THE ARRIVAL OF THE AUNT.
About a week after the events related in the last chapter, on a
certain lovely day in June, a hired fly might have been seen ascending
the steep avenue to Delaney Manor. The fly had only one occupant--a
round, roly-poly sort of little woman. She was dressed in deep
mourning, and the windows of the fly being wide open, she constantly
poked her head out, now to the right and now to the left, to look
anxiously and excitedly around her.
After gazing at the magnificent view, had anyone been there to look,
they might have observed her shaking her head with great solemnity.
She had round black eyes, and a rather dark-complexioned face, with a
good deal of color in her cheeks. She was stoutly built, but the
expression on her countenance was undoubtedly cheerful. Nothing
signified gloom about her except her heavy mourning. Her eyes,
although shrewd and full of common sense, were also kindly; her lips
were very firm; there was a matter-of-fact expression about her whole
appearance.
"Now, why does David waste all those acres of splendid land?" she
muttered angrily to herself. "The whole place, as far as I can see,
seems to be laid out in grass. I know perfectly well that this is an
agricultural country, and yet, when produce is so precious, what do I
see but a lawn here and another lawn there, and not even cows feeding
on them. Oh, yes! of course there is the park! The park is right
enough, and no one wants to interfere with that. But why should all
the land in that direction, and in that direction, and in that
direction"--here she put out her head again and looked frantically
about her--"why should all that land be devoted to mere ornament? It
seems nothing more nor less than a tempting of Providence." Here she
suddenly raised her voice. "Driver," she said, "have the goodness to
poke up your horse, and to go a little faster. I happen to be in a
hurry."
"'Orse won't do it, ma'am," was the response. "Steep 'ill this. Can't
go no faster."
The little lady gave an indignant snort, and retired once more into
the depths of the gloomy fly. Presently a bend in the avenue brought
the old manor house into view. Once more she thrust out her head and
examined it critically.
"There it stands," she said to herself. "I was very happy at the Manor
as a girl. I wonder if the old garden still exists. Twenty to one it
has been done away with; there's no saying. Evangeline had such
dreadfully queer ideas. Yes, there stands the house, and I do hope
some remnants of the garden are in existence; but the thing above all
others to consider now is, what kind these children are. Poor David,
he was quite mad about Evangeline--not that I ever pretended to
understand her. She was an American, and I hate the Americans; yes, I
cordially hate them. Poor David, however, was devoted--oh, it was
melancholy, melancholy! I suppose it was on account of Evangeline that
all this splendid land has been allowed to lie fallow--not even cows,
not even a stray sheep to eat all that magnificent grass. Wherever I
turn I see flower-beds--flower-beds sloping away to east and west, as
far almost as the eye can travel. And so there are four children. I
have no doubt they are as queer, and old-fashioned, and untrained as
possible. It would be like their mother to bring them up in that sort
of style. Well, at least I am not the one to shirk my duty, and I
certainly see it now staring me in the face. I am the wife of a
hard-working vicar; I work hard myself, and I have five children of my
own; but never mind, I am prepared to do my best for those poor
deserted orphans. Ah, and here we are at last! That is a comfort."
The rickety old fly drew up with a jerk opposite the big front
entrance, and Mrs. Dolman got out. She was short in stature, but her
business-like manner and attitude were unmistakable. As soon as ever
she set foot on the ground she turned to the man.
"Put the portmanteau down on the steps," she said. "You need not wait.
What is your fare?"
The fly-driver named a price, which she immediately disputed.
"Nonsense!" she said. "Eight shillings for driving me from the station
here? Why, it is only five miles."
"It is nearly seven, ma'am, and all uphill. I really cannot do it for
a penny less."
"Then you are an impostor. I shall complain of you."
At this moment one of the stately footmen threw open the hall door and
stared at Mrs. Dolman.
"Take my portmanteau in immediately, if you please," she said, "and
pray tell me if your master is at home."
