Lady Lancaster, filled with chagrin and despair, sat gazing on the
floor in silence. The thought of losing this trusty, capable woman, who
had belonged to the staff of Lancaster Park so long, was most annoying
to her. It had come upon her with all the suddenness of a calamity. She
viewed it as nothing less.
She was an old woman, and she disliked exceedingly to have new faces
around her. Under Mrs. West's efficient _régime_ the affairs of the
house had gone on with the precision and regularity of clock-work. It
would take a new woman years to attain to her proficiency. She had
grown to regard the good housekeeper almost as her own property--a
piece of her personal goods and chattels. She could not help being
angry at the thought of losing her.
"It is too bad," she blurted out, indignantly. "Why do folks go and die
like that, and leave their wretched brats on other people's hands."
A faint color crept into Mrs. West's comely face at the scornful words.
"My lady, it's the will of God," she said, in her quiet, deprecating
way.
"I don't believe God has anything to do with it," cried the old lady,
violently. "If He did, He would prevent poor folks from marrying, in
the first place."
And then as she saw how patiently the woman endured these taunts, she
had the grace to be ashamed of herself.
"Well, there, there; I dare say you don't care to hear your folks
spoken of in that way," she said, in a milder tone. "But then Richard
West was no kin to you, anyway--only your husband's brother!"
Mrs. West could not forbear a pertinent little retort.
"And Captain Lancaster is only your husband's nephew, my lady, yet you
take a great interest in him," she said.
Lady Lancaster gave her a keen little glance. "Humph! West has some
spirit in her," she said to herself; then, aloud, she replied:
"I can assure you the only interest I take in him is because he is
my Lord Lancaster; and as he holds the title my late husband held, I
should like for him to have money enough to support it properly. But if
he does not marry to please me, you shall see how little I care for the
young popinjay."
Mrs. West made no reply, and her mistress continued, after a moment's
thought:
"Must you really take the child, do you think, West?"
"I couldn't think of refusing poor Dick's dying request," was the
answer.
"Shall you make your home in America?" continued the lady.
"Oh, no, no; I should come back to dear old England. I couldn't consent
to pass my last days in a strange country."
Lady Lancaster was silent a moment. Her eyes were very thoughtful; her
thin lips worked nervously. Mrs. West waited patiently, her plump hands
folded together over the letter that had brought her such strange,
unwelcome news. "Where are you going to live when the child comes?"
Lady Lancaster snapped, almost rudely.
"I don't know yet, my lady. I have made no plans. I only received my
letter a little while ago."
"You don't want _my_ advice, I presume?"--more snappishly than ever.
"I should be very glad of it," Mrs. West replied, respectfully.
"Why didn't you ask it, then?"
"I didn't dare."
"Didn't dare, eh? Am I an ogress? Should I have eaten you if you had
asked my advice?" demanded the irascible old lady, shortly.
"Oh, no, Lady Lancaster; but I shouldn't have presumed to trouble you
so far," Mrs. West replied, in her quiet way that was so strange a
contrast to the other's irritability.
"Very well. I've presumed to lay a plan for you," replied the grim old
lady.
"A plan for me!" Mrs. West echoed, vaguely.
"Yes. You shall not go away from Lancaster Park. You shall have the
child here."
"Here!" cried the housekeeper, doubtful if she were in her proper
senses.
"Why, do you echo my words so stupidly, West?"
"I beg your pardon. I was doubtful if I understood your words rightly.
I thought you disliked children," Mrs. West answered, confusedly.
"I did, and _do_," tartly. "But, for all that, I had sooner have Dick
West's child here than for you to leave me. You could keep her in your
own rooms, couldn't you? I needn't be bothered with her society?"
"Certainly," faltered Mrs. West, in a tremor of joy. She was very glad
that she was not to leave Lancaster Park, where she had dwelt in peace
and comfort for sixteen years--ever since her faithful, hard-working
John had died and left her a lone widow with only fifteen pounds
between her and the world. She had thought herself a very fortunate
woman when she secured this place, and her heart bounded with joy
at the thought that she was to stay on in peace, in spite of the
incumbrance of her brother-in-law's orphan child.
"Oh, Lady Lancaster, I don't know how to thank you!" she cried. "I
shall be very glad not to go away from the Park. I will keep Leonora
very close, indeed I will, if you allow me to bring her here."
"Well, she shall be brought here. Of course I rely on you to keep her
out of my way. I dislike the ways of children," said the hard old lady,
who had never had any children herself, and who was an old maid at
heart. "That is all I ask of you. Don't have her around under my feet,
and I shall never remember that she is here."
"Thanks, my lady. And when am I to go and fetch my niece?" inquired the
housekeeper, timidly.
"You're not to fetch her at all. I thought I had told you that
already," tartly.
Mrs. West's eyes grew large and round with dismay.
"Indeed, I thought you said I should have her here," she exclaimed.
"So I did; I said she should be brought here, but I didn't say you
should go to New York and fetch her home!"
"But Dick wished me to go," perplexedly; "and how is she to come if I
do not go?"
"She may come with Lord Lancaster the first of June. I dare say he can
go and get her all right."
"But it seems as if I ought to go myself. Besides, Lord Lancaster
mightn't like it, indeed," whimpered poor Mrs. West.
"Fiddlesticks! I do not care whether he likes it or not," declared the
octogenarian, snapping her fingers. "He shall do as I bid him. Aren't
you willing to trust the brat with him?"
"Oh, yes, my lady," declared the housekeeper, with a sigh of relief.