AUNT GLENLYNE.
Once assured that there was no blot upon Lucille’s parentage, Lucius
had no longer any motive for withholding the result of his researches
from her whom they most nearly concerned. He spent his evening at Cedar
House, as usual, on the day of his interview with Mr. Pullman; and
after tea, when Mr. Sivewright had retired, seized the opportunity to
show Lucille the little packet of letters, and to relate his adventures
at Rouen and in Paris. Lucille wept many tears as that story of the
past was slowly unfolded to her—wept for the sorrows of the mother she
vaguely remembered watching like a guardian angel beside her little bed.
‘Dear mother! and to think that in your brief life there was so much
sorrow!’ she said mournfully.
Her father—as revealed to her by those letters, and by all that Lucius
told her—seemed worldly and even cruel. He had suffered his young
wife to fade and die in severance from all she loved. For the sake of
what?—his uncle’s fortune. He had acted a lie rather than forego that
worldly gain. O foolish dream of a father’s love! From first to last it
had been only a delusion for Lucille. She uttered no word of reproach
against the dead. But she separated her mother’s letters from the
others in the little packet, and asked if she might keep them.
‘These and the miniature are the only memorials of the mother I lost so
soon,’ she said. ‘They are very precious to me.’
‘Keep them, dearest, but do not cultivate sad memories. Your life has
been too long clouded; but, please God, there shall be less shadow than
sunshine henceforward.’
He told Lucille of his idea of taking her to Brighton in a day or two,
to see Miss Glenlyne.
‘The lady with whom my mother came to England,’ she said. ‘Yes, I
should very much like to see any one who knew my mother.’
‘We will go the day after to-morrow, then, dear, if grandpapa will give
us permission. We can come back to town the same evening, and Janet can
go with us to play propriety, if you like.’
‘I should like that very much,’ said Lucille.
Mr. Sivewright was consulted when Lucius paid his visit next morning;
and, on being told the circumstances of the case fully, was tolerably
complaisant. He was still ‘grandpapa’—nobody had any idea of deposing
him from the sway and masterdom that went along with that title.
‘I suppose you must take her,’ he said reluctantly, ‘though the house
seems miserable without her. Such a quiet little thing as she is too! I
couldn’t have believed her absence would make so much difference. But
if you’re going to establish her claim to a fine fortune, I suppose
I shall soon lose her. Miss Glenlyne will be ashamed of the old
bric-à-brac dealer.’
‘Ashamed of you, grandpapa,’ cried Lucille, ‘when you’ve taken care of
me all these years, and educated me, and paid for everything I’ve ever
had!’
‘Taken care!’ repeated Mr. Sivewright with a sigh. ‘I believe the care
has been on the other side. You’ve brightened my home, little girl, and
crept into my heart unawares, though I tried my hardest to keep it shut
against you.’
Lucille rewarded this unusual burst of tenderness with a kiss, to which
the cynic submitted with assumed reluctance.
They went to Brighton by an early train next day, accompanied by
Janet, who had consented to stay for a few days in her brother’s
unlovely abode, before going back to Flossie. That idolised damsel had
been left to the care of old nurse Sally, who guarded her as the apple
of her eye.
It was pleasant weather for a hasty trip to Brighton. The rush and riot
of excursion-trains had ended with the ending of summer. Lucius and his
two companions left London-bridge terminus comfortably and quietly in
a quick train, with a carriage to themselves. The day was bright and
sunny; the deepening tints of autumn beautified the peaceful landscape;
the air blew fresh and strong across the downs as the train neared
Brighton.
Janet sat in her corner of the carriage grave and somewhat silent,
while the others talked in low confidential tones of the past and
the future. Where love is firm hope is never absent, what shadow
soever may obscure life’s horizon. Lucius and Lucille, happy in each
other’s society, forgot all the troubles and perplexities of the last
few months. But Janet had not yet recovered from the shock of that
meeting in the hospital. She was still haunted by the last look of her
husband’s dying eyes.
