mrs. clinton reached kencote in the dusk of the january afternoon and found the twins on the platform awaiting her. with the station staff and the other passengers in the train as audience, they gave her an all-embracing and, indeed, somewhat vociferous welcome, and led her to the carriage, one on each side of her, with little squeezings of the arms and continued expressions of joy.
"we shan't let you out of our sight again, mother," said joan as they drove off. "it has been perfectly awful without you. we haven't known what to do at all."
"i hope you haven't been getting into mischief," said mrs. clinton, with an indulgent smile.
"we have been as good as gold," said nancy. "you would hardly have recognised us. haven't you noticed our gardenias? humphrey gave them to us. he said they were the white flowers of a blameless life."
"is humphrey still at home?" mrs. clinton asked.
"yes," said joan; "and something has happened, mother; we don't quite know what, but we think he has got engaged."
"engaged!" exclaimed their mother.
"yes. of course you know who it is."
mrs. clinton thought for a moment. "what has put the idea into your heads?" she asked.
"father is very pleased with him," explained joan. "and that is the only thing we can think of to account for it. but we have seen it coming for a long time."
"well, for about a fortnight," corrected nancy. "it's susan clinton, of course. do you like her, mother?"
mrs. clinton did not reply to this question, and joan said, "we are prepared to give her a sisterly welcome."
"if she treats us well we'll treat her well," said nancy. "and we like the idea of mr. humphrey and lady susan clinton. it's so morning posty."
"i think you are running ahead a little fast," said their mother. "don't you want to hear about your new governess?"
"oh yes! what is she like?" exclaimed the twins in one breath.
"she is very learned, and rather severe," said mrs. clinton. "you will have to work very hard with her."
"we are quite ready to do that," said nancy. "is she ornamental?"
"not at all," replied mrs. clinton. "and her name is miss phipp. she is coming in ten days, so you must make the best of your holidays until then."
nancy sighed. "our happy childhood is over," she said. "no more will the house ring with our careless laughter. in ten days' time we shall become fevered students."
"i hope it won't be quite so bad as that," said mrs. clinton.
the squire was waiting at the door. he had never before kissed his wife before the servants, but he did so now. if they liked to go away and talk about it they might. "we'll have no more of this gadding about," he said jovially. "we want you at home, don't we, children?"
"rather," said the twins, renewing their embraces; and mrs. clinton felt that there was nothing lacking in the warmth of her welcome.
they went into the morning-room where the tea-table was already set and the kettle boiling over its spirit-lamp. "i told 'em to bring up tea," said the squire; "i want a word with you. now run along, children. you can talk to your mother afterwards."
the twins obediently retired. "he's full of it," said joan. "what a childish pleasure he takes in a piece of news!"
"if it is as we believe," said nancy, "we mustn't call her silky susan any more."
"she's all right, really," said joan, "if you get her away from her awful old mother."
the squire, left alone with his wife, took up his favourite attitude in front of the fire. "i've got a piece of news for you, nina," he said. "what would you think of another marriage in the family?"
mrs. clinton, busy with her tea-making, looked up at him.
"i'm pleased about it," said the squire, who, warming himself in the englishman's citadel, and keeping away the fire from his wife, who was cold after her journey, looked thoroughly pleased. "she's a nice girl, although i can't say i took much to her mother, and don't want to see more of her than is necessary. it's humphrey, nina—humphrey and susan clinton. it seems they've taken to each other, and if i can make it all right for them, they want to get married. i'm quite ready to do my part. i'm quite glad that humphrey wants to settle down at last. and if things are going wrong in other quarters, as unfortunately they seem to be, this will make up for it a little. they can have the dower-house, and if an heir to kencote comes from this marriage—well, it will be a very satisfactory arrangement."
this was going ahead with a vengeance. mrs. clinton thought of dick. was he, then, to be finally shouldered out of his place, and humphrey installed in it, securely, instead? "would he give up his profession?" she asked.
"we haven't talked about it yet," said the squire. "but that is my idea. i want somebody here to help me, and if dick has decided to cut the cable, then we had better face facts and arrange matters accordingly."
his face changed as he mentioned his eldest son. that wound still rankled, but it was plain that the salve was already working. "i have done my best," he said, "and it has all been no good. now what we have to do is to forget all about it and do what we can in other directions. walter's a good boy, although a bit headstrong and obstinate. still, he's made his own life and is happy in it, and i will say for him that he's never given me any serious trouble. i've had that with humphrey. he has been extremely tiresome about money matters, and i own that i thought there was another storm of that sort blowing up, and haven't been quite so friendly towards the boy as i might have been. i'm sorry for it now, and i'll make up for it; for he tells me he doesn't owe a single penny."
mrs. clinton looked up in surprise. "did he tell you that definitely?" she asked.
"why, don't you believe him?' asked the squire rather sharply.
"i should believe him if he said it plainly," she replied.
