"Why ridiculous?" enquired Humphrey. "We're in the country at this moment, and we're not bored stiff—far from it."
"That's entirely different, a big house, with crowds of people whenever you want them—and in winter, when there's something for the men to do. To settle down for good! and at a place like Kencote! Well, I don't want to be rude to your people, but I ask you, are they alive or dead?"
Humphrey flushed. "My people are all right," he said, keeping his voice level. "And Susan will get on with them. You needn't worry yourself about that side of the question."
"I can't help it if you are angry with me," said Lady Aldeburgh, with a slight recurrence to her infantile manner. "I say what I think, and although I have the greatest possible respect for your people, it would drive me crazy to live in the way they do. And I'm not going to let Susan be killed and buried and made miserable for life."
"All right," said Humphrey. "Then I'd better pack up and clear off."
"Oh, don't be silly. If you can screw a couple of thousand a year out of your father, with the little bit that Susan will have, which will pay for her frocks, you could take a nice little flat and be fairly comfortable. I shouldn't mind your waiting for the rest to come later."
"If I do that, the rest won't come later; it won't come at all. Dick has kicked over the traces, and I'm to take his place—to a certain extent. I don't want to think too much about all that, but you force me to say it. You understand the situation well enough if you'd give your mind to it. I don't want to bury myself in the country all the year round any more than you would; but, hang it! isn't it worth making some sacrifice for a time? Besides, it's such nonsense to talk as if living in the country, and living comfortably too, within three hours of London, were the same thing as going off to Siberia or somewhere. Anyhow, we're going to live at Kencote. I'm game and Susan's game. We don't ask you to come and live with us."
"Now you're positively insulting," said Lady Aldeburgh, entirely recovering her good-humour, for this was the way she liked to be treated by good-looking young men. It implied that she appeared as young as she felt. "Of course if you have made up your mind to hoe turnips for the rest of your life, you naturally wouldn't expect me to come and hoe them with you, and I shouldn't come if you did. The question is, will Susan be happy hoeing turnips? That's what I have to look at."
"I dare say you will be pleased to do an occasional week-end's hoeing," replied Humphrey. "And as for Susan, I've already told you she's ready to hoe as long as is necessary. Please don't upset her about it. We are going to eat our bread and butter quite contentedly for a few years, and we shall get the jam by and by. If you put your oar in and try and upset things, we shan't get nearly so much bread and butter, and we shall miss the jam altogether. After all, it's a question for us to decide; and we've already decided. We're going to be a good little boy and girl, and if all goes well, by and by we shall be little county magnates. I believe that's the proper expression."
"What is your father going to do?" asked Lady Aldeburgh. "Let's put it quite plainly, as we are talking confidentially. Is he going to make an eldest son of you? Is Dick finally out of the way? I know he's going to marry Virginia Dubec in spite of everything. Does your father still refuse to see him—or to see her, which is more to the point, for I'm not a cat like some women, and I'll say this, that I believe if he were to see her she would get round him; for she's a beautiful creature and could turn any man round her little finger if she cared to try."
"She won't have a chance of trying with him," replied Humphrey. "You may make your mind easy as to that. As for Dick, I suppose he's seeing him at this moment. He was going down to Kencote this afternoon."
"What! Oh, then they've made it up?"
"No, they haven't. Neither side budges. Dick is going to marry Virginia, as you say, and Dick's father has sworn to leave all he can away from him if he does. Both of them will keep their word, for they're both as obstinate as the devil. But they are going to patch up a sort of peace, and I'm not altogether sorry. Dick hasn't behaved particularly well to me, and I should be a humbug if I pretended that I wanted him to get back what's now coming my way. But I don't want him to feel left out in the cold altogether."
"How very sweet and forgiving! Are you sure that he won't persuade your father to change his mind?"
"He won't try."
"How do you know that?"
"Because I know Dick."
"I suppose you wired to say you were coming down here because you didn't want to meet him?"
"I suppose I did. We might have had a row. I haven't done anything to persuade the governor to alter his will, as he's going to do, but it's going to be altered in my favour, and Dick might not feel inclined to do me justice over the matter. I don't want a row with him. We've been fairly good pals so far, and I don't want to be open enemies with him. Besides, Kencote will belong to him some day, and——"
"Well, when it does you won't be there any longer."
"Yes, I shall. I'm to have Partisham—that's pretty well settled. There would be an explosion of wrath and surprise if I intimated that I knew that and was counting on it; but you can see the governor's brain working all the time. He lets everything out, and he's let out that. It's only a question of one farm at present. I may get it with the rest, or it may go to Walter, for there's an old manor-house on it, and he thinks it would do for Walter to do up and live in when he gets tired of doctoring. He can't quite make up his mind, but it's only a hundred and fifty acres out of about two thousand, and it doesn't much matter one way or the other."
"Well, you seem pretty sure about it. I hope you may not be making a mistake. If I were Dick I should certainly have a try at getting back what he's lost. Where is this place you're going to have?"
"The house is about four miles from Kencote, and the property adjoins. My great-grandfather bought it with money his brother left him, and some of it is good building land on the outskirts of Bathgate. I've never been inside the house; it's let to a doctor and used as a private lunatic asylum."
"That's pleasant!"
"It's a fine house, and the property is rising in value every year. I shall be a richer man than Dick before I've done."
"How mercenary you are! Well, I suppose it's all right, as you say so, and I must give my consent. Oh, look, there's a table up. Come on! I feel as if I'm going to win stacks."
"My dear Lady George Dubec" [wrote Mrs. Clinton], "My husband and I will be glad if you will come to us here when you return to Meadshire, which Dick tells me will be next Wednesday. We shall be pleased to welcome you at Kencote and to make your acquaintance. We shall be pleased also to see Miss Dexter, and perhaps you will kindly tell her so, and let me know if she will accompany you.
"With kindest regards to yourself and to her,
"Believe me,"Very sincerely yours,"NINA CLINTON."
"There!" said Virginia, tossing this missive over to her companion. She had opened Dick's much longer letter, which had come by the same post, first of all, and half-way through its perusal had searched for Mrs. Clinton's amongst the rest. Now she returned to Dick's, while Miss Dexter read Mrs. Clinton's.
"What on earth does it all mean?" asked Miss Dexter. "Has the world come to an end, or has that preposterous old bear come to his senses at last?"
"It means, my dear Toby," said Virginia, looking up at her with a happy smile, "that all this horrible business is at an end. Dick has fought, and Dick has won. And we owe everything to the help that his dearest of dear mothers has given us. I knew I should love that woman from the first time I set eyes on her, and now I adore her. Three cheers for Mrs. Clinton."
She waved Dick's letter over her head. Miss Dexter looked down again at Mrs. Clinton's, and then again in dry surprise at her friend. "And do you really mean to tell me," she asked, "that you are satisfied withthisas an atonement for everything they have made you go through? I never read such a letter—as cold and unwilling as she is herself. I'll tell you what will happen, Virginia, if you go to Kencote. You will simply be insulted. Do you think people like that can change? Not a bit of it. 'Kindest regards,' indeed! She may keep her kindest regards to herself as far as I'm concerned."
