Geoff had not thought it necessary to say anything about his intention,
but he had made up his mind during the vigil of the night to act for
himself. He did not go to the chambers, which he shared with a friend,
or to his club for his letters, or to any of his usual haunts; but went
direct to Piccadilly, which is a long way from Grove Road. A long walk
is sometimes an advantage when you are going to have a decisive
interview; but Geoffrey, it is to be feared, did not do himself much
good by thinking of the hostile party whom he was about to meet. They
were not only not disagreeable to him, but the very sight of them
stilled every warlike inclination in his breast. Not only he did not
want to fight with them, but his desire was to take up their cause and
fight it for them, against himself and all belonging to him--which it
will readily be perceived was not a way to do any good. He saw them only
too clearly in his mind’s eye: the one sister standing a little in
advance of the other; the eyes of Grace shining with courage and high
spirit, while those softer lights under Milly’s soft brows rose upon him
from time to time, always with a new eloquence of appeal. “If she were
to ask me for my head, I think I would give it her,” Geoff said to
himself; but there was no chance that she would ask for his head. He
thought of them as he had seen them first, seated close by each other,
turning two wistful, pale faces and eyes wet with tears upon him as he
stood at the door, alarmed by his own intrusion. Their black dresses and
their piteous looks had made an impression upon him which would never be
effaced; and he had heard their story with a knot in his throat, ready
to weep for very sympathy. When the same wonderful pair had arrived at
Grove Road, he had been too much startled to know what to do or say. But
now he was going to them with all his wits about him, no surprise
possible, to open up all the question, and discuss it amicably, and help
them, if it was possible to help those whose cause was so entirely in
opposition to his own.
Grace and Milly were together as usual in the sitting-room, which had
become by this time so intolerable to them. They were both very much
surprised when he came in. They rose to their feet in wonder and partial
dismay. They had been talking over all their affairs, and had come to a
kind of conclusion between themselves; but this was a circumstance upon
which they had not calculated. They had thought it very unlikely that
they should hear anything more of Grove Road unless they themselves took
the initiative. They gazed at each other with their usual mutual
consultation, bewildered; but as soon as they came to themselves they
too were very anxious to be polite to the enemy.
“I hope you will not think me intrusive,” he said.
“Oh, no; we do not know any one--” This was intended to mean that a
visitor was welcome; but the speech was broken off in consequence of the
embarrassment of the speaker.
“If what we think is true, we--my mother and I--should be more to you
than anybody else in England,” Geoff said.
“But if what we think is true,” cried Grace, “or rather what you
think--for we know nothing--we are enemies, are we not?”
“I don’t see why we should be. I have come to tell you all I know. You
ought to have at least what information we can give you in order to find
out who you really are, Miss----”
“Yorke,” cried Grace, “Yorke! that is our name; and as for finding out
who we are, that is quite unnecessary. We may be strangers here,” the
girl cried, holding her head high. “We have been very unhappy and very
unfortunate, oh, miserable here! But when we are at home everybody knows
who we are. We are as well known as you or any one. The Yorkes of
Quebec--you have only to ask any Canadian. If you think it is necessary
to find out a family for us, you are very, very much mistaken! England
is not all the world. We are unknown only here.”
Her eyes flashed, her cheeks coloured as she spoke; all her pride was
roused; and Milly held up her head proudly too. They had not been used
to be nobodies, and they did not understand nor feel disposed to submit
to it. This was a totally different thing from claiming their rights.
“I beg your pardon,” he said. “You know I don’t mean anything
disrespectful; but you know also that there is another question. It is
not as Miss Yorke that there can be any question between you and me. It
is as the daughter of my mother’s cousin, Leonard Crosthwaite. Will you
let me explain to you how the matter stands between us, if you are his
children? This is how it is. Abraham Crosthwaite, an old unmarried
uncle, died twenty years ago, leaving his money to Leonard, who had
disappeared some time before. It was an old will, and it was supposed by
everybody that Uncle Abraham had altered it in behalf of his nieces,
Anna, and Mary, who is my mother. But he did not alter it; and when he
died this was the state of affairs. Leonard Crosthwaite had not been
heard of for ten years: everybody thought him dead; he had been
advertised for, and had not replied. My mother and Aunt Anna were the
next of kin. They succeeded without a question. Everybody had expected
them to succeed. Uncle Abraham had announced over and over again his
intention to give them everything he had. My mother had taken care of
him for some years; of Aunt Anna he had always been proud. I never in my
life heard any question of their rights, until all at once, a fortnight
since, some one appeared at our house calling himself Leonard
Crosthwaite----”
“Mr Geoffrey, papa would never have said he was any one, unless it had
been true.”
“I cast no doubt upon that. I tell you only of our wonder, our alarm. My
mother thought she recognised something in him like her cousin. Aunt
Anna from the first said no; but you will take these statements for what
they are worth. Aunt Anna would naturally resist anything that
threatened to interfere with her comfort. My mother, on the other hand,
is easily persuaded. I, of course, could say nothing on one side or the
other. The gentleman I saw had every appearance of being a gentleman,
and a man of truth and honour----”
Milly gave him a grateful glance behind her sister--a glance of tender
thanks which made his heart beat. As for Grace, she bowed her head with
a sort of stately assent.