"well, he did say it plainly. 'i don't owe anybody a penny,' he said, 'although i can't say i have much of a balance in the bank.' i never supposed he would have that. if the boys keep out of debt on what i allow them, that's all i ask. but i'll own it surprised me, as it seems to have surprised you, that he has kept out of debt since the last time, and i put it to him again. 'if there's anything to settle up,' i said, 'you had better let me know now. you don't want to begin married life with anything hanging over you!' and he said again, 'there's nothing at all. i don't owe anybody a penny.' so there it is, nina. the boy's a good boy at heart, and i'm pleased with him. and as for the girl, i think she'll turn out well. get her away from all that nonsense she has been brought up to, and settle her down here, in a pretty place like the dower-house, with a good income to keep things going as they ought to be kept going—i'll do that for them—and i believe she'll turn out trumps, and i hope we shan't be wanting a grandson long. that's what pleases me, nina"—his face beamed as he said it. "i'm an active man, but i'm getting on a bit now, and i should like to see my grandson growing up before i have to go and leave it all. that's been at the bottom of half i've felt about this wretched affair of dick's; and it made me more annoyed than perhaps i need have been about walter settling down in a place like melbury park. to see a boy growing up at kencote, as i grew up, and taking to it from the time he's a baby—that'll be a great thing, nina, eh?"
he was exalted by his rosy dream. he saw himself leading a tiny child by the hand, very tender with his littleness, showing him this and that, hearing his prattle about familiar things, putting him later on a pony, and later still teaching him to shoot, watching him grow, sending him off to school, perhaps as an old man hearing of his doings at the university or in the service,—a fine, tall, straight young clinton, fortunate inheritor of generations of good things, and made worthy of them, largely through his own guidance. so he had thought about dick, years before, sitting before the fire, or pacing his room downstairs, while his wife and his little son, the centre of all his hopes, lay sleeping above, or out of doors as he had followed his favourite pursuits, and found new zest in them. but in those days he had been young, and his own life stretched immeasurably before him, with much to do and many things to be enjoyed. his own life was still strong in him, to hold and enjoy, but what should come after it was far more important now than it had been then, and he desired much more ardently to see its beginnings. and dick had foiled his hopes. this was to be a new start, out of which better things should come. he wanted it keenly, and because he had had most things that he wanted in life, it seemed natural that it should be coming to him, and coming from a quarter whose signs he had not previously examined. "nina," he said again, "i want to see my grandson grow up at kencote."
she paused a moment before she said quietly, "as you saw dick grow up years ago."
his sunny vision was clouded. he frowned. "we must make up our minds to do without dick," he said; "he won't come here. he has practically thrown us off."
"no," she said. "i have seen him, and he is coming here on friday."
he stared at her, the frown still on his face. he was moved by her news, but not altogether to pleasure. his mind was running on new desires, and it was an effort to adjust it to old ones.
"you've seen him?" he said. "what did you say to him? you didn't make him think that i was going to give way?"
"no. he does not expect that, or, i think, hope for it now."
"is he going to give way, then?"
"no. not that, either. he is going to be married very soon."
"then what does he want to come here for? i won't receive that woman, whether he marries her or not. and if he marries her i'll disinherit him as far as i'm able to. i don't go back from my word. if he thinks he's going to turn me—if he's coming here with that idea—he'd better stop away."
"he doesn't think that," said mrs. clinton. "i don't think he will want to speak of anything that has been between you. he knows, and he has made up his mind to it. don't you want to see him, edward? he is coming because he wants to see you."
the squire's face showed a flush, and he looked down. "i shall be very glad to see him," he said, and went out of the room.
the next morning at breakfast time a note was handed to the squire from aunt laura, asking him if he could make it quite convenient to come and see her during the day, as she wished to consult him upon matters of business.
"matters of business!" he echoed, reading out the note. "now it's a remarkable thing that none of the old aunts has ever wished to consult me on matters of business before, though i should always have been ready to do what i could for them. i wonder what the old lady wants."
"i think i know," said joan.
humphrey looked at her sharply from across the table. "you can't possibly know anything about it," he said.
"she wants to keep guinea-pigs," pursued joan, unmoved. "she told me about some she had when she was little, and said she should like to have them again."
"humphrey might give her a hutch for a christmas present," suggested nancy.
"don't talk nonsense, children," ordered the squire. "you might run down to her after breakfast and say i will come and see her at eleven o'clock."
at the hour mentioned he marched into aunt laura's parlour, bringing with him into the rather close atmosphere a breath of the cold bright winter day. "well, aunt laura," he said in his hearty voice, "you want me to help you settle your affairs, eh? what about mr. pauncey? shan't i be making him jealous?"
aunt laura, with thoughts of "refreshment" filling her mind, did not reply to this question until he was sitting opposite to her with a glass of sherry and a dry biscuit by his side. then she said, "it will be a matter for mr. pauncey by and by, edward. it is about humphrey. i wished to consult you about doing something for dear humphrey and the nice girl he is going to marry."
"oh, you've heard about that already, have you?" exclaimed the squire. "good news travels fast, eh? well, it isn't a bad thing, is it? another young couple settling down—what? who let you into the secret, aunt laura?"
"dear humphrey has told me all about it," said the old lady, with some pride. "i was the first to know. and he brought the nice girl to see me when she was here at christmas time, and she came by herself afterwards. i liked her very much, edward, and i hope you do too."