"Oh, Toby, don't be so tiresome!" Virginia adjured her. "You know you're just as pleased as I am—or very nearly. Shall we go straight to Kencote from London, or go to Bathgate and leave some things at Blaythorn and pick up some others? I think we'll do that. I must take my smartest frocks, and so must you. For you are really quite presentable if you would only give yourself a chance."
"You may leave me out of it," said Miss Dexter. "I'm as likely to go to Kencote as I am to Windsor Castle. Ifyoulike to put your head into the bear's den and say 'Thank you for having tried to eat me up, and now by all means finish me off,' you can. I have a little more self-respect, and nothing would induce me to go near those people."
"Ah!" said Virginia, "you are still huffy because Mrs. Clinton snubbed you. Quite right of her! You are a dear, loyal, faithful creature, and I know you would follow me to much more terrible places than Kencote, where you will find yourself in a week's time; but you had no business to go interfering without consulting me about it. I'm too fond of you to snub you, as you so often deserve, so I'm quite pleased when other people do it for me."
"Yes, that's all I get for trying to help you," said Miss Dexter. "What do you suppose has happened? Has Captain Dick told them that you have money? That's the only thing I can think of that would make that purse-proud old lunatic change his mind."
"He doesn't say anything about that, and I'm sure he hasn't told them.Ishall tell Mr. Clinton, and it will make him love me even more than I'm going to make him as it is. I know I'm talking nonsense, but in the state of mind I find myself in at present that can't be helped. No, Toby dear, it is Mrs. Clinton who has done it all. My Dick says so. She was always on our side. She liked the look of me, Toby, odd as it may seem to you; and if she could have got round the old bear's prejudices—but I mustn't call him that any longer—she would have done so before. I knew I was right about her. It was the only thing I didn'tquitelike about Dick—that he seemed always to think she was of no account. Now he has come round, and my cup of happiness is brimming over. Oh, Toby, I've never been so happy in my life before." She put her handkerchief to her eyes, but she smiled gaily through her tears.
"Quite so," returned Miss Dexter, unmoved by this show of emotion. "You're all for the moment. Next week, when you are alone amongst them all, and they show you what they really think of you, you will never have been so miserable in your life. People like that don't change. They haven't got it in them. And you are laying up a most uncomfortable time for yourself. I give you solemn warning. I know what I'm talking about. I'm not carried away by sentiment as you are. Don't go, Virginia. Don't make yourself cheap."
"My dear," said Virginia in gentle seriousness, "if I were really making myself cheap by going to Kencote, I would go, if Dick asked me to. I can never be cheap to him. He'll be there, and nothing that can happen will touch me. But nothing will happen—nothing disagreeable. Why should you think so?"
Miss Dexter threw out her hands. "Oh, when you talk like that!" she said. "Well, go, my dear, and good luck go with you."
"Youare my good luck, and you will go with me," said Virginia. "Now, Toby darling, don't say no. You have done so much for me. Surely you can do this."
"I suppose I can," said Miss Dexter after a short pause. "But if Mrs. Clinton thinks I'm going to fall into her arms after her treatment of me, she'll find herself mistaken. And if the worst comes to the worst I can tell Mr. Clinton what I think of him. I should like an opportunity of doing that. Yes, I'll come, Virginia."
They went straight to Kencote from London, the state of Virginia's travelling wardrobe having been decided to be capable of answering all necessary calls on it, and Miss Dexter having declared that if she appeared as a dowdy, she would find others to keep her company at Kencote in spite of the airs they gave themselves.
At the railway terminus Humphrey Clinton came up to them. "Hulloa!" he said in the somewhat off-hand manner he adopted towards most ladies of his acquaintance. "Going back to Blaythorn?"
"No," said Virginia. "We are going to Kencote. So are you, I suppose? We will travel down together, and you shall smoke to me."
Miss Dexter's sharp eyes were upon him, and she saw him flinch, although Virginia did not. It was the merest twitch of a muscle, and he had recovered himself instantly. "That's first class," he said. "And this seems to be First Class too. Shall we get in here?"
"That nice-looking porter with the grey beard has found us a carriage," said Virginia. "If we all three spread ourselves over it nobody will come in, and you can smoke when once the train has started."
"You had better sit at the other end of the carriage, then," said Humphrey, "and pull your veil down, or elseeverybodywill want to come in."
"Now, Toby, don't you call that a perfectly lovely speech?" asked Virginia.
Miss Dexter emitted a sound indicative of scorn, but made no verbal reply, and they walked down the platform. A lady with spectacles, an unbecoming felt hat and a short skirt, was coming towards them, and as they approached one another she and Miss Dexter exclaimed, simultaneously, and then shook hands with expressions of pleasure. Miss Dexter then introduced the lady with the spectacles to Virginia, as an old schoolfellow, Janet Phipp, whom she had not met for years and years, and who had not changed in the least in the meantime, and asked her where she was going.
"I am going to a place called Kencote," said Miss Phipp; "as governess," she added uncompromisingly, with an eye on Virginia's fur and feathers and Humphrey's general air of opulence.
"Oh, but that's where we are all going!" cried Virginia. "How jolly! And this is Mr. Humphrey Clinton, the brother of your pupils."
Humphrey shook hands with Miss Phipp. "You'll find them a rare handful," he said.
"That won't worry me in the least," said Miss Phipp.
"We'll all travel down together," said Virginia, "and you shall be told all about the twins. I've never met them, and I'm dying to."
"I'm going second class," said Miss Phipp, and Miss Dexter said, "I'll go with you. Virginia, I shall just have time to change my ticket." She dashed off to the booking-office.
"That's so like Toby," said Virginia. "Always impulsive. She might have thought of changing Miss Phipp's ticket. What was she like at school, the dear thing?"
"Excellent at mathematics," replied Miss Phipp. "Languages weak, as far as I remember."
The train slipped off on its two hours' non-stop run, with Virginia and Humphrey in one carriage and Miss Dexter and Miss Phipp in another. The two ladies had much to say to one another as to the course of their respective lives since they had last met. Miss Phipp's career had been one of arduous work, punctuated by continental trips and an occasional period of bad health. "I suppose I have worked too hard," she said. "The doctors all say so, although I can't say I've ever been aware of it while I've actually been working. If I can't work I'd just as soon not live, and I've always had just the work that suited me. It's a blow to have to give it up. If it hadn't been for my health I should have been head-mistress of a big school long ago, and I'd have shown them what women's education could be. Now I've got to settle down to take two girls instead of two hundred, and I suppose if I try to teach them anything I shall be thwarted at every turn. Girls ought to be sent to school. I've no opinion of home education, and these two don't seem to have been taught anything. I'm low about it, Margaret. Still, I've got to do it, for a bit anyhow, and if they've got any brains I'll knock something into them, if I'm allowed to. However, we needn't worry ourselves about all that now. What have you been doing? Leading a life of luxury and gaiety, I suppose."
The smile with which she asked her question was affectionate. She had been a big girl at the school when Margaret Dexter had been a little one, and had mothered her. Margaret Dexter's father had been a consulting physician with a large practice. She had lived in different surroundings from most of her school-fellows.
