It was about a month after Mrs. Tarleton’s death that Cecil kicked Lee
under the breakfast-table and jerked his eyebrows at his father, who
sat opposite. Mr. Maundrell was reading his English mail. His pale face
was flushed. His impassive features threatened a change of expression.
That afternoon, as Lee was returning from school, Cecil met her
half-way up the hill.
“My uncle Basil and the little chap are dead, and father’s the heir,”
he announced.
“Is he a lord?” cried Lee, with bated breath.
“Yes.”
Lee’s eyes danced. Romance revived. Care fled.
“A duke?”
“No, an earl.”
“Earl’s much prettier than duke. I mean a prettier word.”
“He’s got a title of course. He’s Lord Barnstaple.”
“That’s not so pretty.”
“I----” Cecil thrust his hands into his pockets and turned very red.
“I don’t mind telling you--I’ve got a title too--what they call a
courtesy title. You see my father’s the Earl of Barnstaple and Viscount
Maundrell. So I’m Lord Maundrell. I shouldn’t think of mentioning it
to any one else,” he added hastily.
“Cecil!” Lee waved her arms wildly and danced up and down. “I never
_heard_ of anything so lovely. I feel exactly as if we were inside
Scott or Shakespeare or something. Shall you wear a crown and an ermine
robe?”
“I’m not a king,” said Cecil loftily. “Talk about _my_ not knowing
anything about United States history! You Americans are so funny. Fancy
you caring so much about such things.” His tone was almost his father’s
upon occasion.
“Why not? The idea! I think it’s perfectly romantic and lovely to be
lords and ladies. Whole shelves full of books have been written about
them--the standard works of fiction, that everybody reads. And plays,
and ballads, and poems, and pictures too! I’ve often heard my mother
talk about it, and I used to read the descriptions out loud to her in
the winter--she said it would form my taste for elegant literature. I
could just see the whole thing--the kings and dukes, and the beautiful
processions, and the castles and tournaments, and princesses and
falcons. Oh my! Of course I care. I’d be a silly little ninny if I
didn’t care. I just wish I’d been born like all that. I’m sure there’s
nothing very romantic about San Francisco--particularly Market Street.”
“Well,” said Cecil, bringing down his eyebrows and consenting to
establish himself at Lee’s view-point. “You’re going to be ‘like that.’
You’re going to marry me.”
Lee stopped short, her mouth open. “So I am,” she gasped. “So I am.
Could we be married right off, do you think?”
Cecil dropped his head and shook it gloomily. “I had a talk with father
to-day;” he shivered as he recalled that conversation; “and he says he
won’t take you back with us; that he likes you well enough, but one
American in the family is as much as he can stand--and, oh, a lot of
rot. We’ll have to wait till I grow up, and then I’ll come back for
you, or perhaps some one will bring you over.”
They entered the side door of the boarding-house. Cecil pulled Lee down
beside him on the stair.
“Oh, Lee,” he said in a high falsetto, “we’re going to-morrow. And I
hate to go away and leave you. I do! I do!”
“Going to-morrow!” gasped Lee, “and without me!” She burst into a storm
of tears, and Cecil forgot his manly pride and wept too.
“I wish I were grown,” sobbed Cecil. “And I won’t be for years. I’ve
got to finish at Eton, and then I’ve got to go to Oxford. I’m only
fifteen and one month. I won’t be my own master for six years, and I
won’t be through Oxford when I am. It takes so beastly long to educate
a fellow. It may be eight years before I see you again.”
“Eight years! I shall _die_. Why won’t he take me? I can pay for
myself. Mrs. Hayne says I have eighty dollars a month. Don’t you think
he’ll change his mind?”
“He won’t! he won’t!”
When Lee had wept herself dry, she adjusted herself to fate. “Well,”
she said, with a heavy sigh, “we’ll write every week, won’t we?”
It was Cecil’s turn to be appalled. This was a phase of the tragedy
that had not occurred to him.
“Oh, Lee,” he faltered, “I hate to write letters!”