"oh yes, i like her," said the squire. "it's an engagement that promises well. so you want to give them a wedding present, eh? well, now, if i might suggest, and you cared to spend the money, how about a smart little pony dogcart, with harness and everything, and a pony, which i'd look out for you and take some trouble about it?—very pleased to. that would be a very handsome present. i don't know whether you'd care to go up to it. it would cost you about—about——"
"thank you, edward," aunt laura interrupted him. "i think that might be a good idea for one of my presents, and i will think it over and very likely accept your very kind offer. but it was not exactly a wedding present that i had in my mind when i asked you to come and see me, which you have so kindly and promptly done. as you know, i have an income far above my needs, and there is a considerable sum of money belonging to me which will go to the children after my death. how much it is i could not tell you exactly without consulting mr. pauncey, which i propose to do when i am better and he is better. but what i should wish to do is to make humphrey an allowance to supplement what you yourself propose to allow him, and in my will i should like—but this i will not settle upon against your wishes, not by any means—i should like to—well, if you understand what i mean—to make humphrey, as it were, more my heir, perhaps, than the other children."
probably aunt laura had never before addressed a speech so long to her nephew without being interrupted, but his surprise at the disclosure of her wishes had kept him silent until she had finished.
"well, that is certainly a generous proposal of yours, aunt laura," he said; "the allowance, i mean. as for the other——"
but it was aunt laura who interrupted now. "you see, edward," she said eagerly, "it is like this—i have thought it over carefully—humphrey seems to me to want the money more than the others. dick, i take it—but of course i do not want to pry in the very least into your concerns—will be so well provided for that any little extra sum i left to him would be more in the nature of a compliment." she went on through the others, explaining why she thought humphrey might fairly be preferred to them, and emphasising the fact that they would all get something; but the squire was not listening to her. he was thinking about dick. dick, if he carried out his intentions, would not be well provided for. he would be, as the squire thought, a poor man. here were complications. he did not want aunt laura to make dick her heir to the exclusion of the rest; but the weight of his own apparently now fruitless threat to disinherit him was always growing heavier on him, and he certainly did not want her to deny him his share under a false conception of the true state of affairs. he regretted now that all news of what had been happening lately with regard to dick had been kept from aunt laura. must he give her a hint as to how the land lay? he could not make up his mind, on the spur of the moment, to do so. he shirked the laborious explanations that would be necessary, the surprise, and all that would follow. and even when she had adjusted her mind to the news, he did not know what he should advise her to do.
"as far as that goes," he said, "—making humphrey your heir, as you say,—i should like to think that over a bit. of course, you can do what you like with your own money, but——"
"oh, but i should not think of acting against your wishes, edward," said aunt laura.
"no, you're very good about that," he said kindly. "i've always known you would do what was right, and i haven't interfered with you in any way, and don't want to. but let's leave that for a bit. don't make any decision till we've had another talk. as far as the allowance goes, i'm going to treat the boy generously. i haven't made up my mind yet about the exact sum, but of course i needn't say it wouldn't be altered by anything you liked to add. that would be an extra bit of spending for them, and i've no doubt they would make good use of it. what was it you thought of, aunt laura?"
"well," said the old lady slowly, "i think, edward—if you don't mind—you won't be offended with me, i do hope—i have no wish in the least to make it conditional—but i should take it as a great compliment if you would tell me first—when you have made up your mind—what allowance you yourself had thought of."
the squire stared at her, and then burst out laughing. in an unwonted flash of insight he saw what she would be at, the diffident, submissive, gentle old woman, to whom he and everything he did or said were above all admitted criticism. "well, if you must push me into a corner, aunt laura," he said, "i may as well settle the figure with you now. i'll start them with fifteen hundred a year and a house. there now. what are you going to put to that?"
"i will put to that," replied aunt laura, equally prompt, "another five hundred a year, and the dear young people will be very well off."
the squire stared again. "by jove!" he said in astonishment, "i'd no idea you meant to do anything of that sort."
"but you said it would make no difference to what you would do," she said a little anxiously.
the squire leant forward in his chair and touched her knee. "aunt laura," he said, "you are a very clever old lady."
"oh, edward," she expostulated, "i hope you don't think——"
"oh, you knew," he said, leaning back again in great good-humour, "you knew well enough. if you had told me you were going to that figure at first, you knew that i should be thinking that twelve hundred a year from me instead of fifteen would do very well. and that's just what i should have thought, by jove! any man would. however, i have no wish to save my pocket at the expense of yours, and we'll let it stand at what i said. but i say, are you sure you can manage it all right? it's a good deal of money, you know. you won't be narrowing yourself, eh? i shouldn't like to feel that you weren't every bit as comfortable as you ought to be—what?"
aunt laura assured him that she would remain every bit as comfortable as she ought to be, and finally he left her and walked home, whistling to himself every now and then as he went over the points of their conversation, and once or twice laughing outright at his memories. "by jove! she had me," he said to himself, after he had gained the comparative seclusion of his park and could stop in the road to give vent to his merriment. "who'd have thought it of old aunt laura?"