"I've always had rather more luxury than I cared about," replied Miss Dexter. "As for gaiety, I don't care about that at all. I'm not cut out for it."
Her companion regarded her with more attention than she had yet bestowed. "You have grown to look very sensible," she said.
"Thanks," replied Miss Dexter. "That means that my appearance is not prepossessing. I've always known that, and it doesn't bother me a bit."
Miss Phipp laughed. "It is all coming back to me," she said. "At first, except that your face is much the same, I should hardly have recognised you for the little girl I used to be so fond of. But you haven't altered, Margaret. You are just as direct as ever. I believe I first taught you to be direct."
"If you did, you had easy ground to work on," replied Miss Dexter.
"I suppose I had. But aren't you doing anything, Margaret? You're not just spending your life like other rich people—going about and amusing yourself? You weren't like that as a child."
"I'm not rich," returned Miss Dexter. "My father died too young to make a lot of money. And as for doing something, I'm companion to Lady George Dubec."
Miss Phipp was visibly taken aback. "Oh!" she exclaimed; and after a pause said, "I'm sorry. Still, if you're obliged to earn your living, I should have thought you might have done something more useful than going out as a companion to a lady of fashion."
Miss Dexter coloured and then laughed. "It's all coming back to me too," she said. "That's what you used to call talking straight, and we used to call Janet's manners. If it is any comfort to you to know it, I don't have to earn my own living—I only said I wasn't rich. I live with Virginia Dubec because I love her, and I share some of the expenses. I'll tell you how much I pay if you like."
"Oh, don't be silly," said Miss Phipp. "You said you were her companion, and I took that to mean what anybody would. Then you'renotdoing anything, and I'm sorry for it. However, we needn't quarrel about that. What are these people like I'm going to? I've seen Mrs. Clinton, and on the whole I like her."
"Well, I don't," said Miss Dexter, "and if I weren't such a fool as to follow Virginia about wherever she wants to go to, as if she were a baby, I shouldn't go within a mile of Mrs. Clinton. I don't mind telling you, as you're bound to find out for yourself directly you get to Kencote, that Virginia is going to marry Captain Clinton, the eldest son, and the whole family have hitherto turned up their stupid noses at her. Now he seems to have persuaded them to inspect her and see whether she'll do, after all. She's worth a hundred of the whole lot of them put together, except, perhaps, Captain Clinton himself, who has behaved fairly well. No, I'll do him justice—he's behaved quite well. He's all right. But Mrs. Clinton—well, you say you like her, but you'll see; as for Mr. Clinton, he's the most odious, purse-proud, blood-proud, ignorant old pig you'll find anywhere."
"H'm!'" commented Miss Phipp drily. "Seems a nice sort of family I'm going to. What's that youth travelling with your Lady Virginia, or whatever her name is—what'shelike?"
"What he looks like," replied Miss Dexter shortly.
"And the girls I'm going to teach?"'
"I don't know them, and don't want to."
"But you will, if you're going to stay in the house. And you must have heard about them."
"Well, I believe they're rather fun," admitted Miss Dexter grudgingly. "And they're reported to be clever. Still, they've been boxed up at home all their lives, and can't know much. I expect you'll have your work cut out."
"They'll have their work cut out," returned Miss Phipp grimly, "and they'll have to do it too. I do hate having to go out as a governess, Margaret."
Miss Dexter glanced at her friend, who was so plain as to be almost unfeminine, and looked jaded and unwell besides; she had her eyes fixed on the suburban landscape now flying past at sixty miles an hour, and something in her aspect caused Miss Dexter's heart to contract. "Poor old Janet," she said, "I don't suppose it will be as bad as you expect. I'm a brute to be trying to put you against them. You won't see much of Mr. Clinton, and he probably won't bother you when you do. As for Mrs. Clinton, if you want the truth, she once gave me a snub, and I feel catty about her; so you needn't take any notice of what I say. The children are real characters, with any amount of brains, and you'll have a great opportunity with them if you can keep them in order."
Miss Phipp brightened up. "Ah, that's better hearing," she said. "As for keeping them in order, after a class of thirty High School girls, that's child's play."
"Well, I don't want to painttoobright a picture," said Miss Dexter, "and from what I've heard of them I don't think that it will be quite that."
In the meantime Virginia and Humphrey were getting on very well in their more luxurious compartment. Humphrey had expressed his pleasure at the opening up of the home of his fathers to his brother's expectant bride, and in such a fashion that Virginia had warmed to him and told him exactly how things stood.
"You see, I'm going on what the shops call 'appro,'" she said. "If they don't like me they can turn me out again."
"And if theydolike you," said Humphrey, "which, of course, they will——"
"Then all will be well," concluded Virginia.
He looked out of the window before he asked, carelessly, "I suppose Dick's there?"
"Of course Dick's there," said Virginia. "You don't suppose I should venture into the lion's den without my Dick to support me, do you? Dear old Dick! I'm glad he's made it up with your father."
"So am I," said Humphrey, after the minutest pause. "Family quarrels are the devil and all. And there was no sense in this one. I suppose he's chucked the idea of Yorkshire, and he's returned to the bosom of the fold."
"Oh, good gracious, no!" said Virginia. "At least he hasn't said so. Why should he, anyway? I guess we shall want all the dollars we can grab at. A wife's an expensive luxury, you know, Mr. Humphrey."
"Especially a wife like you," returned Humphrey genially. "Still, I shouldn't be surprised if you find Yorkshire 'off' when you get to Kencote. If the governor has come round about you, he'll probably come round about—about other things."
"You mean money?" said Virginia. "We're not bothering ourselves about that."
"You'renot, perhaps."
"You mean that Dick is? I don't know anything about it, and I don't care. That's not what I'm going to Kencote for. Why do men always think such a lot about money, I wonder?"
"Ah, I wonder," said Humphrey.
The four travellers joined up at Bathgate, where they had to change, and travelled to Kencote together in a second-class carriage, on Virginia's decision, which Humphrey accepted with some distaste, but did not combat.
Dick and the twins were on the platform at Kencote. The twins were inveterate train-meeters, whenever they were allowed to be, and Dick had brought them this evening with the idea of packing them and Miss Dexter and Miss Phipp into one carriage and accompanying Virginia in the other. But Humphrey had not been expected, and the greeting between the brothers was not particularly cordial. However, he grasped the situation when he saw a landau and a brougham in waiting outside instead of the station omnibus, which he had expected to see, and solved it by announcing his intention of walking.
"We would come with you, darling," said Joan in an aside, "but we must see it out with our image. What's she like, Humphrey?"
"Oh, most lovable—as you can see," replied Humphrey, disengaging his arm and setting out into the darkness.
When the carriage into which the twins had packed themselves with Miss Phipp and Miss Dexter had rolled off in the wake of the other, Miss Phipp said, "Well, girls, I hope we shall get on well together. You're not afraid of hard work, I suppose?"
"Oh no," replied Joan readily; "we're looking forward to it immensely."
"You will find our diligence one of our best points," said Nancy. "If at first we don't succeed we always try, try, try again."