They arrived at Brighton before noon, at too early an hour for a first
visit to an elderly lady like Miss Glenlyne. So they walked up and
down the Parade for an hour or so, looking at the sea and talking
of all manner of things. Janet brightened a good deal during this
walk, and seemed pleased to discuss her brother’s future, though she
studiously avoided any allusion to her own.
‘You must not go and bury yourself at Stillmington again, Janet; must
she, Lucille?’ Lucius said by and by. ‘The place is nice enough—much
nicer than London, I daresay; but we want you to be near us.’
‘Shall I come back to London?’ asked Janet. ‘I daresay I could get some
teaching in town. The publishers would recommend me. Yes, it would be
nice to be near you, Lucius, to play our old concertante duets again.
It would seem like the dear old days when—’ She could not finish
the sentence. The thought of the father and mother whose death had
perhaps been hastened by her folly was too bitter. Happily for her own
peace Janet never knew how deep the wounds she had inflicted on those
faithful hearts. She knew that they were lost to her—that she had not
been by to ask a blessing from those dying lips. But the full measure
of her guilt she knew not.
‘Yes, Janet, you must settle in London. I shall move to the West-end
very soon. I feel myself strong enough to create a practice, if I
cannot afford to buy one. And then we can see each other constantly.’
‘I will come, then,’ answered Janet quietly.
She seemed to have no thought of any other future than that which her
own industry was to provide for her.
They left the sea soon after this, and took a light luncheon of tea
and cakes at a confectioner’s in the Western-road, prior to descending
upon Selbrook-place, to find the abode of Miss Glenlyne. Janet was to
sit upon the Parade, or walk about and amuse herself as she liked,
while Lucius and Lucille were with Miss Glenlyne, and they were to
meet afterwards at a certain seat by the lawn. It was just possible,
of course, that there might be some disappointment—that Miss Glenlyne,
elderly and invalided though she was, might be out, or that she might
refuse to see them in spite of Mr. Pullman’s letter.
‘But I don’t feel as if we were going to be disappointed,’ said Lucius;
‘I have a notion that we shall succeed.’
They left Janet to her own devices, and went arm-in-arm to
Selbrook-place. It was an eminently quiet place, consisting of two rows
of modern houses, stuccoed, pseudo-classical, and commonplace, with an
ornamental garden between them. The garden was narrow, and the shady
side of Selbrook-place was very shady. No intrusive fly or vehemently
driven cart could violate the aristocratic seclusion of Selbrook-place.
The houses were accessible only in the rear. They turned their backs,
as it were, upon the vulgar commerce of life, and in a manner ignored
it. That garden, where few flowers flourished, was common to the
occupants of Selbrook-place, but shut against the outer world. The
inhabitants could descend from their French windows to that sacred
parterre, but to the outer world those French windows were impenetrable.
Thus it came to pass that Selbrook-place was for the most part affected
by elderly ladies, maiden or widowed, without encumbrance, by spinster
sisters of doubtful age, by gouty old gentlemen who over-ate themselves
and over-drank themselves in the respectable seclusion of dining-rooms,
unexposed to the vulgar gaze. There was much talk about eating and
drinking, servants, and wills, in Selbrook-place. Every inhabitant
of those six-and-twenty respectable houses knew all about his or her
neighbours’ intentions as to the ultimate disposal of their property.
That property question was an inexhaustible subject of conversation.
Every one in Selbrook-place seemed amply provided with the goods of
this world, and those who lived in the profoundest solitude and spent
least money were reputed the richest. Miss Glenlyne was one of these.
She never gave a dinner or a cup of tea to neighbour or friend; she
wore shabby garments, and went out in a hired bath-chair, attended
by a confidential maid or companion, who was just a shade shabbier
than herself. The gradation was almost imperceptible, for the maid
wore out the mistress’s clothes—clothes that had not been new within
the memory of any one in Selbrook-place. Miss Glenlyne had brought a
voluminous wardrobe to Brighton twenty years ago, and appeared to have
been gradually wearing out that handsome supply of garments, so little
concession did she make to the mutations of taste.
