It was, as his mother foresaw, a great surprise for Geoff, to see Grace
and Milly established under her wing when he reached home. They seemed
to have each got her corner of the drawing-room, as if they had been
there all their lives. The windows with that great distance stretching
blue and far underneath, and the smoke, which was London, at their feet,
attracted them both--a standing wonder and miracle; but Milly had
brought down her little work-basket, and placed it on a corner of Mrs
Underwood’s special table, and there she had settled herself as if she
belonged to it; while Grace had got to the books which stood in low
bookcases on either side of the fireplace. For the first hour Geoffrey
really believed, with a wonder which he could hardly restrain, that his
mother had broken loose from her life-long bondage to her sister, and
that this bold step had really been taken by herself on her own
responsibility. It was herself who undeceived him on this point. When
the dressing-bell rang, and the girls went up-stairs to prepare for
dinner, he put his arm round her and thanked and praised her. “It was
like yourself to do it, mother,” he said warmly. “When you follow your
own kind heart, you always do what is best.”
“Yes, my dear,” said Mrs Underwood, faltering; “indeed, indeed, I hope
it is for the best. At least, that has been my meaning, dear. And Anna
said----”
“Anna?” cried Geoff, with a cloud coming over his face.
“She thought it was the only wise thing. But she is not to be supposed
to know anything about it,” his mother said, lowering her voice and
holding up a finger at him. “You must be very careful. If she looks as
if she did not like it, you are not to take any notice. I was not to
tell anybody she had a hand in it; but of course I never meant to
conceal it from you.”
Geoff was so angry and disconcerted, and so sick of the domestic fraud
into which his mother had been beguiled, that he went off to his room
without a word, leaving her sadly put out, but quite unable to divine
what could have offended him. However, by the time he had changed his
dress, Geoff, all alone in his room, burst out into a sudden laugh. “She
is an old witch,” he said to himself; “she is as clever as--the old
gentleman himself.” He was ashamed of the artifice, but could not help
being diverted by the skill of that unseen helms-woman who managed
everything her own way.
Miss Anna came to dinner as usual, leaning on her stick, and she
received the girls with stately surprise, as if their presence was quite
unlooked for but gradually unbent, and by degrees grew brilliant in her
talk, and amused and delighted them. Geoffrey looked on with a mixture
of shame, amusement, and contempt, at this pretended thawing and
acceptance of what she could not prevent. She acted her part admirably,
though now and then he surprised a glance of satisfaction and secret
triumph which made him furious. But she kept up her show of reluctance
so far that no one was invited into her boudoir that evening. They went
back to the drawing-room again after dinner, where Geoffrey found both
the girls standing within the half-drawn curtains of the window, looking
down upon the London lights. They stood close together, talking low,
talking of the great city all muffled and mysterious in mist, and smoke,
and darkness, at their feet. When Geoffrey joined them, they stopped
their conversation. “I am afraid I have interrupted you,” he said.
“Oh no, no! We can’t help talking of one thing. It is wearisome to other
people; but after all it is only a few days. We were wondering where it
was that _he_ is lying,” said Milly.
Geoff pointed out to them as well as he could where the spot was.
“We have so often talked of seeing London, and thought what it would be
like and what we should like most in it,” said Grace. “We little
thought----”
He seemed to be taken into their confidence as they broke off and stood
gazing with brimming eyes towards the place where their father lay.
“And now you will have no association with London but that of pain,” he
said.
There was a pause, and then it was Milly who replied, “People have been
very kind to us. We can never forget the kindness wherever we may be.”
To this Grace assented with a little reservation. “Yes, we shall never
forget Grove Road--your mother and you, Mr Geoffrey.”
“What!” said Geoff, “are you drawing back already? I was Cousin Geoffrey
this morning; and I do not think I have done anything to forfeit the
name.”
There was a little murmur of apology from both; and there is no telling
how long they might have lingered there, with the light and warmth
behind them, and the wide world of sky and air, and distant mighty
multitudinous life before, had not Mrs Underwood come forward anxiously
to see what was going on. She had begun to feel herself deserted, and to
remember again what she had once felt and said about the old lady. She
had not so much as thought of the old lady since she brought them into
the house; but now the murmur of voices behind the curtain; the
natural, inevitable manner in which Geoff found his way there, the
solitude into which she was herself thrown, brought back all her alarm.
“Geoff,” she said, “you must not keep them in the cold: there is a great
draught from that window: we always have the curtains drawn. Come in, my
dears, come in to the light; there has been so much rain that it is
quite cold to-night.”
They came directly, obedient to the call; there was no undutifulness, no
resistance. They must have felt they were doing wrong, they obeyed so
quickly, she thought. But then Mrs Underwood had a very happy hour.
Geoffrey took up the evening paper which had been brought in for
him--Miss Anna having previously finished it and sent it with a message
that there was nothing in it--while Grace returned to her examination of
the books, and Milly settled herself by Mrs Underwood’s side. She was
glad to see that he could still think of politics, although they were
here. Miss Anna, in order that she might come down gradually from her
eminence, had left the door of communication open between her room and
this one, and sometimes launched a word at them, stimulating their
somewhat languid talk. For neither Mrs Underwood nor Milly were great
talkers; they sat together, finding great fellowship in this mere
vicinity, now and then exchanging a word as they lent each other the
scissors or the thread. And Geoff read his newspaper calmly in this
calm interior, where there was still no appearance of any power or
passion which might either break old ties or form new.