There was a moment's silence, except for the sharp trot of the horse's hoofs and the wheels rolling on the frosty road. Then Miss Dexter laughed suddenly. "There, you're answered," she said to Miss Phipp. "Let's put them through an examination. What do you know of mathematics?"
"Don't be foolish, Margaret," said Miss Phipp sharply. "They must not begin by making fun of their lessons."
"Oh, but we shouldn't think of doing that," said Joan.
"They're far too serious, and we have been taught not to make fun of serious things," said Nancy.
Miss Dexter laughed again. "What do you know of mathematics?" she asked.
"Nancy is not good at them," replied Joan. "She got as far as the asses' bridge in Euclid, with the starling, our last governess, and then she struck, as you might expect. Her strong point is literature. She writes poems that bring tears to the eyes."
"Joan's weak point is history," said Nancy. "She thought Henry the Eighth was a widower when he married Anne Boleyn, and Starling made her learn all his wives in order before she went to bed."
"That will do, girls," said Miss Phipp firmly. "And if Miss Starling was the name of your last governess, please call her so."
The ensuing silence was broken by a smothered giggle from Joan, which Nancy covered up by asking in a rather shaky voice of Miss Dexter whether she and Miss Phipp had known each other before.
"Yes," said Miss Dexter, "we were at school together—oh, years ago—and have never seen each other since, until we met on the platform. Funny, wasn't it? I say, is there a ghost at Kencote?"
"Oh, no, it isn't old enough," replied Joan. "But there's one at the dower-house—an old man in one boot who goes about looking for the other one."
"That's a jolly sort of ghost," said Miss Dexter. "Do you know who he was?"
"He is supposed to have been an ancestor in the time of Charles the Second—he's dressed like that—who kicked his servant to death, and——"
"We've got some topping ancestors," put in Nancy. "There's a book about them. Joan and I read it the other day. One of them was called Abraham, and he said if he had a name like that he must live up to it, so he called his sons Jacob and Esau——"
"He only had one and he called him Isaac," interrupted Joan. "You have got it wrong."
"That will do," said Miss Phipp decisively, and just then the carriage clattered under the porch and came to a standstill.
The Squire had not been able to bring himself to meet his guests in the hall, as was the hospitable custom at Kencote. He had meant to do so. He had given in on the main point on which he had held out so long, and honestly intended to behave well about it. He had gone to and fro between his room and the morning-room across the hall, standing first before the fire near which his wife was sitting, and then reading theTimesfor a few minutes in his own easy-chair, and when the wheels of the first carriage had been heard, and Mrs. Clinton had put aside her work and risen according to custom, he had gone out with her into the hall. But when the servants came through to the door he thought that they cast curious looks at him, as possibly they did, and he bolted suddenly back to the shelter of his room, and stood there listening, until the door of the morning-room was shut and the noises outside had ceased.
Then he grew ashamed of himself. What would Dick think of him? If he delayed any longer it would look as if he were holding off, after all—refusing to put at her ease and make welcome a guest in his own house. So he gathered up his courage, settled his waistcoat, and walked boldly into the morning-room, and straight up to Miss Dexter, who was nearest to the door, and with whom he shook hands warmly, somewhat to her confusion, before he distinguished Virginia, who had risen when he came in.
Her colour was high, and her eyes sparkling, but she smiled in his face, and said, as Americans do on an introduction, "Mr. Clinton," and then waited for him to speak, still standing and looking straight into his eyes, with the smile that invited friendliness.
The Squire turned away from her somewhat confused, and said, "Tea ready, Nina? Lady George must be cold after her journey. What sort of weather was it in London?"
Miss Dexter replied to the question, as his brows had been bent upon her when it was asked. She said it was rather raw, and the answer seemed to satisfy him, for he left that subject and remarked that the Radicals seemed to be making a disgraceful mess of it as usual, and if this sort of thing went on we should all be driven out of the country.
This led nowhere, and that awful pause seemed likely to ensue where people ill at ease with one another search for topics to hide up their discomfort. But Virginia, who had sat down again, said, "Mr. Clinton, have you ever forgiven us for heading back the fox?"
"Eh! What!" asked the Squire, with a lively recollection of the rebuke he had administered on the occasion referred to.
Virginia laughed. "You were terrible," she said. "But you had every right to be terrible. I'd never done such a thing before, and I hope I shall never do such a thing again. I feel like getting under the sofa every time I think of it."
The Squire thought the last statement just slightly verging on indelicacy, but its effect on his mind was only momentary, so relieved was he at having a subject held out to him. Deep down in his heart he held to his aversion to Virginia, and nothing in her appearance or attitude had in the least softened it. But, externally, it had to be covered up, and because she offered him a covering he was grateful, and for the moment well disposed towards her.
"Ladies who come into the hunting-field," he said, with a near approach to a smile, "and turn foxes, must expect to be spoken sharply to."
This was enough for Virginia to go on with, but not for Miss Dexter, who had heard the words, but missed the smile. "It is like interfering with a child's toys," she said. "He forgets his manners for the moment."
The Squire bent a look of puzzled displeasure on her, but before her words could sink in, Virginia said, "Toby, don't be tiresome. You don't know anything whatever about hunting, and you are so absurdly vain that you can't bear to be corrected when you've done wrong."
Dick laughed and said to his mother, "Miss Dexter gets a good deal of correction and puts up with it like an angel. She's not in the least vain, really."
"Nothing much to be vain of," said Miss Dexter, with complete equanimity.
The Squire was still looking at her as if adjusting his mind to her presence and potentialities, and she looked up at him and said, "Miss Phipp, your children's governess, is an old friend of mine. We were at school together." Then she looked down again and took a sip of tea.
The Squire seemed at a loss to know what use to make of this piece of information, but Dick said, "She looks as if she would be able to handle them all right."
"You mean that she is plain," said Miss Dexter.
"You seem to be in a very bad humour," Dick retorted.
"She's in an atrocious humour," said Virginia. "She always is when she's been travelling. She will pick up and be thoroughly amiable when she's had two cups of tea."
"Do let me give you another one," said Mrs. Clinton, with a kind smile, and everybody laughed, including the Squire, a second or two late.
Conversation went fairly easily after that, and by and by Mrs. Clinton took Virginia and Miss Dexter up to their rooms. Never very ready of speech, she had little to say as they went up the staircase and along the corridors, but when she had shown them their rooms, which were adjoining, she asked, "Would you like to come and see the children in their quarters? I hope they are making Miss Phipp feel at home."
"I should love to," said Virginia; and Miss Dexter said, "They ought to have come to some understanding by now."
Joan and Nancy were sitting one on either side of Miss Phipp at the tea-table. Their demure air, which did not quite correspond to the look in their eyes, probably warned Mrs. Clinton that if any understanding had been come to it was of a one-sided nature, but Miss Phipp looked comfortable both in mind and body, and said, as she rose from the table, "We have been having a good talk about our future plans. We are going to do a great deal of hard work together, and put all our minds into it."
The twins, for once, forbore to add to a statement of that nature. Their bright eyes were fixed full upon Virginia, who smiled radiantly on them and said, "What a lovely schoolroom you have! I shouldn't mind working in a room like this."
