorough English and composition, botany, physiology, dancing and calisthenics, needlework, swimming, elementary bookkeeping and typewriting; daughter of a clergyman of the Church of England; bright, persevering, and makes friends with pupils (see testimonials); bicycles, good walker, tennis. It was astonishing that she should have acquired so much learning during her short term of life, and also spent eight years in imparting it. She proved to be a self-confident young woman with a voluble tongue, and Mrs. Clinton had only to sit and listen to her while she made it quite plain that she would not do at all. But by way of gaining experience which might be useful in dealing with further applicants, Mrs. Clinton asked her a few questions when a lull in the storm of words allowed her an opportunity, going through her list of "subjects" from the letter she held in her hand.
Miss Player, it seemed, had not studied the languages she offered abroad. She had been neither to France, Germany, Italy, nor Syria. French she had learned at school, German and Italian she had taught herself in spare moments. Hebrew—well, she had hardly supposed Hebrew would be wanted, but she had put that in because she had learnt the letters and helped her father by copying. She knew the Greek alphabet too. Thorough English meant that she was fond of reading, and had once reviewed a novel for a parish magazine. She had the article in her little handbag, and offered it as corroborating evidence. Botany and physiology she had "studied." But she seemed rather anxious to get away from her "subjects." "I always get on with my pupils," she said, "and I don't mind making myself useful in the house. In fact, I enjoy doing so, and feeling that I am one of the family. How old are your little girls, Mrs. Clinton?"
"They are fifteen," replied Mrs. Clinton. "I am afraid your accomplishments are not quite what I want."
There came a sudden droop. Miss Player was "bright" no longer, but plainly dejected.
"You offer a very high salary," she said somewhat inconsequently.
"Yes, you see I want a lady of high education."
"I'm bright in the house," said the girl.
Mrs. Clinton could not repress a smile. "I hope you will get a good place where your qualities will be valued," she said, and Miss Player left her.
The interview had only lasted five minutes, and Mrs. Clinton had allowed fifteen for each. She went to find her sister-in-law. "I think you had better come and support me," she said, "and I think you will be amused." So when Miss Janet Phipp was shown in she found herself confronted by two ladies instead of one, and both of them asked her questions.
Miss Phipp was thirty, very plain—there was no denying that—but also on her own showing very competent. She had been educated at a High School, and had taken the degree of Bachelor of Arts at the London University. She had taught in a High School ever since, but the work was rather too hard for her. Her doctor had advised her to go into the country and avoid the strain of night as well as day work. "I am not an invalid," she said quietly, "and my health would give you no trouble."
There was no doubt about her capacity, but she was quite uninspiring. Mrs. Clinton hesitated. "Have you been used to living in the country?" she asked.
"Oh no," said Miss Phipp. "I told you—I have been at the High School for eight years. In my holidays I went abroad mostly, or to my home in Manchester, as long as my parents were alive."
"I am afraid you would find it very dull," said Mrs. Clinton.
"I think not," she said. "But it wouldn't much matter if I did, would it, as long as I did my work well? I can teach, and I like teaching."
"My daughters are active young persons," said Mrs. Clinton. "They are out of doors a great deal. Do you play golf, or lawn tennis, or anything of that sort?"
Miss Phipp's face hardened a little. "I don't care about games," she said. "I have always put work first. I would undertake to make your girls work, and if I were to look after them in their play-time—wouldn't that be all that would be wanted?"
"I think not," said Mrs. Clinton. "I want them to work, but I want some one who would be a pleasant companion for them too, out of lesson hours."
"Did you find it easy to make friends with your pupils at the school?" asked Lady Birkett.
"A few of them," said Miss Phipp. "The ones who wanted to get on. I used to have them in my rooms to help them. With the others I found it best to keep to work alone. I got more out of them that way. After school hours they went their own way and I went mine."
"But that is just what you couldn't do in a private family," urged Mrs. Clinton. "You wouldn't have to be always with the children, but you would be much more with them than with girls you taught in a school."
"Yes. I know that," said Miss Phipp. "Only I don't want to give you a wrong impression of myself. I would do my best to make friends with your girls, only I fancy it would rest with them more than with me. Some teachers find it quite easy to have girls hanging on to them and adoring them, and my experience is that work suffers on account of it. I wouldn't go anywhere where work wasn't the chief thing."
When she had gone out Mrs. Clinton said, "It is really very puzzling. I'm not at all sure that she wouldn't do, although she is far from being the sort of governess I had pictured."
"We shall do better," said Lady Birkett. "There are plenty more to see yet."
The next to arrive was Miss Judith Gay, twenty-three, pretty and rather shy, daughter of an admiral deceased, perfect French, good piano and singing, otherwise not up to the mark scholastically.
"If it were only a companion we wanted!" said Mrs. Clinton when she had gone out.
"The twins would love her," said Lady Birkett, "but they would twist her round their little fingers."
Miss Ella Charman was the next arrival. She was thirty-four, well dressed, and talked after the manner of a lady of fashion. It was apparently her object to set both Mrs. Clinton and Lady Birkett thoroughly at their ease, and establish intimate relations before coming to business. "I have never been in that part of the world," she said when she had enquired where Mrs. Clinton lived, "but I know the Palmers very well. I think they live in Meadshire, don't they?"
"Not in our part of Meadshire," replied Mrs. Clinton. "At least I do not know the name."
"Oh, you would know them, I should think, if they lived near you," said Miss Charman. "She was a daughter of Sir James Farley. Lady Farley was a sister of Mrs. Bingham, with whom I lived. Mr. Bingham, you know, is a brother of Lord Howley's. Little Edward, whom I taught until he went to school, will be Lord Howley some day. I was sorry to leave the Binghams, but Edward was the only child, and had to be sent to school, of course. Do you know Lord Dorman, Mrs. Clinton?"
"No," said that lady, taking up a letter, "you have not mentioned——"
"I thought you might," interrupted Miss Charman. "He is only a new creation, of course. He was Sir John Thompson, the engineer or contractor or something; Mrs. Cottering told me that he had paid a hundred thousand pounds into the funds of the Liberal Party, and got his peerage in that way. The Dormans were very anxious that I should go to them and take sole charge of their adopted niece. They have no children living of their own. Mrs. Dappering told me that it was a great sorrow to them. Their only son was killed in the war. Do you know Lady Edith Chippering?"
"No," said Mrs. Clinton. "Are you still thinking of going to——"
"She was a daughter of the Earl of Havering. I thought you might. She was staying with the Binghams just before I left them. She did say something about my going to her. Of course the Dormans would be more—— By the way, do you know the Lodderings? Don't they live in Meadshire?"
Mrs. Clinton did not answer this question. "I have a good many people to see, Miss Charman," she said. "I think we had better talk about—about our business, hadn't we?"