“He was to come back; but we heard no more of him, until I came here to
this hotel, and was entirely puzzled, as you know. I saw you, and
thought you were very kind to interest yourselves about a person whom
you had never heard of. When I saw you yesterday at Hampstead, I thought
again it was kindness merely--that you had heard of the man of whom I
was in search----”
“You must have thought us very extraordinary to interfere.”
“I thought you,” he said somewhat incoherently;--“but it does not matter
what I thought you. Circumstances make us, as you say, almost enemies,
who might have been--who ought to have been, dear friends.”
They both looked at him with melting eyes. “Yes,” said Grace, with a
beautiful flush of sympathy, “cousins, almost like brothers and sisters.
And perhaps, that may be still!” she cried. “Listen, this is what we had
made up our minds to----”
“Let me say out my say first,” he said with a not very cheerful smile.
“You are strangers, and you are too young to know how to manage such a
complicated case. If you are Crosthwaites, and my cousin Leonard’s
daughters, it will be best for us in the long run, as well as for you,
that it should be proved--that the question should be settled. And you
cannot know of yourselves what is necessary. I have brought you the
names of two good lawyers--respectable, honourable men, either of whom
will advise you wisely.” He took out a piece of paper as he spoke and
handed it to Grace. “With either of these you will be safe,” he said.
The girls looked at each other for a moment; then Grace rose up and held
out her hand to her adversary, seeing him through wet eyes. “Cousin
Geoffrey,” she said, “I am sure you must be of the same blood with our
father, for this is exactly what he would have done. Let us call you
cousin: it is all we want, Milly and I. We had made up our minds this
morning to forget it altogether, never to say another word or think of
it any more.”
Milly’s hand was held out too, though more timidly. She did not say
anything, but she looked a great deal more than Grace had said, he
thought. He had risen too in a tremulous state of excitement and
generous enthusiasm. It was only his left hand that he had to give to
the younger sister, but even in that fact there seemed to both of them
something special--a closer approach.
“I do not know what to say,” he said, “dear, brave, generous girls! To
have you will be worth a great deal more than the money. We are friends
for ever, whatever may come of it.” Then he kissed first one hand and
then the other with quivering lips, the girls, blushing both, drawing
close to each other, abashed, yet touched beyond description with a kind
of sacred joy and awe. The emotion was exquisite, novel beyond anything
in their experience; and the young man, thus suddenly bound to them,
was as much affected as they.
“But we cannot accept this, all the same,” he said at last. “I should
say all the less:--it must be investigated, and everything found out
that can be found out.”
“We do not wish it; we will not have it,” the girls cried both together.
But Geoffrey shook his head.
“You have nobody else to look after your interests. I am your next
friend,” he said. “Don’t you know that is how we do in English law?
Those who are too young or too helpless to plead for themselves plead by
their next friend. And that is the most fit office for me.”
“Then that makes England a little like what we thought it: not like the
cruel, cruel place,” cried Grace, “that it has been to Milly and me.”
“It has been cruel,” he said tenderly, with a voice which had tears in
it, like their eyes. And there was not much more said, for they were all
touched to that point at which words become vulgar and unmeaning. He
went away shortly after, his heart swelling with tender brotherliness,
friendship, and all the enthusiasm of generosity. The mere suggestion of
their sacrifice had made him capable of that which had seemed so
terrible to him an hour ago. He went out with his heart beating, full of
high purpose and inspiration, quite happy, though that which had made
him so miserable yesterday appeared now assured and certain. Such is
the unreasonableness of youth.
When he had gone the girls turned to each other half laughing, half
crying. They were happy too in this little encounter of generosity and
impulsive feeling. “That is what we thought Englishmen were like,” said
Grace.
“And he is the first Englishman we have known,” said Milly.
“Very different from Dr Brewer,” cried the elder sister.
Milly looked up, wondering, with a little “Oh!” of startled, almost
wounded feeling. To compare Geoffrey to Dr Brewer!--or to any one, she
whispered deep down in her being, out of hearing even of herself.
They had scarcely recovered from the commotion of this crisis when some
one again knocked at the door. “It will be _that_ doctor,” Grace said
under her breath; and she was in no hurry to reply. It was only upon a
second summons that she went forward slowly, reluctantly to open the
door. And there outside stood Geoffrey’s mother, somewhat fluttered,
somewhat red, not knowing very well how to meet the two enemies of her
peace. She came in with a little eagerness and kissed them both; and
then she delivered herself breathlessly of her mission.
“I said I would come and see you to-day. Oh, my dears! I am afraid you
thought Anna was not very kind yesterday. She is an invalid, you know;
she has tempers now and then. Oh, I don’t mean you to think she has a
bad temper or is unkind. Nothing at all like that; but only--you can
imagine if she had a bad night or a little extra ache. We ought all to
be very forbearing, you know, and put up with people who are often in
pain. Dear children! when I see you here in an inn, and think how many
empty rooms we have got at home--there are more rooms, a great many more
rooms than you would think in the Grove Road houses. And though Anna
lives with me, the house, you know--the house is mine.”