"Itisrather nice," said Joan. "Miss Starling, our last governess, taught us to keep it in order."
"Miss Starling seems to have taught them some very useful things," said Miss Phipp, with firm complacency. "She was with you for a good many years, was she not, Mrs. Clinton?"
"Her name was 'Miss Bird,'" said Mrs. Clinton. "We were all very fond of her, and the boys gave her a nickname out of affection."
"Oh!" said Miss Phipp, casting a glance of disapproval on the twins, who met it with eyes of blameless innocence.
Later on when the twins went to their room to change their frocks they dismissed Hannah from attendance on them. "We have something to talk over," said Joan, "and we can do without you this evening."
"You had better wait outside on the mat and we'll call you if we want you," said Nancy.
"Indeed, Miss Nancy, I should demean myself by doing no such thing," said the indignant Hannah. "If you wish to talk between yourselves as well I know what you want to talk about, though deny it you may, straight downstairs do I go, and you may do your 'airs yourself, for I shall not come up again till it's time to tidy."
"Hurry up," said Nancy. "We'll ring if we want you."
When Hannah had departed Joan said, "Well, what do you think of her"
"Who do you mean—Virginia, or Pipp, or Toby?"
"Virginia, of course. I think she's rather sweet. She's worth ten of sweet Sue Clinton, anyhow."
"That's not saying much for her. I think she's all right, though. But I haven't seen any signs of the chocolates yet."
"What chocolates?"
"I thought she'd be sure, to bring us a great big expensive box tied up with pink ribbons, so as to make friends with us and get us on her side."
"I shouldn't have thought nearly so much of her if she had. What I like about her is that she doesn't toady. She knows she's got to make a good impression, but she doesn't show she's trying. I'm sure mother likes her."
"We haven't seen her with father yet."
"We shall at dinner. I really think she's rather a darling, Nancy. I think I shall give in."
Nancy announced her intention of holding out a little longer just to make sure. "She's just the merest trifle too sweet for my taste," she said. "I must be quite certain that it's part of her first."
"I'm sure it's part of her," said Joan. "She isn't any sweeter than Aunt Grace, and you like her."
"Aunt Grace is too sweet for my taste, although it is part of her, and isn't put on. I like people with more character. Toby, now—she's a ripper."
"Yes, I like her," admitted Joan. "She likes us too. I think she wants to egg us on to deal with Pipp."
"We shan't want much egging. We've got her a bit puzzled already. I don't think she's a bad sort, you know, Joan. I thought she'd give us bread and water when mother went away."
"She's not quite sure of herself yet. We'll go on playing at being High School girls for a bit. It's rather fun. Don't they wear their hair in pigtails?"
"We might plait our hair after breakfast to-morrow. And they always say 'Yes, Miss Phipp,' 'No, Miss Phipp.' You know that story we read?"
"We'll go through it again. We'll do all the proper things at lesson time, and outside the schoolroom we'll be our own sweet selves. It will be rather a bore going for walks with her."
"She can't be allowed to be instructive then."
"Rather not. She'll want firm handling, but I think we shall be equal to it."
"It may come to a tussle. But we've only got to keep our heads. There are two of us, and there's only one of her. We'll be kind but firm, and when she's learnt her place I dare say we shall get on all right, and everything will go swimmingly. WhathasHannah done with my hair-ribbon? Ring the bell loud, Joan, and go on ringing till she comes up."
The Squire may have forgotten, when he gave his consent to Virginia being asked to Kencote on this particular date, that on the following day the hounds would meet at Kencote, and there was to be a hunt breakfast. He had his due share of stupidity, but he was clever enough to see, when he did realise what had happened, that Virginia's presence at Kencote on so public an occasion would spread abroad the fact of his surrender as nothing else could do so pointedly.
He did not half like it. He was not quite sure in his mind exactly what he had surrendered by consenting to receive her, but he was quite sure that he had never meant to give up his right to make her first visit her last if he did not approve of her, and when the mild January day dawned and he went into his dressing-room it was with a mind considerably perplexed, for he did not know whether he approved of her or not, and yet here were all these people coming, who would see her there, and possibly—the more officious of them—actually go so far as to congratulate him on the approaching marriage in his family.
He had gone as far as that. He recognised that, whatever he thought about the matter himself, the rest of the world, as represented by the people amongst whom he lived, would, undoubtedly, hold that there was cause for congratulation. He even went a little further, without admitting it to himself: he accepted the general verdict of his neighbours, that Virginia was a very beautiful and a very taking person. Only he had not taken to her himself. She had tried him hard, during the previous evening, and several times, especially after his first glass of port, he had nearly allowed himself to fall a victim to her charm. But he had just managed to hold out, and in the cold light of morning, and removed from her presence, thinking also of the company that was presently to assemble, he frowned when he thought of her, and said aloud as he brushed his hair, which he always did the first thing in the morning, even before he looked at the weather-glass, "Confound the woman! Infernal nuisance! I wish the day was well over."
Presently, however, his thoughts grew rather lighter. It was a perfect day for his favourite sport, and he was going to hunt once more. He felt as eager as a schoolboy for it. Having received Virginia in his house, there was no object in seeking to avoid her in the field, and the relief to his mind in having nothing before him actually to spoil his pleasure in a day with the hounds was so great that it reacted on his view of Virginia, and he said, also aloud, as he folded his stock, "I wonder if she'll do after all."
But no; that was too much. Of course she wouldn't do. She was an American—well, perhaps that could be forgiven her: she was not glaringly transatlantic. She had been a stage-dancer. You had to remind yourself of the fact, but there was no doubt that it was a fact. Ugh! She was the widow of a rascal, living on the money he had left her, which had been got, probably, by the shadiest of courses, if not dishonestly. That was positively damning, and he could not understand how Dick could complaisantly accept such a situation and prepare to live partly upon it. But perhaps she had very little money and was deeply in debt, and there would be difficulty about that later on. He had not thought of that before, and slid away from the thought now, as quickly as possible. He did not want to spoil his day's pleasure. But a gloomy tinge was imparted to his thoughts, and again he frowned at the idea of what lay before him when the neighbours for miles round would be collected and he would have his difficult part to play before them.
Virginia came down to breakfast in her riding habit, which is a becoming costume to no woman unless she is on a horse. The Squire had an old-fashioned grudge against hunting-women in general, and he was not cordial to Virginia, although he made every effort to act conformably to his duties as her host. Whatever inroads she might have made on his prejudice against her on the previous evening when, in a dress of black chiffon with touches of heliotrope about her neck and in her lustrous hair, she had looked lovely and surprisingly young, she held small charm for him now, and it was with difficulty that he brought himself to be polite to her, as she sat at his right hand during breakfast.
Fortunately some distraction was afforded to him by the presence of Miss Phipp, to whom he had just been introduced for the first time. He found her astonishingly plain, and he was the sort of man who finds food for humour in the contemplation of a plain woman. But in his present mild state of discomfort he found no food for humour in Miss Phipp's obvious disregard of her proper position in the house. Miss Bird had never spoken at the breakfast table unless spoken to. She would have considered it immodest to do so. Miss Phipp bore a leading part in the conversation, and as she had only one subject—the education of the young, in which the Squire possessed no overmastering interest—by the end of the meal he was seriously considering the necessity of giving her a snub.