"Oh, certainly," said Miss Charman. "Should I have my meals with the family or not? That is rather a point with me. At the Cotterings' I had everything sent up and lived entirely in the schoolroom, which I don't think a good arrangement. One gets dull and mopy, you know. At the Binghams' I was one of the family, and used to help Mr. Bingham with his farm accounts after dinner; in fact, he used to call me his secretary. Hewouldlook after everything on his property himself. Would there be anything of that sort I could help Mr. Clinton in, do you think? I don't know whether he has landed property or not, but I should be delighted to do anything I could to help him."
"You were asking about meals," said Mrs. Clinton. "You would have breakfast and luncheon with us, and you would dine upstairs. Now will you kindly tell me what subjects you can teach?"
"Oh, the usual subjects," said Miss Charman. "I am a Bachelor of Arts of London University, you know, honours in French and mathematics. And there are the training certificates. You have all that, haven't you? I got Hilda Cottering into Girton. Her father didn't want her to go. With all that money coming he thought it was waste of time. But she was a clever girl, and we used to do a great deal of work, and have a great deal of fun besides. She married young Spencer-Morton, you know, the nephew of Lord Pickering. Do you know the Pickerings, by any chance?"
And so it went on, and would have gone on interminably had not Mrs. Clinton at last risen and held out her hand as token of dismissal. Miss Charman retired affably, saying that she supposed she should hear in a day or two. She knew Mrs. Clinton must get through her list first, but she should be glad to come to her, and she would no doubt let her know the date later on.
When she had left them the two ladies looked at one another and laughed. "How delighted Edward would be with that flow of conversation!" said Lady Birkett. "It would be worth while engaging her if only to see his face when she asked him if he knew the Potterings."
"Miss Phipp is the only possible one so far," said Mrs. Clinton.
Miss Margaret Cunningham was the next. Twenty-five, with an excellent record, nice-mannered and good-looking, but the unfortunate possessor of a cockney accent of remarkably pungency. She had been a "dyly" governess only, in "Straoud" Green, where she lived, but her father had married again and she was not happy at home. Her father was Scotch. "I don't think I've got his accent, though," she said, with a smile. If she had she might have beaten Miss Phipp out of the field. Her own made her impossible.
Miss Clara Weyerhauser was young, but spectacled, short-haired and mannishly clothed. "Edward would roar the house down if I took her to Kencote," said Mrs. Clinton, when the tale of her numerous attainments had been extracted from her and she had stamped out of the room.
"It seemed odd that she should keep her hat on in the house," said Lady Birkett.
Miss Mary Mansell was too nervous, Miss Gladys Whiting too delicate-looking to make it likely that they could cope successfully with the twins. Then came Miss Jessie Barton. She was forty-two, and looked older, a lady by birth and in speech and manner, but poorly dressed, thin and worn. She had been teaching for over twenty years in good families, and had the best of references to show from each, but admitted, with a flush on her pale cheeks, that she had left her last place, over a year before, because the girls she had taught wanted a finishing governess.
"But that is just what I want for my girls," said Mrs. Clinton.
"Ah, but they are younger," she said eagerly. "Really, I am sure I could get them on well, Mrs. Clinton. And I am as strong and active as ever I was, and much more experienced. I am just coming to the time when it will be difficult to get work, and if I don't get work I must starve. I have no home to go to now, and very few friends."
"I know those are the hardships of your calling," said Mrs. Clinton gently. "But I can't let them weigh with me, can I? I must do the best I can for my children."
"Well, I think a woman of my age can do better for them than a younger one with less experience," said the poor lady. "Idohope you won't let my age stand in the way, Mrs. Clinton. I haven't taken a day off, as some women do. I am no older than I say."
"If I hadn't been ready to take a woman of your age, other things being equal, I shouldn't have asked you to come and see me," said Mrs. Clinton. "But I cannot decide anything until I have seen every one I have written to."
"Ah well!" she said, with a sigh. "I know you won't choose me, or you would have told me more about the children, and what you wanted. I suppose I must go on with the weary round until I drop."
"It is very depressing, poor thing!" said Mrs. Clinton when she had gone. "But I can't possibly engage a governess out of motives of pity."
"She would be all right for younger children," said Lady Birkett. "It is hard that she should begin to find it difficult to get work at that age."
Miss Gertrude Wilson, twenty-nine, was brisk and business-like. She would have made an excellent commercial traveller, taking it cheerfully for granted when she entered a shop that she was going to get an order, and not leaving it until she had got one. It was she who asked the questions, not in the manner of Miss Player, obsessed by her own personality and experiences, but rather like a doctor, anxious thoroughly to diagnose a case so that he might do the best he could for his patient.
"Now I should like to know, first of all," she said, "what the characters of your girls are like, Mrs. Clinton. Then one can form some idea as to how to treat them."
"They are physically active," said Mrs. Clinton; "mentally too, especially Nancy, who has developed greatly within the last year. She is a clever child, and is beginning to take a great interest in books, and I think one might say in everything she finds inside them."
"Ah, a student!" said Miss Wilson. "One ought not to let her overdo that at her age, although one must take pains to encourage her in anything she wants to take up, and try and concentrate her upon it. I don't believe much in desultory reading. I should feel inclined to curb that. But that is not quite what I want to know. I can deal with all that when I see the girls. It is their dispositions I want to get at. Are they bright as a general rule, or inclined to be subdued?"
"Not at all inclined to be subdued," said Lady Birkett, with a laugh.
"Not spoilt, I hope?" asked Miss Wilson. "If they are, please say so. I can deal with them all right."
"I don't think they are spoilt," said Mrs. Clinton. "They are both affectionate, and easily managed by any one they love. They are apt to be mischievous, perhaps, although they are growing out of that now. They are rather overfond of making fun of people, but I think no one would call them ill-natured."
"Well, that is a very satisfactory report on the whole," said Miss Wilson. "I expect I shall get fond of them. I generally do get fond of my pupils, and they of me. May I ask what other members of your family there are, Mrs. Clinton—brothers or sisters, older or younger?"
"Joan and Nancy are the only ones regularly at home," replied Mrs. Clinton.
"Oh! No brothers at school coming home for the holidays?"
"No," said Mrs. Clinton.
"It is apt to make things difficult sometimes. Girls get out of hand. Are there older brothers, may I ask?"
"Yes, but you would see little of them, Miss Wilson. You need not take them into account."
By the look of Miss Wilson's face, it might have been gathered that she would have preferred to take them into account, at any rate to the extent of hearing a little more about them. But her momentary dejection disappeared. She had to keep her control of the situation. "And now as to hours," she said. "My plan would be to work thewholeof the morning, with perhaps a quarter of an hour off for a glass of milk and a rock cake or something of that sort—say from nine o'clock to lunch time; exercise and games in the afternoon, till four. Then three hours' work, with tea in between, and I should expect the girls to do an hour or so's preparation later in the evening. They do not dine with you, of course."
"They come down to dessert," said Mrs. Clinton.
"That would be about eight o'clock, I suppose. We can just fit in the other hour before they go to bed. I should like them to go to bed not later than half-past nine, and——"
"I like them to go to bed at nine," Mrs. Clinton managed to break in. "And they would not do any work after they have come downstairs; there would not be time."
