THE FAMILY SKELETON
Mrs. Paget-Taylor, whose society had been so urgently recommended
by my aunt, was the wife of uncle’s agent, Captain Paget-Taylor, a
broad-shouldered, long-headed, active man of fifty, a first-rate farmer
and a celebrated shot. His consort was a little dark woman endowed with
extraordinary animation, tact and capability. Her house was comfortable
and well appointed, her cook a treasure, her delightful drawing-room
furnished with most inviting sofas and chairs, delicious cushions,
stacks of flowers, and softly shaded lamps. This apartment was the
council chamber and scene of many important conferences, for Mrs.
Paget-Taylor was a power in the neighbourhood. From her kidney-shaped
writing table she pulled many strings and was credited with an ample
supply of what is known as “interest.” Her activities, although of the
same genre, were on a different scale to those of Lizzie Puckle. Whilst
Lizzie harangued school children, took the chair at meetings, got up
rummage sales, and shepherded outlying hamlets, Mrs. Paget-Taylor
merely held interviews and confidential conversations. She was known to
be exceedingly insidious and persuasive, and I may say at once that she
was my aunt’s right hand! My relative referred to Mrs. Paget-Taylor
on every question and in every crisis--whether it was the matter of a
new kitchen range or a prospective son-in-law; and, as the agent’s wife
had no family and ample leisure, she was in a position to throw herself
heart and soul into other people’s affairs.
No one in the whole neighbourhood was so popular as Mrs. Paget-Taylor;
she was always agreeable, well dressed, helpful, and sympathetic. Half
the girls and the young married women laid their miseries before her,
and she might almost be said to have kept a high-class registry office
for marriages and situations!
When I arrived at Torrington the lady happened to be away from home.
A week later I received a note from the Dower House, inviting me down
to tea. Naturally I accepted with pleasure, although I impressed upon
myself as I walked across the park that I must be very cautious and not
give myself away, or burst into impulsive confidences, as had been the
case in my last _tête-à-tête_.
Mrs. Paget-Taylor invited me partly from good nature, and partly in
order to hold an inspection, on which to report on me elsewhere. As
I entered, the atmosphere of the place seemed to exude warmth and
comfort; the flagged entrance hall was covered with a thick carpet,
heated by a great log fire, and furnished with old oak chests and
chairs. Somehow I liked the feel of the place!
I found the mistress of the house in the drawing-room, hastily
stamping letters for the evening post. As she rose and offered me an
affectionate embrace, her keen dark eyes swept me with one swift glance
and she said:
“So glad to see you, Eva! I am sorry I have been away until to-day. You
must have found it terribly dull, I’m afraid.”
“Oh no,” I answered mendaciously. “Uncle is very kind, and takes me
about with him. He lends me ‘Old Soldier,’ and on the days he doesn’t
hunt we go for long rides.”
“You are grown up now,” she said, drawing me towards the sofa, “and not
a Lingard, like your brother! You look such a vivid, youthful, happy
creature, you must be a Mostyn. I remember hearing that your mother had
masses of wonderful hair and such smiling grey eyes.”
“Are my eyes smiling?” I inquired.
“Yes,” she assented. “I noticed them when you were here two years
ago--sunny eyes, I would call them. Now come and let us have a nice
talk and tell me all about yourself.”
“There’s so little to tell. If you knew Beke, you would understand.”
“You are quite strong, I can see--the picture of health. I am sure you
are glad of the change and looking for a little excitement, and things
to happen, are you not?”
After we had talked about the family and the forthcoming marriage, my
aunt’s bronchitis and the professor’s enormities, there was a slight
pause, and I was surprised to hear myself saying:
“Mrs. Paget-Taylor, you know everybody and everything. I should be so
grateful if you would tell me a little about my parents. Whenever I ask
my aunt her answers are vague. I have my mother’s picture, and I know
she died in France, and that my father was so broken-hearted that he
threw up his commission and disappeared to America, where he died.”
“I never saw your mother,” said Mrs. Paget-Taylor, now looking at the
fire with an immovable face. “She was seldom in England. Your father’s
regiment was quartered in the Mediterranean, but I have always heard
that she was most attractive, well born, and an orphan. Your father
met her on board ship, coming home from Egypt. She had a moderate
fortune--which luckily was settled on the children.”
“But why do you say luckily?” I inquired eagerly.
“Because, my dear girl, your father was hopeless in that respect.
He had no conscience where money was concerned. He was a confirmed
gambler. I am sorry to say it is in the Lingard blood--and just let me
give you one little friendly hint: do not ask questions or talk about
him at the Park?”
“But why not?” I asked.
Mrs. Paget-Taylor made no reply, but again turned away her face and
stared steadily at the fire.
“He is dead, is he not?” I persisted.
“Yes,” she answered slowly, “dead, this many years, but I would
rather not say any more except this: he is the family skeleton in the
cupboard--best leave him there.”
For a moment, indeed for much longer, I sat beside my hostess in
stunned silence, then with a great effort I began to put on my gloves,
and prepared to take my departure.
Mrs. Paget-Taylor noticed my emotion, and instantly became motherly and
sympathetic.
“I know exactly how you feel, my dear,” putting her hand on my
shoulder, and looking into my face, “completely unhinged, of course;
what I have told you must be a most painful shock, but it was
better--yes, and kinder--to put you on your guard. It is all such
an old story now; thank goodness, most people have short memories.
It is said that nothing which is in the blood dies. The Torringtons
have always been afraid that the family curse might reappear in you
or Ronnie--especially Ronnie, but he is as steady as Old Time--such a
relief! My dear, whenever you feel inclined, I shall be too glad if you
will come down to see me, and I do hope you will find yourself _very_
happy at the Park.”
Here, as the door opened to admit some belated visitors, I effected my
escape.
All the way home in the dark, although I might still be “youthful and
vivid,” I was no longer a “happy” creature; my mind was tormented with
the problem of my parents’ story, and it exercised my thoughts for many
a day.
I struggled to recall what I could from misty memories of long ago.
There was an impression of a great deal of bright sunshine, of being
carried up long streets with steps, of a tall lady in white, and a dark
man with gold buttons on his coat--and that was all!