Miss Phipp's thesis, which she developed with considerable force, and a wealth of illustration drawn from her previous experience, was that a woman's brains were every bit as good as a man's, and that she could do just as much in the way of scholarship if her training began early and was carried on on the right lines.
"What doyouthink about it?" Miss Dexter asked of Nancy, who was sitting next to her.
"I think," replied Nancy, with a side glance at Miss Phipp, "that it depends a great deal on the teacher," at which Miss Dexter laughed, thus giving the answer a personal application.
"Of courseit depends a great deal upon the teacher. That is exactly what I said," Miss Phipp went on. "When I was at the High School there was a girl who had taken the highest possible honours at London University, but she was of no more use as a teacher than—than anything. Teaching is a gift by itself, and sometimes the best scholars do not possess it."
"I think we shall find a fox in Hartover," said the Squire. "I believe that fellow they lost a month ago has taken up his quarters there."
"At the same time," said Miss Phipp, "for the higher forms of a school youmusthave women who are good scholars as well as with a gift for teaching."
When breakfast was over the twins went out of the room one on each side of Miss Dexter, to whom they had taken a warm fancy, and invited her to visit their animals with them. But Miss Phipp said at once, "Oh, but I shall want you in the schoolroom, girls. We are not to begin lessons until Monday, but we must lose no time then, and I want to find out beforehand exactly where you are."
The twins looked at one another. They were all standing in the hall. "Saturday is a whole holiday," said Joan.
"That I know," replied Miss Phipp, "but it is important that we should begin work on Monday without any delay. You can spare an hour. I shall probably not keep you longer."
The twins looked at one another again, and then at Miss Dexter, who preserved a perfectly passive demeanour. "I think, if you don't mind," said Joan, "we would rather get up an hour earlier on Monday. We always feed the animals ourselves on Saturdays, directly after breakfast."
"Are you going to begin with me by showing disobedience?'" asked Miss Phipp. "I must insist now that you shall come upstairs with me."
The High School girls would have recognised this tone and quailed before it. But Nancy said, "We'll come if mother says we must," and Miss Phipp lost patience, and without another word walked into the morning-room, into which she had seen Mrs. Clinton go with Virginia.
The twins looked at one another once more, and then at Miss Dexter, who received their glance with a twinkle in her eyes. "Now you're in for it," she said.
But the twins were rather alarmed. "We weren't rude to her, were we?" asked Joan.
"Hadn't we better go in to mother?" asked Nancy.
"No, it's all right; we'll wait here," said Miss Dexter, and they waited in silence until Miss Phipp marched out of the morning-room, passed them without a word, and went upstairs.
"Now we'll go and put our hats on and go out and see the animals," said Miss Dexter; but just then Mrs. Clinton came out to them, looking rather concerned, and Miss Dexter left them and joined Virginia in the morning-room.
"What happened?" she asked eagerly.
"My dear Toby," replied Virginia, "are you going to foment a quarrel between those darling children and the bosom friend of your childhood?"
"No, I'm not," replied Miss Dexter. "I'm going to put her in the way of settling down here. What happened?"
"What happened? Why, she came in looking as red as a tomato, and said, 'Mrs. Clinton, I want the children to come into the schoolroom for an hour, and they refuse. Is it your wish that they shall disobey me?' or something like that."
"They didn't refuse. What did Mrs. Clinton say?"
"She said, 'Oh, surely not, Miss Phipp,' and it turned out, as you say, that they had only said that they would rather not. Then Mrs. Clinton said that she didn't want them to work on Saturdays, especially to-day, because of the meet, and the friend of your childhood flounced out of the room without another word. Toby, that good lady is as hot as pepper."
Then Mrs. Clinton came in again, and said, "I want the children to take Miss Phipp out to see their animals too. They have gone up to her. Will you go too?"
But Miss Phipp was not in the schoolroom. "You go and put on your hats, and I'll go and find her," said Miss Dexter.
"Mother wasn't annoyed with us," said Joan. "We said we were quite polite. We were, weren't we?"
"Your manners were a lesson to us all," said Miss Dexter.
Miss Phipp was in her bedroom, and Miss Dexter proffered the invitation, of which she took no notice. "It's perfectly preposterous," she said, turning an angry face upon her. "If this is the sort of thing that is to happen my position here will be impossible."
"My dear girl, you shouldn't lose your temper," said Miss Dexter. "They were quite right. You've no right to expect them to work in their playtime. Besides, you shouldn't have told Mrs. Clinton that they were disobedient. Come out and see their rabbits and guinea-pigs."
"I shall do nothing of the sort," said Miss Phipp. "I shall reconsider my position. I will not stay and teach girls who are encouraged to set my authority at naught."
"Look here, Janet," said Miss Dexter firmly. "You are going the wrong way to work here. You have every chance of having a real good time, and doing something useful besides, but you can't behave in a private family as if you were in a school."
For answer Miss Phipp burst into most feminine tears. "I'm not well," she sobbed. "I've got a splitting headache after yesterday's journey, and I've lost control over myself."
"Well, lie down for a bit," advised Miss Dexter. "You'll have the whole day to yourself, and you needn't begin to think about work until Monday. I'll put a match to your fire. Is there anything you'd like? If there is I'm sure you can have it."
"I'm a fool," said Miss Phipp, drying her eyes. "For goodness' sake don't let those two know I broke down. I dare say I was wrong, but I do want to do all I can to get them on quickly."
"I know you do. And you'll have no difficulty when the proper time comes. They're clever girls, and nice ones too. They are quite upset at the idea of having upsetyou."
"Are they?" said Miss Phipp drily. "Well, I think Iwilllie down for a bit and take some Phenacetin. No, I don't want anything else. If I do, I can ring the bell."
So she was left to herself, and Miss Dexter accompanied the twins in their various errands of mercy, and expressed unbounded admiration of the breeding and intelligence of the rodents submitted to her inspection, after which they took her for a walk round the rhododendron dell.
They, were a little less ready with their conversation than usual, for the late episode had been something quite new in their experience and given them occasion for thought. At last Miss Dexter said, "If you are worrying about Janet Phipp, I shouldn't, if I were you. She's a good sort, and you'll get on with her all right."
"I hope we shall," said Joan, "but I'm inclined to doubt it. She's soverydifferent to the old starling. We had any amount of fun with her, but then, we loved her."
"Well, you'll love Miss Phipp when you know her. I've known her for—well, I won't tell you how many years, but we're neither of us chickens, as you can see."
"And do you love her?" asked Nancy.
"I used to, and I should again if I saw anything of her."
"Well, that's something in her favour," said Joan. "But Nancy and I will have to talk it over and settle our course of action."
"Well, talk it over now. I shan't repeat anything you say."
"We like you very much," said Nancy. "But as you're a friend of hers, we might not like to speak quite plainly. It's rather a serious situation."