A maid-servant opened the door—a maid-servant attired with scrupulous
neatness in the lavender cotton gown and frilled muslin cap which have
become traditional. To this maid Lucius gave Mr. Pullman’s letter and
his own card, saying that he would wait to know if Miss Glenlyne would
be so good as to see him.
The maid looked embarrassed, evidently thoughtful of the spoons, which
doubtless lurked somewhere in the dim religious light of a small
pantry, at the end of the passage. After a moment’s hesitation she
rang a call-bell, and kept her eye on Lucius and Lucille until the
summons was answered.
It was answered quickly by an elderly person in a black silk gown, in
which time had developed a mellow green tinge and to which friction
had given a fine gloss. This person, who wore a bugled black lace cap,
rather on one side, was Miss Spilling, once Miss Glenlyne’s maid, now
elevated to a middle station, half servant, half companion—servant to
be ordered about, companion to sympathise.
‘I have a letter of introduction to Miss Glenlyne, from Mr. Pullman of
Lincoln’s-inn,’ said Lucius.
‘Dear me!’ exclaimed Miss Spilling; ‘Mr. Pullman ought to know that
Miss Glenlyne objects to receive any one, above all a stranger. She is
a great invalid. Mr. Pullman ought to know better than to give letters
of introduction without Miss Glenlyne’s permission.’
‘The matter is one of importance,’ said Lucius, ‘or I should not have
troubled Miss Glenlyne.’
Miss Spilling surveyed him doubtfully from head to foot. He wore good
clothes certainly, and looked like a gentleman. But then appearances
are deceptive. He might be a genteel beggar after all. There are so
many vicarious beggars, people who beg for other people, for new
churches, and missions, and schools; people who seem to beg for the
sake of begging. And Miss Glenlyne, though she subscribed handsomely
to a certain number of orthodox old-established charities, hated to
be pestered on behalf of novel schemes for the benefit of her fellow
creatures.
‘If it’s anything connected with ritualism,’ said Miss Spilling, ‘it
isn’t the least use for me to take your letter up to Miss Glenlyne. Her
principles are strictly evangelical.’
‘My business has nothing to do with ritualism. Pray let Miss Glenlyne
read the letter.’
Miss Spilling sighed doubtfully, looked at the maid as much as to say,
‘Keep your eye on these people,’ and went up-stairs with the letter,
leaving Lucius and Lucille standing in the hall.
She returned in about ten minutes with a surprised air, and requested
them to walk up to the drawing-room.
They followed her to the first floor, where she ushered them into a
room crowded with much unnecessary furniture, darkened by voluminous
curtains, and heated like the palm-house in Kew Gardens. Lucius felt
a sense of oppression directly he entered the apartment. The windows
were all shut, a bright fire burned in a shining steel grate, which
reflected its glow, and a curious Indian perfume filled the room.
In a capacious chair by the fire reclined a little old lady, wrapped
in an Indian shawl of dingy hues, a little old lady whose elaborate
blonde cap was almost as big as all the rest of her person. Her slender
hands, on whose waxen skin the blue veins stood out prominently, were
embellished with valuable old diamond rings in silver setting, and an
ancient diamond brooch in the shape of a feather clasped the shawl
across her shrunken shoulders.
This old lady was Miss Glenlyne. She raised her eye-glass with
tremulous fingers, and surveyed her visitors with a somewhat
parrot-like scrutiny. The contour of her aristocratic features was
altogether of the parrot order.
‘Come here,’ she said, addressing Lucille, with kindly command,—‘come
here, and sit by my side; and you, sir, pray what is the meaning of
this curious story which Mr. Pullman tells me? Spilling, you can go, my
dear.’
Miss Spilling had lingered, anxious to know all about these strangers.