Thus the soft evening sped along. It gave Mrs Underwood a little tremor
to see that when Geoff laid aside his paper he went to the table at
which Grace was seated with a number of books round her, and began an
earnest conversation. But she reflected within herself that it was not
Grace but the little one, and took comfort. Perhaps she would not have
been so much consoled had she known what the subject of the conversation
was. Grace was so buried in the books which she had collected from the
shelves, that she scarcely noticed, till he spoke, the shadow which was
hovering between her and the light.
“I want to tell you,” he said--and she started, looking up at him with a
little impatience, yet--as remembering the calls of politeness, and that
she was his mother’s guest--with a smile--“I have laid the whole matter
before the lawyer whose name I gave you to-day,” Geoffrey said.
“The whole matter!--there is no whole matter; nothing but guesses and
perhapses. We do not want anything more said about it, Cousin Geoff.”
“But we must have something more said about it, Cousin Grace. Who can
tell? It might be dragged to light in the third or fourth generation,”
he said with a smile. “Your grandson might question the right of mine,
to any small remnant that may be left by that time.”
“I will answer for my grandson,” said Grace.
“But I cannot answer for mine; probably he will be a headstrong,
hot-headed fellow. No, it must be settled now. Mr Furnival wants to know
what evidence you have, one way or another; if you have anything that
throws light on the subject: any clue to the past or information about
the family or name? You may trust everything to his hands.”
“But I told you we had no information whatever--none. I never heard the
name before. My brother is called Leonard, that is the only thing; and
there are one or two memoranda of papa’s.”
“These will be of the utmost value.”
“I don’t think you will find them of any value at all. One is in his
little diary that he kept during the voyage. I do not like to give it
into any stranger’s hands. No, there is nothing private in it; but only
the little things that--that are more hard to look at than great ones,”
said Grace. “Little, little things that we did every day--that we never
shall do any more.”
There was a pause, and then he said, insisting gently, “You must not
think me troublesome and pertinacious; but you may be sure it will be
handled with reverence, and given back to you without delay.”
“You can’t think how little it is, it is nothing,” she said; but
finally she consented to bring all the scraps together and place them in
Geoff’s hands. They were not much when they were put together. First,
the entry in the diary: “Same name in directory at old address. To go
first thing and enquire.” Then the still more hieroglyphical notes
written on the same paper which contained the address, “Left July ’45.
U.A. died ’55. Due with interest for twenty years--but forgiven;” and
the repeated 3 Grove Road, written over his blotting-book, and repeated
on at least two pieces of paper. Geoff folded them carefully up, and
sealed them into a packet. His mind was heavy, but his heart was light.
He saw moral confirmation indisputable in these scraps of writing. It
seemed to him that in no way could his mother retain her fortune against
a claim so certain; but he saw at the same time that there could be no
legal proof, and that his aunt would be triumphant and retain hers. Was
not this the best solution of the matter that could be? He did not see
his way yet about his own work and ability to make up to his mother for
what she must lose; therefore his mind was troubled and in difficulty
still; but to know that when he came home at night he should find Milly
shyly smiling at Mrs Underwood’s side, taking her place as if in her own
home, beguiled the young man out of all his cares. Whatever happened,
nothing could take from him this sweet evening, and other sweet evenings
like it.
A week of close domestic intercourse, long evenings spent together, how
rapidly acquaintance grows under such circumstances! They made the most
delightful family party, moving from one room to another in the long
delicious evenings, cheerful, though still subdued by the recent grief
which was so ready to revive in the girls’ eyes at any chance allusion.
This made a tenderness in their intercourse which nothing else could
have done. Even Miss Anna was tender of the young mourners, and it was
she who most steadily exerted her powers to cheer them, and win from
them smiles, and even laughter, and a hundred little returns towards
amusement, towards the brighter impulses of life. But perhaps what they
enjoyed most was to stand behind the half-drawn curtain in the evenings,
and gaze out on London, and talk, with tears which no one rebuked, which
Geoff, their only companion, if any reliance could be placed upon his
voice, was often very near sharing. They told him about their father,
about the household at home, about their first glorious morning in
London, when they had gone to Westminster and feared no evil; and Geoff
listened with sympathy, with tender curiosity, with all the youthful
freemasonry which understands almost without a word. While these talks
were going on, Mrs Underwood, stranded as it were outside, would sit
fidgeting in her chair, longing to interfere, thinking within herself of
the old lady left alone, and scarcely able to restrain her trembling
anxiety, lest things should go too far, and her doom be sealed. Miss
Anna, on the contrary, watched over the young people, going and coming
with that little pat of her stick upon the floor, and restraining her
sister. “You simpleton,” she would say in a whisper, “don’t you see
everything is going to a wish? What could you desire more? They are
getting acquainted; they are getting on as fast as possible.” “Oh, but
Anna!” poor Mrs Underwood would say, getting up and sitting down again.
“My boy, my boy!” “Oh, hold your tongue, you silly woman! Your boy is
happier than he ever was in his life,” said the imperious sister,
sitting down to keep watch over Geoff’s tranquillity. Mrs Underwood
dared not stir, with Miss Anna guarding her like this; but she moaned
within herself and shook her head. It was all a conspiracy to take her
son from her. She liked the little one well enough--nay, very much, as
she sat on the low chair, and talked a little now and then, and was
always ready with the scissors. Mrs Underwood had a way of losing hers,
and she had never had a daughter to find them for her, to know by
instinct when she wanted them for her work as Milly did. That was all
very pleasant. And it might be good as a family arrangement; Anna
thought so, and Anna knew best; but to tell her that her boy had never
been so happy--though she had devoted herself to him all her life--this
was indeed too much to bear.