They decided to keep their engagement to themselves for a short while,
but on the fourth day Mrs. Montgomery entered Lee’s room abruptly.
“I must have the truth, my dear child,” she said. “In the first place,
unless you are engaged to Lord Maundrell, I cannot permit you to take
these long walks and rides alone with him; you never did such a thing
before. And in the second place----”
“Don’t cry,” said Lee, fondling her nervously. “That is one reason I
haven’t said anything about it. I knew you would be disappointed about
Randolph, and I can’t even bear to think of leaving you----”
“If you only could have loved Randolph!”
“Really and truly, I tried--two or three times. But I made up my mind
long ago that I would not make a mistake when I married, if I could
help it. I don’t expect a bed of roses with Cecil--he’s too high and
mighty, and he’s too self-centred--but at least I love him well enough
to put up with anything, and nothing could make me love him less--no
matter what happened.”
“Oh, I hope you will be happy!--I hope you will be happy! Lord
Maundrell is really most interesting and charming; his air and his
manners are really--_really_. And Tiny is very happy with Arthur. But I
shall be so lonely--and poor Randolph!”
“Can’t you and he come to England to live?”
“I have six other daughters and five grandchildren here, remember, and
Randolph is in too great a hurry to get rich to begin over again in a
new country. Tiny will be here soon now for a year, and I shall go back
with her. Of course, I shall see you then, but you are really lost to
me.”
Lee, whose tears were quick, wept passionately at this aspect; she had
not thought of it before. When both were calmer, Mrs. Montgomery asked:
“Did you tell him that you had a great deal more money?”
Lee nodded.
“What did he say?”
“He was delighted, and said so as frankly as he says everything. He
says we shall have three thousand pounds a year between us, and can get
along very nicely; although the tug will come when we have to keep up
Maundrell Abbey. His stepmother has made her will in his favour; but
he says she has cut into her capital, and lately she has had to pay a
tremendous amount for repairs on the Abbey. Lord Barnstaple certainly
came high!”
“What a terrible marriage! Thank Heaven, there is no disgraceful
commercial transaction where you and Tiny are concerned. Lord Maundrell
seems clever enough for anything; why doesn’t he go into business and
make a fortune?”
“He would never think of such a thing; he’s going to stand for
Parliament at the next elections. His ideas are quite fixed, and he has
his whole career mapped out.”
“Of course he’ll be Prime Minister. Of course he’s ambitious.”
“He’s not so ambitious as he is terribly serious. He thinks it’s
his duty--his vocation. A lot of his ancestors have been statesmen,
although they’ve generally been in the House of Lords. Cecil’s so glad
he’s not going to be for ages. His father started out brilliantly, but
had a great row with his party about something, and dropped out. Then,
after his first wife’s death, he became rather dissipated. Cecil says
he began life with high ideals. His uncle Basil was a distinguished
Parliamentarian, and a Bill or a Law or something is called after
him--I expect to know English politics backward by this time next year.”
“You will!--You will! You were made to be the wife of a great man, and
he’ll be so proud of you!”
“You are the most partial person!”
“Yes, I am; but I’ve always been able to see my children’s faults, much
as I adore them. But I don’t feel a qualm about you. Your mind is so
quick; and, thank Heaven, I paid such strict attention to your manners.
They are simply perfect.”
“Think if you’d left me to grow up in a boarding-house! You may be sure
I never forget my debts. I didn’t tell you that Cecil is no longer a
Radical. He’s a Conservative, straight into his marrow; his ancestors
have never been anything else, and he’s outlived all his fads.”
“He’s painfully mature,” said Mrs. Montgomery, with a sigh. “Englishmen
seem to remain boys a long time, and then to grow old all at once. I
suppose it’s that dreadful Oxford. Our boys are little old men who get
their youth somewhere in their twenties, and are not really grown again
until after thirty. It’s very singular. Randolph, of course, has worked
a good deal of his boyishness out of him, but he is always laughing and
joking. And look at Tom and Ned--they are mere children beside Lord
Maundrell. I was really mortified when they tried to talk to him last
night, and I had always thought them bright.”
“So they are. But if men won’t cultivate their brains, what can
they expect? Tom thinks of nothing but business--which he takes as
a joke--dancing, and football, and Ned boasts that he has only read
ten books in his life. Tom would only remain eight months at Harvard,
and Ned wouldn’t go at all. Both have had every opportunity, and they
are full of American quickness and wit; but they have a genuine scorn
for intellect. I can see that they regard Cecil as a freak. Randolph
respects brains, but even he is bored.”
“Yes, it’s true--it’s true. Will you tell Randolph? I haven’t the
courage.”
“Yes; I’ll tell him to-night--we’re dining alone, aren’t we? Don’t
worry about him. Men always get over things.”