"Oh, well, we can settle all that later," Miss Wilson handsomely conceded. "I shall do my very best to get them on, Mrs. Clinton. Wednesdays and Saturdays I suppose we shall have half-holidays, or do you prefer a whole holiday on Saturday? Perhaps we had better settle that later too; it is all one to me. I shall do my best to fit in with the ways of the house. Shall you wish me to take my meals downstairs?"
"Breakfast and luncheon, yes," said Mrs. Clinton. "You would dine in the schoolroom."
Miss Wilson's face again fell. But she said, "That will suit me very well. I shall have time for my own reading when the children have gone to bed. When shall you wish me to come?"
"If I engage you, about the tenth. Now I should like to ask you a few questions, if you are ready to answer them."
The cross-examination Miss Wilson underwent as to her scholastic attainments and previous experience, at the hands of both ladies, was somewhat searching, and she came through it admirably. She was, in fact, the ideal governess, as far as could be seen. And yet, neither of them liked her, and they would have been pleased rather than regretful to find some flaw which would give them an excuse to reject her. "Well," said Mrs. Clinton at last, "I have others to see, but I will take up your references and write to you in a few days. You have given me all the addresses, I suppose?" She took up Miss Wilson's letter, which was shorter than the rest, confining itself to one sheet of note-paper.
"Yes, you will find them there," said Miss Wilson, rising a little hurriedly. "Then I shall hope to hear from you, and I will say good-morning, Mrs. Clinton."
Mrs. Clinton ignored her outstretched hand. "I will just pencil the dates at which you were with these three families," she said. "Mrs. Waterhouse was the first."
"Oh, I am very bad at dates," said Miss Wilson. "But they are all in order. You will have no difficulty."
Mrs. Clinton looked at her in mild surprise. "Surely you remember the number of years you were with each family," she said.
"Oh, I dare say I can remember that," she said, with a rather nervous laugh. "I was with Mrs. Waterhouse about three years, Mrs. Simkinson one and a half, I think it was."
"That is all I wanted to know," said Mrs. Clinton, but Lady Birkett asked, "Are those three all the posts you have filled?"
Miss Wilson, who was still standing, drew herself up stiffly. "I was with some other people for about a year," she said. "But they were intensely disagreeable people, and I should be very sorry to have to rely on a testimonial from them. They behaved atrociously to me."
"In what way?" asked Mrs. Clinton.
"I prefer not to say," said Miss Wilson firmly. "I have no wish to talk about those people at all. I only wish to forget them. If you will take up the references I have given you I think you will know everything about me that you have a right to ask, and you will find it thoroughly satisfactory; and anything else I shall be pleased to tell you."
"I think, then, I must ask why you left these people. Were they the last you were with?"
"Yes," said Miss Wilson, "they were; and the whole subject is so painful to me that I must refuse to go into it."
"You will not give me the name, so that I can at least hear their side of the story?"
"Certainly not, Mrs. Clinton," replied Miss Wilson indignantly. "If those are the only conditions on which I may accept your offer, then I must refuse it altogether."
"I haven't made you an offer yet," said Mrs. Clinton, "and of course, under the circumstances, I cannot do so. So I will wish you good-morning."
Miss Wilson seemed about to say something more, but changed her mind and left the room with her head in the air.
The two ladies looked at one another. "What on earth can it have been?" asked Mrs. Clinton.
"Carrying on," replied Lady Birkett, with a laugh. "I can see it now. She's the sort that carries on. The details we must leave to the imagination, but we're well rid of her."
It was about seven o'clock in the evening. Mrs. Clinton stood for a moment on the pavement, on which the light of a street lamp shone and was reflected from the wet stone, and paid her cabman. Then she turned to the tall dull house and rang the bell. In this house, in one of the narrow streets just off St. James's, Dick had had rooms for many years, but his mother had not been able to correct the cabman when he had first stopped at a wrong number. She had time to reflect on this fact before the door was opened to her. Captain Clinton was not in, said the man, but he generally came in to dress not later than half-past seven; and she said she would go to his room and wait.
The hall was narrow and dimly lighted. On a table under a tiny gas-jet were a dozen or so of bedroom candlesticks, and hanging on the wall a rack for letters and telegrams. The stairs were darkly druggeted. The man opened a door on the first floor, turned on the light and retired, and she found herself in a furnished apartment such as is occupied by men of fashion in London. There was nothing to mark it off from superior furnished apartments anywhere. The furniture was of the solid Victorian type, the paper on the walls ugly, the carpet of a nondescript colour. There was a gilt clock on the mantelpiece and two coloured glass vases. The pictures had no value or beauty. On a marble-topped sideboard were a collection of gloves, caps, and hats, the silk ones beautifully ironed and brushed, and on the sofa were two or three carefully folded overcoats. These were all that spoke of Dick's occupancy of the rooms, on which otherwise he had made no sort of personal impress in a tenancy ranging over twelve years. There were no books, and not even a photograph belonging to him. Yet he paid the rent of a good house for this room and a bedroom behind the grained and varnished folding-doors, and was quite content with them. There was no bathroom in the house, and he had to go out for all his meals except breakfast; but he was valeted as well as if he had been at home.
Mrs. Clinton sat down in an easy-chair before the fire and looked around her once, her gaze resting for a minute on the closed doors between the two rooms. She might have wished to see what sort of bedroom Dick occupied, but she did not do so. She sat still and waited for half an hour, and then Dick came in. She heard him humming an air as he ran upstairs, but when he entered the room and saw her, half risen from her chair to receive him, he stopped short in utter surprise. "Why, mother!" he exclaimed, and for a moment his face was not welcoming. Then he came forward and kissed her. "Whatever wind blows you here?" he asked lightly.
"I am staying with Eleanor Birkett," she said. "I have come up to engage a governess for the children."
"Time to break them in, eh?" he said. "How are the young rascals? Still raking in coins for their camera?"
She allowed herself a faint smile. "They are very well," she said.
"Well, shall we go and have a little dinner somewhere together, or are you dining in Queen's Gate?"
"I said I might not be back to dinner," she said. "I didn't know whether you would be engaged or not."
"No, I was going to dine at the club. That's capital. I'll just go and shift, if you don't mind waiting, and in the meantime you consider what Epicurean haunt you would like to go to." He went into his bedroom, giving her no time to say anything further if she had wished to, and left her to sit by the fire again and wait for him.
He came out again in a quarter of an hour, during which time she had heard splashings and movements, but no further humming of airs. "Verrey's, I think," he said. "You'll want to go somewhere quiet, eh?"
"Dick," she said, "I should like to have a little talk with you before we go out."
He was already putting on his scarf. "Let's dine first, mother," he said. "It's just upon eight, and I'm hungry. We can come back here afterwards, if you like."
Perhaps it was better that he should dine first, especially if he was hungry. "Very well," she said, and rose to go with him.