They did not know very well what answer to make, but they put her in the
best chair the room contained, and sat round her listening, which was,
of course, the best thing to do.
“Yes, the house is mine. I am the real mistress of it, though Anna often
takes a great deal upon her; but I don’t mind, I really don’t mind. And
when I have set my heart upon anything she never interferes. Do you know
what I have come for now? I have come to take you both back with me
home.”
“Home!” the girls drew a long breath after the word. They seemed
scarcely able to realise to themselves what it meant.
“Yes, home. I have set my heart upon it. If you are Leonard
Crosthwaite’s daughters--I declare,” cried Mrs Underwood, her real
feelings breaking in through all the flutter of words that had been put
into her mouth--“I declare I don’t know whether I wish you to be
Crosthwaites or not! Two nice girls--two dear girls; I am sure you have
been nicely brought up, and that your mother is a nice woman. Poor
dear!” said the kind soul, wiping her eyes and forgetting her rôle
altogether. “My heart bleeds for her, poor dear!”
This brought the girls, who could doubt, clinging round her, hanging
about her. Their soft touch, their tender faces went to her heart. No
woman who is good for anything, not even the jealous mother of an only
son, defending him from all feminine wolves, can resist the contact of
innocent girls--creatures of her own kind. It was a novel pleasure to
Mrs Underwood, who never had a daughter, and had always been an
exclusively devoted parent, absorbed in her son. She put one arm round
each and kissed them again, this time in all truth and tenderness, and
with her heart full of natural feeling. “Will she have heard of it yet?”
she said in a tone of tender awe.
“Oh, not for nearly a week yet,” the girls cried. And Mrs Underwood wept
in sympathy.
“Poor dear! Oh, God help her, poor dear! I know what it is myself; but I
was with him till the last moment. She will think if she had been here
it would never have happened. Oh, God help her, poor dear! Then,” she
added a minute after, as if this had been a reason, “you must get your
boxes ready and come with me at once, my poor children; I cannot leave
you here. I tell you I don’t know whether I shall be glad or sorry, if
it is settled that you are Leonard Crosthwaite’s children. Sorry, I
suppose, because I shall lose my money; but now that I know you I should
be almost as sorry to lose you.”
This, though it was sudden, was real and true; for the kind woman felt
that she had done them injustice. They were not dangerous adventuresses,
hunting Geoff, but good girls, breaking their hearts for their mother,
and counting the days till she should hear that terrible news. Mrs
Underwood jumped into enthusiasm for them because she had been so much
afraid of them before.
“You shall not lose either us or the money,” said Grace. “We had
resolved before Mr Geoffrey was here, that we should do nothing more and
think nothing more about it. If papa had meant us to do anything he
would have said so. We made up our minds to this--this morning, before
Mr Geoffrey was here.”
“My dears!” said Mrs Underwood, bewildered. She had no head for
business, and she could not understand more than one thing at a time.
She withdrew her arm a little and said doubtfully, “Then Geoffrey has
been here?”
“He came--in the most generous, noble way. I am so glad, I am so
thankful,” cried Grace, “and so is Milly--that we had quite made up our
minds before.”
Mrs Underwood breathed forth a sigh of resignation. “I must hear all
about this after,” she said, faltering; “but, my dears, the fly is
standing at the door, and it is no use keeping it waiting. Put up your
things as quickly as you can. Anna thinks--I mean I feel quite sure that
you ought not to be staying at an inn in your circumstances. If your
luggage is too heavy for the fly the heavy boxes can be sent afterwards.
Of course you have all your coloured things, poor dears; and to go into
such deep mourning with nobody to advise you! The best thing will be to
bring just what is necessary. Run and put your things together and I
will wait here.”
Then there passed between Milly and Grace a final consultation, several
volumes in one glance. “Do you really mean that we are to go with
you--to go home with you? Do you really want to have us?” said Grace
with quivering lips.
“Oh, my dear, of course, of course I want you! And Anna--well, we need
never mind Anna. You will amuse her too. She is very fond of clever
people, and you are clever; at least _you_ are clever, my dear,” Mrs
Underwood said, patting Grace upon the shoulder; “and you are the little
silly one, you will just do for me,” she said, putting her arm through
Milly’s. Then her countenance clouded over. The girls did not know what
to make of it. They could not hear the voice which was in Mrs
Underwood’s ears--her own voice, saying, “I wonder why he should always
be going to see the old lady--when he has me?” She gazed into Milly’s
face and wondered wistfully whether it would frown at her, and find
fault with Geoff for his attention to his mother. “It is nothing, my
dear, nothing,” she said, recovering herself; “a little pain that I am
quite used to. Go and get ready, like dear children; it will be such a
surprise for Geoff.”
Thus Mrs Underwood carried out Miss Anna’s plans. That lady smiled when
she heard the arrival, the boxes carried up-stairs, the sound of the
young voices in the house. She thought it was all her doing, and that
Geoff was a young precisian and his mother a fool, and she herself the
only member of the family capable of doing anything in its defence.