"Yes, madam," was the grave reply. "But Mr. Delaney is not seeing
company at present."
"He will see me," said Mrs. Dolman. "Have the goodness to tell him
that his sister has arrived, and please also see that my luggage is
taken to my room--and oh, I say, wait one moment. What is the fare
from Beaminster to Delaney Manor?"
The grave-looking footman and the somewhat surly driver of the cab
exchanged a quick glance. Immediately afterwards the footman named
eight shillings in a voice of authority.
"Preposterous!" said Mrs. Dolman, "but I suppose I must pay it, or,
rather, you can pay it for me; I'll settle with you afterwards."
"Am I to acquaint my master that you have come, madam?"
"No; on second thoughts I should prefer to announce myself. Where did
you say Mr. Delaney was?"
"In his private study."
"I know that room well. See that my luggage is taken to a bedroom, and
pay the driver."
Mrs. Dolman entered the old house briskly. It felt quiet, remarkably
quiet, seeing that there was a large staff of servants and four
vigorous, healthy children to occupy it.
"Poor little orphans, I suppose they are dreadfully overcome," thought
the good lady to herself. "Well, I am glad I have appeared on the
scene. Poor David is just the sort of man who would forget everybody
else when he is in a state of grief. Of course I know he was
passionately attached to Evangeline, and she certainly was a charming,
although _quite_ incapable, creature. I suppose she was what would be
termed 'a man's woman.' Now, I have never any patience with them, and
when I think of those acres of land and--but, dear me! sometimes a
matter-of-fact, plain body like myself is useful in an emergency. The
emergency has arrived with a vengeance, and I am determined to take
the fortress by storm."
The little lady trotted down one or two passages, then turned abruptly
to her left, and knocked at a closed door. A voice said, "Come in."
She opened the door and entered. A man was standing with his back to
her in the deep embrasure of a mullioned window. His hands were
clasped behind his back; he was looking fixedly out. The window was
wide open.
"There, David, there! I knew you would take it hard; but have the
goodness to turn round and speak to me," said Mrs. Dolman.
When he heard these unexpected words, the master of Delaney Manor
turned with a visible start.
"My dear Jane, what have you come for?" he exclaimed. He advanced to
meet his sister, dismay evident on every line of his face.
"I knew you would not welcome me, David. Oh, no prevarications! if you
please. It is awful to think how many lies people tell in the cause of
politeness. When I undertook this wearisome journey from the north of
England, I knew I should not be welcome, but all the same I came; and,
David, when I have had a little talk with you, and when you have
unburdened your heart to me, you will feel your sorrow less."
"I would rather not touch on that subject," said Mr. Delaney. He
offered his sister a chair very quietly, and took another himself.
Father, as Iris used to say, was not the least like mother. Mother
had the gentlest, the sweetest, the most angelic face in the world;
she never spoke loudly, and she seldom laughed; her voice was low and
never was heard to rise to an angry tone. Her smile was like the
sweetest sunshine, and wherever she appeared she brought an atmosphere
of peace with her. But father, on the other hand, although an
excellent and loving parent, was, when in good spirits, given to
hearty laughter--given to loud, eager words, to strong exercise, both
physical and mental. He was, as a rule, a very active man, seldom
staying still in one place, but bustling here, there, and everywhere.
He was fond of his children, and petted them a good deal; but the one
whom he really worshiped was his gentle and loving wife. She led him,
although he did not know it, by silken cords. She always knew exactly
how to manage him, how to bring out his fine points. She never rubbed
him the wrong way. He had a temper, and he knew it; but in his wife's
presence it had never been exasperated. His sister, however, managed
to set it on edge with the very first words she uttered.
"Of course, I know you mean well, Jane," he said, "and I ought to be
obliged to you for taking all this trouble. Now that you have come,
you are welcome; but I must ask you to understand immediately that I
will not have the subject of my"--he hesitated, and his under lip
shook for a moment--"the subject of my trouble alluded to. And I will
also add that I should have preferred your writing to me beforehand.