Driving through the streets, sitting over their dinner for an hour, and driving back again, nothing was said between them of what was certainly occupying Mrs. Clinton's mind, and must have been in Dick's. It was difficult for her to talk; they had so little in common besides the externals of home life, and at every turn in the conversation something came up that must not be said if there was to be no mention yet of the only thing that mattered at Kencote. But Dick seemed determined that there should be no mention of it, and by and by they got on to the subject of the twins and their new governess, and then the conversation was easier. She told him about the ladies she had interviewed, and he laughed at her descriptions of them. "Capital, mother!" he said. "You ought to write it all down." He was pleased with her. She was entertaining him, where he had thought she would be a drag on his well-meant efforts to entertain her. And because he was very well disposed towards her, it was gratifying to be able to feel that they were getting on happily together. His manner became warmer as the dinner proceeded, reflecting his feelings, which also became warmer. They had some quite sensible conversation about the twins and their education. Dick thought that the governess who had taught in the High School—Miss Phipp—was the right one. "They want discipline," he said. "That's what's missing in girls' education, especially when they are taught at home. It won't do those young women any harm to be made to grind at it. I'm for the school-marm, mother."
As they waited for a minute for a cab to be called up to take them back to Jermyn Street, Dick said, looking at her appreciatively, "What a pretty gown that is, mother! I've never seen it before." She flushed with pleasure, but said nothing. He handed her into the cab, and took his seat beside her. "We must have another little evening together before—— When are you going back, by the by?"
"To-morrow," she said.
"What a pity! Can't you stay till the next day, and come and do a play? I've got to-morrow night free."
But she said she must go back, and he did not press her further.
When they reached Dick's rooms and got out of the cab he told the man to wait and then turned to the door with his latch-key in his hand. "Please send him away," said Mrs. Clinton. "I came on purpose to have a talk with you, Dick."
"You needn't hurry away, mother," he said. "But you will want a cab by and by to go home in."
"I shan't feel comfortable while the minutes are ticking away," she said. "You can get me another one presently."
Dick laughed at her, but he paid the cabman, and they went up to his room together.
"Now, then, little mother," he said, as he took off his overcoat and scarf, "let's have it out. I'll mix myself a little liquid refreshment, and if you don't mind my smoking a cigar, I shall be in a mood to give you my whole attention."
Now that the time had come to speak she was nervous, and did not know how to begin. Dick, apparently thoroughly at his ease, good-humoured with her, but not prepared, it seemed, to take her very seriously, lit another cigar, poured himself out whisky and undid the wire of a soda-water bottle before she spoke, and as she was beginning he spoke himself. "I'm going to be married next month," he said; "will you come to my wedding?" As he spoke the cord of the soda-water bottle flew out with a pop, and he said, "Steady now, steady!"
There was a pause, filled only with the sound of the water gurgling into the glass. Then Mrs. Clinton spoke. "Oh, Dick!" she said, "why do you treat me like this?"
He threw a glance at her, half furtive. He had never heard her speak in that tone. She was looking at him with hurt eyes. "I am your mother," she said. "Do you think I have no feeling for my children? Have I been such a bad mother to you that it is right to put me aside as if I were of no account when a crisis comes in your life?"
He walked to the chair on the opposite side of the fire to hers, his glass in his hand, and sat down. There was a frown on his face. Like his father, he hated a scene, unless it was one of his own making, and especially he hated a scene with a woman. But it was true that he had treated his mother as if she were of no account. In the presence of the pain which her face and her voice had shown, he felt a sense of shame at the easy mastery he had displayed towards her during the evening, putting her wishes and her feelings aside, thinking only that it was rather tiresome of her to have intruded herself into his plans, and that her intrusion must be repelled with as little disturbance as possible.
She spoke again before he could reply to her. "You are always very charming to me, Dick—on the surface. You treat me with the greatest possible politeness, always, as you have done this evening. I know that many young men do not behave with such courtesy towards their mother, especially those who do not live in the same world as they do. But that charming behaviour is a very poor return for what a mother does for her children when they are wholly dependent on her. You used to come to me with all your troubles when you were a little boy, Dick. Am I so changed that you must shut me out of your life altogether, now?"
Conflicting emotions caused him intense discomfort. "No, mother, no," he said. "But——"
She took him up. "But you don't want me any longer," she said, "and you haven't enough kindness in you to think that I may want you."
Underneath her smooth-flowing speech there was bitterness, almost cruelty; certainly cruelty, if deliberately to pierce self-satisfaction is cruel. For if there were any qualities in Dick against which he might have thought that no accusation could lie, they were his attitude towards women and the essential kindness of his heart. But she had shown him that external courtesy towards her had only hidden a deep discourtesy, and his kindness was base metal, not kindness at all.
But she had aroused, if not resentment, opposition. Her words had stung. If she wanted anything from him, that was not the way to get it. "Oh, come now, mother," he said, with some impatience. "I——"
But she would not let him go on until she had said all that she had to say. "If you don't care for me, Dick, if you have lost all the love you had for me when you were a child, then I know it is of no use saying these things. Words can't bring back love, nor reproaches. And after all, it wasn't about myself that I came here to speak to you. Your indifference has caused me pain, but I should not have taxed you with it now; I should have kept silence as I have done for many years, if it had not been that my love for you has been there ready for you if you had ever wanted it, and I thought you might want it now. But I can do nothing to help you if you won't let me a little way into your heart. I must just stand aside and see the breach between you and your father widen, when it might be healed, and you could restore him to happiness as well as take your happiness yourself."
Dick's face became harder as she mentioned his father, who had not been mentioned between them during the evening. "What can you do with him?" he asked, with a shade of scorn in his voice. "He is utterly unreasonable. He gets an idea into his head, and nothing will get it out."
Her voice was softer as she replied. "Dick dear, you know that isn't true."
He stirred uneasily in his chair. "It is true in this case," he said. "I suppose you mean that as a rule if you give him his head about anything you can pull him up and make him go the other way if you treat him carefully. I know you can, as a rule. This is an unfortunate exception to the rule."
"You have driven him into opposition by everything you have done," she said. "If you had been a little patient——"
"Oh, I was as patient as possible, at first," he interrupted her. "But he went beyond everything. The only thing was to go away until he had come to his senses. From what I have heard, through Walter, he is worse than ever. He is going to cut me off with a shilling. Well, let him. I can't imagine anything that will bother him more during the rest of his life than to have the prospect of Kencote divided up after his death. I can't imagine him thinking of such a thing. I'm not thinking of myself and what I'm going to get when I say it's a wicked thing to do. He's always looked upon the place as a sort of trust. Itisa trust, and he is going to betray it for the sake of scoring off me. He must know that a threat of that sort would be the last thing to move me. It is spite, and spite that hurts him as much as it hurts me."
"Oh, Dick! Dick!" she said.
He gave another uneasy hitch to his body. Her gentle admonition showed him as no argument could have shown him from what source his speech had come.
"Of course I'm sore," he said, answering her implied reproach. "Any man would be sore in such a case. I believe you have seen Virginia. I ask you plainly, mother, if you are on his side—the sort of mud he throws at her—you know. Because if you are——"
"No, Dick dear," she said. "I have seen her, and I am not—not on his side, in that."