"Oh, you can talk quite plainly before me. I can see the situation well enough, and it isn't as serious as you think. She has never been in a private family before, and has had no experience except with a horde of schoolgirls. Of course you have to keep a tight hand over them, and when they're at school nobody has authority over them except the teachers. She'll soon tumble to it that your mother has more say in things than she can have. But you mustn't always be appealing to your mother against her."
"Of course we shouldn't do that," said Joan indignantly. "We never did with Starling, except in fun."
"Besides, we are quite capable of controlling the situation by ourselves, when once we've settled on a course of action," said Nancy.
Miss Dexter laughed. "I've no doubt you are," she said. "Only give her a chance. That's all I ask."
"I suppose you don't object to our exercising our humour on her?" asked Nancy. "We have our reputation to keep up. And you must admit that she was rather trying this morning."
"Look here," said Miss Dexter. "She's been ill, and she's not well now. You may think it funny, but when I went in to see her just now she cried."
"Oh, poor darling!" exclaimed Joan. "Of course we'll be kind to her, won't we, Nancy?"
"We'll think it over," said Nancy. "We mustn't be sentimental. You're rather inclined to it, Joan. She may have shed tears of rage at being thwarted."
"You're a beast," said Joan uncompromisingly. "I hate to think of people being unhappy."
"You see," Miss Dexter put in, "she's suffering under a great disappointment. She's a splendid teacher and was getting on awfully well, and then she broke down and has had to take a private job. Many people would much prefer to live in a place like this, and have a good time, instead of toiling hard at a school. But, for her, it's good-bye to a career in life, and she can't help feeling rather sore about it."
"Poor darling!" exclaimed Joan again. "We'll take her to our hearts and make up for it. Don't you be afraid, Toby dear—you don't mind us calling you that, do you?—if Nancy misbehaves I know how to deal with her."
"I don't want to misbehave," said Nancy, "and if I did you couldn't stop me. If she treats us well we'll treat her well. I shan't make any rash promises. I think we'd better be getting back now. People will begin to turn up soon, and it's such fun to see them."
They went back to the house, and presently there came riding up the drive two men in pink, and immediately after there came a dogcart and then a carriage and then more men on horses and a lady or two, and after that a constant succession of riders and people on wheels and on foot, until the open stretch of park in front of the house was full of them.
And at last the huntsman and whips came trotting slowly along the drive and on to the grass, and the hounds streaming along with them waving their sterns, a useful, well-matched pack, much alike in the mass, but each with as much individuality as the men and women who thronged around them.
Then the members of the hunt began to drift by twos and threes into the house and into the dining-room, where the Squire was very hospitable and hearty in pressing refreshments on them—"just a sandwich, or something to keep out the draught," he kept on repeating, full of pleasure at being able to feed dozens of people who didn't want feeding, and quite forgetting for the time being his fears as to the effect of Virginia's presence.
Virginia, not wishing any more than he to make herself a centre of the occasion, was on her horse already, and Dick was with her, and a handsome pair they made. So thought old Aunt Laura who had had herself drawn up by the porch in her Bath chair, as far away as possible from "the horses' hoofs." She had just heard that a marriage was about to take place in the family and was full of twittering excitement at the news.
"My nephew," she said, meaning the Rector, "told me the glad news only this morning, my dear. I am overjoyed to hear it, and to have the opportunity of seeing you so soon. Please do not bring your horse too close, if you do not mind. I am somewhat nervous of animals."
"I'll bring her to see you this evening, Aunt Laura," said Dick, "or, if she's too tired, to-morrow morning."
"I shan't be too tired," said Virginia, smiling at the old lady. "Dick has often told me about you, Miss Clinton, but you know I have never been in Kencote before."
The Rector had given Aunt Laura some hint of the difficulty there had been over the engagement, and she said soothingly, "I know, my dear, I know. But I have no doubt you will be here very often now, and I am sure nobody will be more pleased to see you than I shall. Dear me, what with Walter and Cicely being married two years ago and Dick and Humphrey about to be married, one feels one belongs to a family in which things are always happening. I only wish that my dear sisters had been alive to take part in it all. They would have been so pleased. But the last of them died last year, as no doubt Dick has told you, and I am no longer able to welcome you in our old home. But I have a very nice little house in the village, and if you will come and drink a cup of tea with me I shall feel great gratification, and I will show you some of my treasures. Tell me, Dick, for my eyes are not quite what they were, is that our Cousin Humphrey?"
It was, in fact, Lord Meadshire, who in spite of a cold, which made him hoarser than ever, had driven over with his daughter, and now, looking frail and shrunken in his heavy fur coat, but indomitably determined to make the best of life, came slowly across the gravel to greet once again the only member of his own generation left alive amongst all his relations.
"Well, Laura," he said, "this is like old times, eh?" and then he recognised Virginia, and showed, although he did not say so, that he was pleasantly surprised to see her there.
"You have heard, I suppose, Humphrey," said Aunt Laura, with obvious pride in being first with the news, "that we are shortly to have yet another wedding in the family. I have not seen dear Edward yet; I have no doubt he is busy indoors, but will be out soon—and I shall be able to tell him how glad I am that everything is happily settled."
Lord Meadshire's sharp old eyes twinkled up at Virginia, and at Dick, who said, "Don't you say anything to him about it yet, Aunt Laura. He's not quite ready for it"; and Lord Meadshire added, "You've been given early news, Laura. We must keep it to ourselves until it is published abroad—what? My dear"—this to Virginia—"I needn't tell you how glad I am, and I wish you every possible happiness and prosperity."
He stayed to chat for a few minutes with Aunt Laura after Virginia and Dick had moved away. "It seems but yesterday," said Aunt Laura, "that my dear father, who, of course, kept these hounds, entertained his friends here in just such a way as this, and I was a little girl with all my dear sisters, and you were a young man, Humphrey, very gay and active, riding over and talking and laughing with everybody. And it is just the same pretty scene now as it was then, although all the people who took part in it are dead, except you and I."
"My dear Laura," wheezed Lord Meadshire, "I'm gay and active now, if it comes to that, and so are you, in your heart of hearts. Come, let us forget that tiresome number of years that lies behind us and go and amuse ourselves with the rest. If I stand out here in the cold, I shall have Emily after me—what?"
So Aunt Laura was helped out of her Bath chair, and they went into the house together slowly, and arm in arm.
The Squire hastened to meet them and find chairs for them, rather uncomfortably near the fire. He was loud in his expressions of pleasure at seeing his kinsman there, and not unmindful, either, of the comfort of Aunt Laura. He would have been beyond measure scandalised at the charge of treating her with increased consideration since he had learnt of her wealth, and indeed he had shown himself, as has been said, indifferent to the possibility of her being wealthy, but there was no doubt that she had increased in importance in his eyes during the last week or two, and she was accordingly treated more as a personage at Kencote than she had ever been before in her life.
Lord Meadshire accepted a glass of champagne. It was a festive occasion, and he loved festive occasions of all sorts. Everybody in the room came up and talked to him, and he was pleased to talk to everybody and said the right thing to each. But presently he found the opportunity of a word apart with the Squire.