This taking a man by storm is, you know of old, my dear Jane--not
agreeable to me."
"Precisely, David. I did not write, for the simple reason that I
thought it likely you would have asked me not to come; and as it was
necessary for me to appear on the scene, I determined, on this
occasion, to take, as you express it, Delaney Manor by storm."
"Very well, Jane; as you have done it you have done it, and there is
no more to be said."
Mr. Delaney rose from his seat as he spoke.
"Would you not like to go to your room, and wash and change your
dress?" he asked.
"I cannot change my dress, for I have only brought one. I will go to
my room presently. What hour do you dine?"
"At half-past eight."
"I have a few minutes still to talk to you, and I will not lose the
opportunity. It will be necessary for me to return home the day after
to-morrow."
An expression of relief swept over Mr. Delaney's countenance.
"I shall, therefore," continued Mrs. Dolman, taking no notice of this
look, which she plainly saw, "have but little time at my disposal, and
there is a great deal to be done. But before I proceed to anything
else, may I ask you a question? How could you allow all that splendid
land to lie waste?"
"What land, Jane? What do you mean?"
"Those acres of grass outside the house."
"Are you alluding to the lawns?"
"I don't know what name you choose to call all that grass, but I think
it is a positive tempting of Providence to allow so much land to lie
fallow. Why, you might grow potatoes or barley or oats, and make
pounds and pounds a year. I know of old what the land round Delaney
Manor can produce."
"As the land happens to belong to me, perhaps I may be allowed to
arrange it as pleases myself," said Mr. Delaney, in a haughty tone.
His sister favored him with a long, reflective gaze.
"He is just as obstinate as ever," she muttered to herself. "With that
cleft in his chin, what else can be expected? There is no use
bothering him on that point at present, and, as he won't allow me to
talk of poor Evangeline,--who had, poor soul, as many faults as I ever
saw packed into a human being,--there is nothing whatever for me to do
but to look up those children."
Mrs. Dolman rose from her seat as this thought came to her.
"I am tired," she said. "From Yorkshire to Delaney Manor is a long
journey, as perhaps you do _not_ remember, David; so I will seek my
room after first having informed you what the object of my visit is."
"I should be interested to know that, Jane," he answered, in a
somewhat softened tone.
"Well, seeing I am the only sister you have--"
"But we never did pull well together," interrupted he.
"We used to play in the same garden," she answered, and for the first
time a really soft and affectionate look came into her face. "I hope
to goodness, David, that the garden is not altered."
"It is much the same as always, Jane. The children occupy it a good
deal."
"I am coming to the subject of the children. Of course, now that
things are so much changed--"
"I would rather not go into that," said Mr. Delaney.
"Dear me, David, how touchy you are! Why will you not accept a patent
fact? I have no wish to hurt your feelings, but I really must speak
out plain common sense. I always was noted for my common sense, was I
not? I don't believe, in the length and breadth of England, you will
find better behaved children than my five. I have brought them up on a
plan of my own, and now that I come here at great trouble, and I may
also add expense, to try and help you in your--oh, of course, I must
not say it--to try and help you when you want help, you fight shy of
my slightest word. Well, the fact is this: I want you to take my
advice, and to shut up Delaney Manor, or, better still, to let it well
for the next two or three years, and go abroad yourself, letting me
have the children!"
"My dear Jane!"
"Oh, I am your dear Jane now--now that you think I can help you. Well,
David, I mean it, and what is more, the matter must be arranged. I
must take the children back with me the day after to-morrow. Now I
will go to my bedroom, as I am dead tired. Perhaps you will ring the
bell and ask a servant to take me there."
Mr. Delaney moved slowly across the room. He rang the electric bell,
and a moment later the footman appeared in answer to his summons. He
gave certain directions, and Mrs. Dolman left the room.
The moment he found himself alone, the father of the children sank
down on the nearest chair, put his hands on the table, pressed his
face down on them, and uttered a bitter groan.