Her words, and the tone in which they were spoken, softened his anger. "You would welcome her as my wife?" he asked.
"Oh yes, I would," she said. "And I will, Dick, when this trouble is over. If she will love me I will love her. Yes, I have seen her, twice."
"Thank you very much, mother," he said quietly, after a short pause.
"Dick," she began again, "you know your father. You know how unhappy it must make him to be parted from you. You are bearing very hardly on him."
"And he on me, mother," said Dick. "What do you want me to do? Give up Virginia? You haven't come here to ask me to do that?"
"No, not that, Dick."
"Or to wait for a year? That's Walter's scheme—at least, I believe it's Herbert Birkett's. Very kind of him to take a hand in the discussion. But I'm not going to wait a year. I'm not going to wait any time. Why should I? If I make concessions of that sort I'm giving away my case, I'm admitting that there's some sense in the objections made—some reason in them. There's none. I won't submit Virginia to the indignity. I'm sorry now I ever got her down to Meadshire. I did that because I knew what—what his prejudices would be, and I thought he should have a chance of getting over them."
"Then you did think, at first, that there was something to be said for his prejudices."
"Er—yes—to the extent that if I had put it baldly that I was going to marry a widow, an American, who had been for a time on the stage—years ago—although I confess I didn't think that would be known—there might be trouble. I thought then, and I think now, that if he had given her a fair chance—if he had got to know her, hecouldn'tpossibly take the line he has. There isn't a soul down there—I've heard all about it—who isn't at her feet. It makes me furious—I hardly let myself think about it—that he should behave as he does. No, mother, it has gone too far. There is nothing I can do now, after all that has happened, that wouldn't be an admission of weakness."
She did not speak immediately. "Have you made up your mind," she asked, "to cut yourself off from all of us—never to come to Kencote again until your father dies—never to see him again?"
"When I am married," he said, rather sullenly, "he will come round—sooner or later."
"Not to make the first advance, Dick. If you marry now, without his consent, definitely against his wishes, he will make the alteration as to the succession that he has threatened. That will be between you. He will be very unhappy—for the rest of his life—but he will have taken a step that will make it ten times more difficult for you to come together than it is now, and——"
"As far as the alteration in his will goes," Dick broke in on her, "I have thought all that over. As I say, it's a step he has no right to take under the circumstances, but if it is to come, if I am to come into the place—or what's left of it—with my wings clipped for money, then I say I'm ready to face it, and I don't mind as much as I thought I should. Perhaps I've thought too much about money—having everything cut and dried, and nothing to do for it. It was that that made me make the mistake of getting Virginia to go down to Blaythorn. I was afraid of what might happen—what he might do. It was rather mean, in a way. I don't care what he does. At least, I care, but it isn't a thing one ought to think too much about. Other fellows work to give their wives a home. I'm going to do that, and I like the idea of it."
"I think that is a good thing to do," she said rather slowly. "But—well, you mustn't mind my speaking, plainly, Dick—I think, too, that in your case you may make too much of it. I mean that your mind is probably full of it now, and it is a great relief to you that you have found a way out of what might have been a serious difficulty, and that you are not dependent on your father in your marriage. But there is Kencote to be thought of. You are the eldest son, and your natural place in the world is there. At present, with your new happiness coming to you, you are able to detach your mind from it. But when the novelty of your new life has worn off——"
"Oh, mother, I am not a child," he interrupted her. "I know there is Kencote to be thought of, but not for many years yet—at least, I hope so. And if I am to be partially disinherited, you know"—he looked at her with a smile—"I think I had better detach my mind from it as much as possible, don't you?"
Again she was silent for a time, and then she said, "Do you remember when you were a little boy, Dick, and we were together in the garden one summer evening, and I was telling you about the Clintons, who had lived at Kencote for so many hundreds of years, and you asked me why some people lived in beautiful places like that and others were poor and had no nice homes? And your father had come out to join us—he was a young man then—and he answered your question, and told you that things were arranged like that, and some day Kencote would be yours, and you must learn to love every acre of it, and know all the people who lived about you and do the best you could for them when you were grown up and were the master of Kencote."
"Yes, I remember quite well," said Dick. "It was the first lesson I had in the duties of a landowner."
"We were very happy then," she said. "We used to talk over things together, and father took a pride in you, and did all he could to make your childhood happy and make you take a pride in Kencote."
"Yes, he did," said Dick. "He gave me a very good time as a boy. And so did you, mother. I remember our talks in the garden and in the old schoolroom, and going to church with you, and about the village. I shall never forget those days."
"You grew up at Kencote," she said. "I know you have always loved it, and have come home to us whenever you could. Dick, you can't give it up, and give us up, your parents who both love you. You will make yourself unhappy, as well as us."
He was thoughtful and uneasy. "Of course, it's a blow," he said. "I do love the place."
"And us too, Dick, don't you—a little?"
"Oh, mother!" he said. "You have always been very good to me. Perhaps I've been rather a brute to you—taking things for granted, and not showing that I remembered. I do remember, you know. I had a good time as a child, and I owe a lot to you."
"And to father too," she said. "Think of all he did for you and how proud he has always been of you. He has made a mistake now—I think he has, and I tell you so—but, Dick, you are not going to punish him—and me and yourself—by destroying, for always, everything that keeps us united as a family?"
Again he moved uneasily. "Well, what on earth am I to do?" he asked. "I've told you what I feel about it all."
"Well, don't you feel exactly as your father does? Aren't you acting just as you blame him for acting? Don't you see how like you are to him in many ways?"
"The poor old governor!" said Dick. "I'm sorry for him in a way. But I hope I don't act with quite such disregard for common sense as he does."
"You act from pique. He thinks you are in the wrong, and won't give way, although he would like to. And you think he is in the wrong and you won't move towards him. There's something better even than common sense, Dick, which he shows and you don't. It is love."
"I don't think you can reasonably say he has shown me much of that lately, mother," said Dick.
"You keep away from him," she said. "If you were to come home you would see how he has been longing for you, and you would be sorry for him. Even if people wrong us, if they love us and we see it, it is not difficult to forgive them. If you would come home I think all your anger would disappear, however much you may think you are justified in it. I have never seen your father so unhappy and so troubled. For his sake, Dick, for the sake of all that he has done for you, come home to us. That was what I came here to ask of you."
He was silent for some time, struggling with himself. "I'll come," he said shortly, "but you must tell him, mother, that I am going to be married soon. I can't come to enter into that question again with him. It is settled."
"Very well," she said quietly, and there was silence between them for a time.
"And now tell me of your plans, Dick," she said presently in a lighter tone. "You must remember that I have heard nothing, and I want to hear everything."
"Oh, I'm going up to Yorkshire next week to get the house ready. Virginia is coming with me and we are going to stay with Spence. It is a nice old stone house with a big garden and a view of the moors, and the sea beyond. Look here, mother, can't you do anything? You have broughtmeround, you know. I'm going to do what you want, against my own inclinations. I shan't be very comfortable at Kencote. Can't you go and see Virginia? It's rather hard luck for her, poor girl, to be treated as if she were a pariah by all my people. Something's owing to her, and a good deal, I think."