"So you've given in, Edward—eh, what?" he remarked, with a mischievous look in his old face, and before he could be answered, said, more seriously, "Well, you were right to stick out if you thought it wouldn't do—to stick out as long as you could—but you must be glad all the bother's over now, and I feel sure you'll come to think it isn't so bad as you thought it would be. Come now, weren't all the rest of us right? Isn't she a dear creature?"
"I haven't given in," said the Squire shortly. "I don't know yet what I'm going to do. Of course, if Dick has made up his mind, I'm not going to keep him at arm's length all the rest of my life, however much I may object to what he's doing. That's why he's here, and why she's here."
"Ah!" said Lord Meadshire wisely. "That's the way to talk. When you say that you're nearly at the end of your troubles."
As he drove off a little later with Lady Kemsale he told her that Edward was conquered, although he wouldn't acknowledge it. "He's an obstinate fellow," said Lord Meadshire, "and from what Nina told me I should say that he's having hard work to hold out against the dear lady. Well, she's only got to keep on being herself and he'll be at her feet like all the rest of us."
"Dear papa," said Lady Kemsale, "Lady George has bewitched you."
"My dear," said Lord Meadshire, "I admit it fully. And if she can bewitch me she can bewitch Edward. She's half-way on the road already."
Miss Phipp lay quite still on her bed for half an hour with her eyes closed, while the pain in her head grew and became almost insupportable, as she had known it would, and then, under the influence of the drug, slowly ebbed away until, exhausted as she was, her state was one of such relief as to amount to bliss. She could not afford to be angry, if she was to escape the punishment of these short-lived but agonising bursts of pain, and she had been very angry. Now she told herself that she had been foolish to upset herself about nothing. Her friend's words had borne fruit in her robust and sensible mind. It was quite true that she could not expect to exercise the same undivided authority in a private house as in a school, and she must find compensations elsewhere, which she very speedily did. At the school she had herself been under authority, and had not been able to carry out unchecked her favourite theories of education. Here she would be free of that check, for she did not suppose that Mrs. Clinton would desire to interfere with her in her teaching. And the children were bright enough. Surely there was opportunity here for doing something in a small way, which she had never been able to do at all as yet! They were nice children too, with some character. They had not given in to her, but they had held out without being in the least rude, and it was good of them, after what had happened, to want her to go with them to see their odious animals.
At this point Mrs. Clinton, who had been told of her bad headache, knocked at her door and asked if she wanted anything. She thanked her and said "No," and Mrs. Clinton further asked if she would like to drive with her, for, if she was well enough, it might do her good.
She got off her bed and opened the door, and when Mrs. Clinton saw the dark circles under her eyes she exclaimed in sympathy, and insisted upon fetching eau-de-Cologne, and performing various little services for her, which, although she now scarcely needed them, made her feel that she was cared for. She was instructed to lie still for a while longer, and something should presently be sent up to her. Then she was to lunch quietly by herself, and in the afternoon, if she was well enough, to take a short walk in the park. "It is so fine," said Mrs. Clinton, "that I expect we shall be out all day, and you will have the whole house to yourself, and can be as quiet as you like. And mind you ask Garnett—my maid, you know—for anything you want. I will tell her to keep an eye on you."
Then she went away, and left Miss Phipp in a more comfortable frame of mind and body than before. She was not used to being looked after in illness, for she had lived a lonely life, and her near relations were long since dead. She felt extraordinarily grateful to this kind, thoughtful, sensible woman, who treated her as if she were a human being and not like a mere teaching machine, and the thought began to dawn upon her, that perhaps she might come to look upon Kencote as a home, such as she had never hitherto had, and in the days of her health had scarcely missed.
Her bedroom was in the front of the house, and she had heard, without much heeding them, the wheels and the beat of horse-hoofs and the voices outside. Now she began to be a little curious as to what was going on, and rose and drew up her blind and looked out.
The scene was quite new to her, and in spite of herself she exclaimed at it. Immediately beyond the wide gravel sweep in front of the house was the grass of the park, where the whole brave show of the South Meadshire Hunt was collected. It is doubtful if she had ever seen a pack of hounds in her life, and she watched them as if fascinated. Presently, at some signal which she had not discerned, the huntsman and the whips turned and trotted off with them, and behind them streamed all the horsemen and horsewomen, the carriages and carts, and the people on foot, until the whole scene which had been so full of life and colour was entirely empty of all human occupation, and there was only the damp grass of the park and the big bare trees under the pearly grey of the winter sky. She saw the Squire ride off on his powerful horse, and admired his sturdy erect carriage, and she saw Dick and Virginia, side by side, Humphrey, the pink of sartorial hunting perfection, Mrs. Clinton in her carriage, with Miss Dexter by her side and the twins opposite to her, and for a moment wished she had accepted her invitation to make one of the party, although she did not in the least understand where they were going to, or what they were going to do when they got there. All this concourse of apparently well-to-do and completely leisured people going seriously about a business so remote from any of the interests in life that she had known struck her as entirely strange and inexplicable. She might have been in the midst of some odd rites in an unexplored land. The very look of the country in its winter dress was strange to her, for she was a lifelong Londoner, and the country to her only meant a place where one spent summer holidays. Decidedly it would be interesting—more interesting than she had thought—to gain some insight into a life lived apparently by a very large number of people in England, if this one little corner could produce so many exponents of it, but curiously unlike any life that she had lived herself or seen other people living.
She went through the course prescribed for her by Mrs. Clinton, and enjoyed the quiet of the big house and the warm airy seclusion of the schoolroom, where she read a book and wrote a little, and after lunch went to sleep on the sofa before the fire. Then at about half-past three, although she hated all forms of exercise and would have much preferred to stay indoors, she went out for a little walk.
She went down the drive and through the village, and was struck by the absence of humanity. If she had to take a walk on a winter afternoon she would have wished to take it on pavements and to feel herself one of a crowd. Here everybody she did meet stared at her, wondering, obviously, who she was, which rather annoyed her. But when she got out on to the country road and met nobody at all, she liked it still less, and walked on from a sheer sense of duty. She had no eyes for the mild beauty of the winter evening, nor ears for the breathing of the sleeping earth. She plodded doggedly on, hating the mud, and only longing to get back again to her book by the fireside. When she met a slow farm cart jogging homewards, she made no reply to the touch of the hat accorded her by the carter, but showed unfeigned terror at the friendly inquisitiveness of his dog. In her soft felt hat, black skirt, and braided jacket, she was as much out of place in the wide brooding landscape as if she had been in the desert of Sahara, and disliked the one as much as she would have disliked the other.
As she was going up the drive on her return, she felt a little glow at the sight of the lighted windows of the house. If she had thought of it she would have known that it was her first experience of the pleasures of the country in winter, for a house in a city does not arouse exactly that feeling of expectant warmth, however much one may desire to get inside it. But, even if she had been prepared to examine the causes of the impulse, she would not have been able to, for it was immediately ejected from her mind by one of terror. It was caused by the sudden sharp trot of a horse on the gravel immediately behind her. She turned round, terribly startled and prepared for instant annihilation. But the horse had only crossed the drive, and was now cantering across the turf away from her. It was riderless, the stirrups swinging against its flanks, the reins broken and trailing.