“But you will?” she cried shrilly. “You will?”
“Oh, I’ll try! I’ll try! But only one a month.”
“One a week or I won’t write at all. And it’s nice to get letters.”
“One a fortnight then.”
To this Lee finally consented, and then went upstairs and helped
him to pack. Their faces were so funereal at dinner that they were
the subject of much good-natured chaff. Many disapproving glances
were directed at Mr. Maundrell,--with whose ascent they had not been
made acquainted,--for the children had furnished the house with much
amusement, and they commanded no little sympathy.
After dinner Cecil and Lee sat in one of the bay windows in the front
parlour and talked of the future. Cecil good-naturedly promised that
life should be exactly like one of Scott’s novels, any one that Lee
preferred. After some excogitation she concluded that she liked the
poems best, particularly “Marmion,” and Cecil agreed to qualify for the
part. Lee in return vowed to go fishing and shooting with him, never to
scream at the wrong time, even if a blackbeetle got on her, and never
to get into rages and call him names. They also exchanged tokens. Lee
gave him a little gold heart with her picture--cut from a tin-type--and
a strand of her lank hair in it, and he gave her a ring cut with the
arms of his house, and begged her to keep it in her pocket when his
father was round.
The next morning Lee was graciously permitted to accompany the
travellers across the bay. She and Cecil paced up and down the deck
of the boat, too excited for melancholy; both under that spell which
cauterises so many wounds. Lee was to be left behind, but she was in
the midst of an event. Moreover, she was shortly to see what a Pullman
car was like. She wrung one more solemn promise from Cecil to write.
Lord Barnstaple had taken a drawing-room for himself and his son, and
Lee examined the ornate interior and thought it very vulgar.
“You’ll be sure not to put your head out of the window, won’t you,
Cecil?” she asked anxiously. “And you’ll hold on tight at night and not
be pitched out of these things.”
Cecil grunted. She had hung a camphor bag on him, and presented him
with a large package of cough drops.
Lord Barnstaple took out his watch. “We start in eight minutes,” he
said. “You had better let me put you in the hack; I have told the man
to take you home.” He paused and smiled slightly. He was at peace with
the world, and inclined to be gracious to everybody; moreover, there
was just a chance, a bare chance, that this boy-and-girl affair might
come to something. His son had a tenacious will, and these Americans
were the devil and all for getting their own way. If Lee should turn
out a great heiress--he had a vague idea that all American girls
became heiresses as soon as they grew up--and should fulfil her promise
of even temper and sturdy character, Cecil might, of course, do worse.
Far be it from him to encourage the invasion of the British aristocracy
by the undisciplined American female, but if another in the family was
to be his unhappy fate, as well drop into the plastic mind a few seeds
from the gardens of civilisation.
“We may see you in England, some day,” he said; “you Americans are
always travelling. Try to make yourself like English girls. Study hard
and improve your mind. A smattering is such a trial; it rhymes with
chattering. Don’t talk too much, and above all never have hysterics.
I am sure they are only a habit and can be controlled if you begin
early. And--ah--your manners are somewhat abrupt, and you have a way
of sprawling. Your mother, I am told, was a very elegant woman. Try to
grow like her. Mrs. Hayne says it is likely that some of your mother’s
friends will offer you a home. Accept, by all means; it would be quite
dreadful to be brought up in a boarding-house. I believe that is all.
Now say good-bye.”
Cecil gave Lee a mighty hug and winked rapidly. Lord Barnstaple allowed
them one minute, then took Lee firmly by the hand and marched her to
the hack.
“Good-bye,” he said kindly. “You are a jolly little thing--you don’t
make any fuss. Mind you never have hysterics.”
But Lee cried audibly all the way home, secure in the pawing of the
horses about her on the boat, and in the noise of the hack on the
cobble-stones thereafter. Cecil was gone, and there was no mother
awaiting her in the boarding-house. She could not even go into the old
room and cry on her mother’s bed, for strangers were there. She was
very forlorn, and life was as black as pitch.