"I should like very much to know her," she said. "Whether I can go definitely against your father's wishes, whether I should do any good by doing so, is a difficult question to decide."
"Well, I suppose I can see that," he said. "You have got to live with him. But if we are to make it up at all, he and I, which I own I haven't much hope of, there'll have to be give and take on both sides. You ought not to get me down to Kencote and then take his part against me."
"We must wait a little," she said. "What I can do I will do. Oh, Dick dear, I am so glad you are going to be happy. I have thought about you such a lot."
He came over to her and kissed her. "You're a good little mother," he said. "I wish I'd carried you off bodily to see Virginia when she first went down there. You would have got on well together."
"Oh, and we shall," she said, "as soon as these unhappy difficulties are over. Now I shall go back home with a quiet mind. I'm sure, Dick, if you are patient with your father, all the difficulties will melt away. It rests with you, dear boy, and I'm sure you will act wisely. Now I must be going back, if you will send for a cab for me."
"I'll take you back," said Dick. "I want to tell you all about everything, mother."
For an old lady who did not enjoy the best of health, who had lived all her life in an atmosphere of congenial companionship and now lived alone, who had no place of importance to fill in the world, and small occupation except what she made for herself, Aunt Laura passed her days in unusual contentment.
The life of an old maid blessed with a sufficiency of this world's goods is a cheerful if rather pathetic object of contemplation. You would think they missed so much, and they seem to miss so little. There is nothing that seems much worth their doing, unless they are particularly gifted, and yet they are always busy. If you had paid a visit to Aunt Laura at any time of the day you would never have found her sitting with her hands in her lap, idle, unless it happened to be at those times, after a meal or, as she would say, between lights, when a short period of contemplation was as ordered a part of the day's duties as any more active occupation. After breakfast she would be busy with household duties, "ordering," or passing in review some or other of her possessions, one of her three servants in attendance, giving her whole mind to it, although the weakness of her ageing body made it incumbent on her now chiefly to superintend from her habitation in front of the parlour fire. Sometimes she was induced to stay in bed until the morning was well advanced, but it was a great trial to her. "If the mistress is not about," she would say, "all the house goes to pieces. And although I have good and trustworthy servants, who have been with me a long time, things go wrong if they are left too much to themselves." So even when in bed, she would sit propped up by pillows with a dressing-jacket round her shrunken old shoulders, giving her orders for the meals of the day to the stout, friendly cook, who stood by her bedside with her head on one side and made suggestions, which were sometimes accepted and sometimes overruled, and after that important duty was over, go through the linen with Hannah, the parlour-maid, or arrange with Jane, the housemaid, what room should be "turned out," and when, or other matters of like moment.
Then she had her letters to write, quite a number of them, considering that she had always lived at Kencote and knew very few people outside it. When she was quite well, and the weather was quite fine, she would dress carefully and potter about her garden, giving minute directions to the gardener, who followed her about slowly, and took all she said in good part, although he went his own way afterwards. Or she would walk out into the village, leaning on Hannah's arm, sometimes go up to the great house, or to the Rectory, sometimes into the cottages of her friends amongst the villagers, who were always pleased to see her, for she was of a charitable disposition, gave what rare financial aid was required of her in a community where no one was poor, and, what was valued more, ready sympathy and interest in trials or pleasures.
After luncheon she had her nap and her needlework, or a book from the library at Bathgate—one a week sent over to her by post—to occupy her. Sometimes she played thin little pieces of music on the thin old piano. Tea was an event, requiring much manipulation of old silver teapots, one for the leaves and one for the brew, and when she had company much pressing of dainty, unsubstantial viands. After tea there were needlework and reading again until it was time for her supper-tray. She had given up dining; her luncheon was her dinner, and a fairly substantial one. She talked a good deal, in quite a ladylike way, about her food. Her state of health was gauged by whether she could "fancy" it or not. She always changed her gown in the afternoon, and wore a silken shawl instead of the Shetland one without which she was never seen in the morning. In the evening she spent some time over her devotions, and with Hannah's help made a long disrobing, beginning at a quarter to ten and ending about half-past. Then at last she lay buried in the down of her great cumbrous bed, her night-light in the basin, her glass of milk and her biscuits on the table by her side, all ready for those long dead hours during which she might, if she were in perfect health, sleep quietly, but of which she was more likely to spend some patiently waiting for the blissful state of unconsciousness which was so soon to close down on her for all eternity.
She had much to think of during those hours—scenes in the long-past years of her life when she had been young and active and had lived in her father's house with her sisters, or during the later but still far-off years when they had all lived together at the dower-house; of the quick passage of time which had brought age to them and robbed her of one after the other; of those she loved at the great house; of her nephew's early career, which seemed to her a most distinguished one; of his marriage; and of the coming of the dear babies, and of their growth and the things that had happened to them. Here was abundance of incident to provide food for a mind pasturing on memories—as much as if she had known the great world and taken part in its many activities, instead of passing her blameless days in a small, secluded sameness.
Sometimes, if sleep was very long in coming, she would say over to herself some of the poetry she had learnt by heart, or some of her favourite passages in the Bible. And sometimes she would pray. Her faith was simple enough. God was her Father, who knew best what was good for her, and had a sublime tenderness for her, and for all whom she loved. Soon she would be with Him, praising Him with voice and harp in Elysian fields and in endless happiness, joined to those who had gone before, who were waiting for her, and probably knew all that she was doing or thinking. Life, for as long as she was spared, was a precious gift, and she did not want to die; but she looked forward with no dread to dying when her time should come. She was quite convinced that death was only a passing over, and her experience of death-beds had taught her that nothing very terrible took place when the spirit parted from the body. She would cease to be, and she would join her sisters in heaven; and whatever pain or weakness should come to her before her departure she would have strength given to her to bear, as her sisters had borne it.
Since she had come to live alone in the little old house in the village Aunt Laura's wealth had considerably increased. It did, now, amount to wealth, for she lived on less than half her income, which at the time of her sister's death had amounted to something like two thousand pounds a year.
Her father had left her and her sisters six thousand pounds apiece, and there had been six of them when they had first moved down to the dower-house. He had committed this rather extraordinary piece of generosity because shortly before his death he had inherited intact the considerable fortune of his brother, who had been a merchant in the City of London, as his father had been before him. Merchant Jack, of whom Aunt Laura had spoken to Susan Clinton, had inherited Kencote as a younger son, had passed on the estates and his own acquired store of money to his eldest son, Colonel Thomas, and his business to his younger son, John Clinton, who had lived and died a bachelor, having little use for the wealth he amassed, beyond that part of it which enabled him to live in solid comfort in his old house in Bloomsbury and lay down a cellar of fine wine, the remainder of which still shed a golden glow over the cobwebby bins at Kencote. The thirty-six thousand pounds with which Colonel Thomas portioned his daughters had still left the great bulk of this windfall to go with the estate, to go rather to the next heir, who was Edward, our Squire.
The Squire had succeeded at the age of nineteen to a large fortune, as well as to many thousands of acres of land, and was a much richer man than even his sons suspected. He cared little about money, or if he cared for it, it was not for the aggrandisement it might have brought him. He had an income far in excess of what was required to keep up his establishment and his property in the way he wanted to keep it up, and what was left over he had no further use for. He had simply allowed it to accumulate, investing the overplus of year after year in gilt-edged securities on the advice of his old-established firm of stockbrokers, whose forebears had also advised his, and not giving it a thought when it was once so disposed of. The bulk of his funded property came from the money which his great-uncle had bequeathed to his grandfather, and some of it was still invested in the securities which the shrewd old merchant had himself selected. It was this money out of which, after his widow and younger children had been handsomely provided for, Dick would inherit the sum necessary to enable him to live at Kencote as he himself had done—if Dick behaved as he should behave. Otherwise it would go—well, he had not yet made up his mind where it would go.
Now, if the jointure of the six maiden aunts had been chargeable on the estate, as it would have been but for the old merchant's bequest, only on a much lower scale, the Squire would no doubt have busied himself about it, would have known exactly what proportion of it was being spent and what saved, and might have had some suggestion to make as to the disposal of what should remain after the death of the last sister had caused it to revert to the estate. As it was, he hardly ever gave it a thought. He knew that his aunts were well off, but he did not know what sum had been left to them, although he could easily have informed himself of it if he had cared to. Nor did he know how Aunt Laura, in whose frail hands the whole of it had now come to lie, proposed to leave it. It would not be quite true to say that he had never given the matter a thought, but it would not be far from the truth. He had so much more than sufficed for his own needs that although he would be gratified if after Aunt Laura's death he found himself richer by several thousand pounds, the legacy would not actually do for him more than slightly increase his lightly borne business cares. It would go eventually to the children, and the amount of speculation he had ever expended on the subject was as to whether it would come first to him, or, by Aunt Laura's direct bequest, to them, as to which he did not care either the one way or the other. The possibility of its being left outside the family altogether never so much as crossed his mind, because he knew Aunt Laura quite well enough to know that, as to the bulk of it, there was no such possibility.
Happy Aunt Laura, to have been permitted to escape the siege which is not seldom laid against rich maiden aunts! And happy Clintons, to have escaped, both in youth and age, those complications which the lack of plentiful coin brings into the lives of so many of their fellow-creatures!
But perhaps they had not altogether escaped them. It was doubtful, as yet, whether the Squire, who was now thinking of using his riches as a weapon in a way in which he had never had to think of using them before, was the happier for having that weapon ready to his hand. Money was for the first time playing its part in Dick's life in a way the outcome of which was still to be seen. Humphrey, at least, had never had enough of it to do what he wished to do, and was becoming increasingly hungry for more. And Aunt Laura, lying sometimes for hours on a sleepless bed, was beginning to be a little worried about her responsibilities as the steward of a considerable fortune, concerning whose disposition she had to come to a decision before she could peaceably leave this world for a better one, in which money and the anxiety attendant on it would play no part.
She was surprisingly innocent about money, although amongst the six sisters she had been considered the financial genius, and from the first had kept all the accounts. "Dear Laura," Aunt Ellen had been used to say, "has a wonderful head for pounds, shillings, and pence. Her accounts are never out by so much as a farthing, and she would be an ideal wife for a poor man, such as a clergyman, with a fixed but limited income."
She remembered this as she lay, now, in the night, turning over in her mind this question of money, and remembered it with pride. She remembered how upon their father's death old Mr. Pauncey, the Bathgate solicitor, who was so old-established, and had had such a long connection with Kencote that he might be regarded almost as an equal, and only treated with the merest shade more of consideration than one of the county neighbours, had explained to them all in conclave exactly what their financial position was, and how the sum that had been left to each of them was invested. He had had a sheet of paper with him, from which, after taking snuff, he had read out a long list of securities, and figures, and percentages, and left them at the end of it mentally gasping for breath, and no wiser at all than they had been before.
Then it was she, the youngest of them all, who had summoned up courage to say, "I think, Mr. Pauncey, if you would tell us exactly what sum of money is brought in by all those—those things, we could make our arrangements accordingly."
She could see now, in the darkness, the admiring looks of her sisters bent upon her, and hear the ready acquiescence of Mr. Pauncey, as, with gold pencil-case in his hand, he made some rapid calculations, and gave her the figures required.
After that it was she who, with pencil in hand, secretary and treasurer to a most serious committee, had set down on paper exactly how the comfortable income they had had secured to them should be spent—so much for the housekeeping, so much for wages, so much for stables, garden, dress, charity, and so on—a delightfully interesting occupation, as she well remembered, although readjustments had had to be made later, and it required a good many hours a week with account-books and paper ruled in money columns to keep unflinchingly to the course laid down. "Laura is busy with accounts; she must not be disturbed. The amount of trouble she gives herself to keep all our affairs in perfect order you would hardly credit." She remembered as if it were yesterday sitting in the oak parlour on a warm September morning with the casement open and a scent of mignonette coming through it, and overhearing her eldest sister talking to the old Rector, so many years since in his grave, and the thrill of happiness that the words had brought to her, struggling with her task and with rows of recalcitrant figures which would not add up twice alike.
And it had been she who had been the medium of all arrangements with old Mr. Pauncey, who had been most attentive in coming over himself at frequent intervals to explain any little matter that wanted explanation, and had never changed an investment for them without explaining exactly why he thought it ought to be changed, and, what was perhaps more important still, giving her the exact alteration that would be made in the figures, so that she should have no further trouble with her accounts than was necessary.
After a bit it was young Mr. Pauncey who had attended to their affairs, and she remembered very well that on the occasion of his first visit her sister Ellen had considered it advisable to sit in the room while he disclosed the business upon which he had come over.
"He is a very well-behavedyoungman, my dear," Miss Clinton had said, "although perhaps not the equal of his father, who is one of nature's gentlemen. But in case he should presume——"
Young Mr. Pauncey never had presumed, and he looked after Aunt Laura's property to this day, and would continue to "attend on her" until her death, if he survived her, although he had long since devised all his other professional cases to his son and grandson. She relied greatly on young Mr. Pauncey's advice, and had long since forgiven him for the slight disturbance he had once made in objecting to carry out certain of their decisions. It had been necessary for Aunt Anne, upon whom it had always devolved to say the word that would put people in their places when that word had to be said, to end the discussion with a speech that shook a little in the middle: "Mr. Pauncey, we have asked you to come here to take our instructions. It will save time if you will kindly write them down at once."
How splendid dear Anne had been on that occasion—quite polite, but quite firm! And young Mr. Pauncey, it had afterwards been agreed, had behaved admirably too. With a courteous smile he had said, "Very well, ladies, I will say no more," and had then helped them most lucidly to put their decision into proper form, and had since admitted handsomely that their carefully considered plan had worked well, adding that he had felt himself obliged to criticise it, entirely in their own interest.
A trust had been formed with young Mr. Pauncey, in whom, as they assured him, they had complete confidence, as sole trustee. The six separate estates were pooled and the income from the whole capital could be drawn on by the cheque of any of the six beneficiaries. The disadvantage of this scheme, as young Mr. Pauncey had ventured to point out at the time, was that if any one of them quarrelled with the other five, or got married, it was in her power to cause them considerable inconvenience by appropriating more than her share of the income, or, if she wrote her cheques at the right moment, the whole of it. It was at this point that Aunt Anne had interposed with her famous speech, and young Mr. Pauncey had ceased to make objections, probably consoling himself with the reflection that, as trustee, he could put an end to the inconvenience at any time that it should arise.
But the sisters had never quarrelled and none of them had married, and young Mr. Pauncey at the age of seventy-five was obliged to admit to himself that the most highly irregular arrangement he had ever legalised had also turned out to have worked with the least possible amount of friction. No further adjustments had had to be made as one sister after the other had died; none of them had made a will or had needed to; and Aunt Laura, the last survivor, was now in automatic possession of the whole, as all the sisters had wished that the last survivor should be. "We are agreed," Aunt Ellen had said in conclave, "that the bulk of the money shall go back to dear Edward, or to his children if he marries and has any; let the last of us who is left alive carry out our joint wishes without being tied up by promises or papers. That to my mind is the ideal arrangement. Circumstances may arise which we cannot now foresee. Let the one of us who is spared longest have power to deal with them, under the kind advice of young Mr. Pauncey, if he also is spared so long, and not be hampered by what is called red tape."
And so the passing away of one sister after another had not been harassed by questions of property, and it was not until Aunt Ellen the eldest and Aunt Laura the youngest had been left alone together that any discussion at all had arisen as to the disposal of the money which they shared. They had talked of it together, and had called young Mr. Pauncey into advice.
Young Mr. Pauncey, now a little deaf and a little feeble in body, though not in brain, and as courteous and helpful as ever, had advised that the money should be equally divided amongst the Squire's younger children. "There are six of them," he had said very happily, "just as there were six of you ladies. Mr. Clinton would probably dispose of it in that way if you were to leave it to him, and I shall not be betraying confidence if I say that Captain Clinton is already very handsomely provided for."
So it had been agreed upon provisionally, but the question of making a will had been left in abeyance, and later on it had been thought that Cicely might possibly have rather more than the others, because Jim was not too well off, owing to those wicked death duties, and later still that Dick, perhaps, ought to have some, because they were not supposed to know what would be done for him, and they would not like him to feel himself left out in the cold; and by and by that it might be better, after all, to ask Edward to decide the matter himself. But nothing had been done. Aunt Ellen had died, and Aunt Laura had postponed coming to a decision at all for two years past, thinking over the matter occasionally, but never finding herself, as she expressed it, "guided."
Now she had begun to feel that she must come to a decision, and the guidance, in a dim sort of way, seemed to be making itself felt. She had never had any particular favourite amongst her nephew's children. Cicely would have been the favourite if she had not been a girl, for she had been much with her aunts before her marriage, and there had been more community of interest with her than with the rest. But it was impossible to put a girl Clinton before a boy Clinton, and her claim bulked no larger than those of Dick, Humphrey, Walter, or Frank. And hitherto, except in the case of Dick, there had seemed to be no reason for preferring one of the boys before the other.
But lately Aunt Laura had become considerably attached to Humphrey, whom, in the past, she had perhaps liked least of all the boys, although she would not have admitted as much to herself. He had been much away from Kencote, and had seemed so "grand" in his ways and ideas that she had been a little nervous of him on the rare occasions on which he had visited her. But lately, she thought, he had "softened." He must have felt, she told herself with a tremulous gratification, that she was the last of all his great-aunts left, that she would not be much longer with them, and that attention to her, although it could not bring him anything, would be deeply appreciated, as indeed it had been. He had been so very kind, cheering up her rather lonely days with constant visits, whenever he had been at home, making her those little presents which, because they showed real appreciation of what would give her pleasure, had meant so much to her, and latterly taking her into his confidence and telling her things about himself of a sort which no man, young or old, amongst her relatives, or indeed outside of them, had ever confided to her before.
It was this which had caused her such intense gratification. Throughout the whole of their lives she and her sisters had had to fight against the feeling that, although they were kindly treated, and even deferred to, by the members of their little world, they were of no real account. Slights, which had not been intended for slights, had sometimes distressed them, and they had had on occasions to assure each other that nothing could have been further from the intention of those who had wounded them than to do so. To ask their advice, to prove that they were not unimportant members of a family to which they had given a life-long allegiance—this was the straight way to their hearts, and it had seldom been taken. All the kindnesses that could be heaped on them would have been outweighed by one cry for succour or sympathy.
That cry had never come—perhaps there had been nothing in the even lives of their relations to bring it; but of all the talks she had ever had with any of her great-nieces and nephews Aunt Laura had most enjoyed those which she had lately had with Humphrey, for they had come nearest to it.
He had, indeed, shared a secret with her. He was in love, and nobody in the family knew it but she. And he was in love with that dear nice girl who had come once or twice to see her, had shown her more than friendliness, almost affection, and made for herself a warm little corner in a warm heart. Susan Clinton also had confided in her a little. At any rate she had permitted her to see that Humphrey's feelings for her were returned. And when she had bid her farewell she had kissed her and said, "I have loved these talks with you, Aunt Laura"—yes, she had called her that, although, of course, the relationship was a very distant one—"it is so nice to feel that one has a friend at Kencote."
But falling in love is one thing and getting married—the natural result of falling in love—is another; and Humphrey had confided to her that there were obstacles in the way of his getting married.
Of course, although Susan Clinton did not belong to the elder branch of the family, facts must be looked squarely in the face, and the daughter of an earl, even of an earl of no great wealth, had a right to expect something more elaborate in the setting up of married life than a girl of lesser lineage. Humphrey very sensibly saw that. "I can't very well ask for her, you see, Aunt Laura," he had said, "unless I know that I can give her the sort of thing, more or less, that she has been accustomed to."
Aunt Laura had quite seen it, and he had put it still more clinchingly when he had said on another occasion, "You see, it wouldn't do for them to think she was taking a step downward in marrying me."
Good gracious, no! A Clinton of Kencote was good enough to marry anybody, short of royalty. Rich enough too—or ought to be—even a younger son, if the marriage was a desirable one, as this undoubtedly seemed to be. "I think your dear father would be pleased," she had said. "He would wish that all of you should marry in your own rank in life, and he would be well aware that that cannot be done, in these days when married life seems so much more expensive than it used to be, without an adequate income. I think, dear Humphrey, that I should tell him if I were you, and throw yourself on his generosity, which I have no reason whatever for thinking would fail you."
Yes, Humphrey had supposed that he would do that sooner or later; in fact, he would have to, because his profession was not one out of which a satisfactory income could be made, at any rate in its early stages. Of course, if the worst came to the worst he could give up his profession, and take to something else out of which money could be made.