Every day made Miss Spilling more and more solicitous upon the
all-important question of Miss Glenlyne’s will. She had reason to
suppose that her interests were cared for in that document. But
advancing age did not increase Miss Glenlyne’s wisdom. Some base
intruder, arriving late upon the scene, might undo the slow work of
years, and thrust himself between Miss Glenlyne’s legitimate heirs and
their heritage. Just as a horse which has been kept well in hand in the
early part of a race comes in with a rush as winner at the finish. In
the presence of these unknown intruders Miss Spilling scented danger.
She ignored her mistress’s behest, and came over to the easy-chair,
moved a little table near it, picked up a fallen newspaper, and hovered
over Miss Glenlyne with tenderest solicitude.
‘It’s just upon the time for your chicken broth,’ she said.
‘My chicken broth can wait until I require it,’ replied Miss Glenlyne
curtly. ‘You can go, my dear; I want a little private talk with this
lady and gentleman.’
Miss Spilling retired meekly, but troubled of heart. There is nothing
easier than to alter a will. Yet Miss Spilling felt it was wisest to
obey. Surely the patient service of years was not to be set at naught
for some new fancy. But age is apt to be capricious, fickle even; and
Miss Spilling was not blind to the fact that there were seasons when
Miss Glenlyne considered her a bore.
‘You are not so amusing as you were fifteen years ago, Spilling,’ Miss
Glenlyne would sometimes remark candidly; and Miss Spilling could but
admit that fifteen years of a solitude scarcely less profound than the
loneliness of a Carthusian monastery had not tended to enliven her
spirits. She had come to Miss Glenlyne charged with all the gossip
picked up in a half a dozen previous situations, and little by little
she had exhausted her fund of frivolity and slander, and told her
servants’-hall stories till they were threadbare.
Who could be sure that Miss Glenlyne would not be beguiled by some new
favourite, even at the very end of her career? Sedulously had Miss
Spilling striven to guard against this ever-present peril by keeping
poor relations, old friends, and strangers alike at bay. But to-day she
felt herself worsted, and retired to her own apartment depressed and
apprehensive. If the folding-doors had been closed she might have gone
into the back drawing-room and listened; but the folding-doors were
open. Miss Glenlyne liked a palm-house atmosphere, but she liked space
for an occasional constitutional promenade, so the back drawing-room
was never shut off. Miss Spilling lingered a little by the landing
door, but heard only indistinct murmurs, and feared to loiter long,
lest she should be caught in the act by the parlourmaid Susan, who was
fleet of foot.
‘This is a very curious story,’ said Miss Glenlyne, when the door
had closed upon her companion; ‘I hardly know how to believe it. A
marriage between my nephew Henry and Félicie Dumarques! It seems hardly
credible.’
‘The record in the parish register proves it to be a fact
nevertheless,’ said Lucius quietly.
‘So Mr. Pullman tells me. Félicie left me to go to Rouen, she said,
summoned home by illness in her family. And now it seems she stole away
to marry my nephew. She must have been an artful treacherous girl.’
Lucille rose hastily from her seat near Miss Glenlyne. ‘You forget,
Miss Glenlyne, that she was my mother,’ she said firmly; ‘I cannot stay
to hear her condemned.’
‘Nonsense, child,’ cried the old lady, not unkindly; ‘sit down. The
truth must be told even if she was your mother. She treated me very
badly. I was so fond of that girl. She was the only person I ever had
about me who suited me thoroughly. She would have been amply provided
for after my death if she had stayed and been faithful to me. I never
treated her as a servant, or thought of her as a servant; indeed it
would have been difficult for any one to do so, for she had the
manners and instincts of a lady. Yet she deceived me, and left me with
a lie.’
‘Love is a powerful influence,’ said Lucille softly; ‘she was persuaded
to that wrong act by one she fondly loved, one for whom she willingly
sacrificed her own happiness, and who rewarded her at the last by
desertion.’
‘My nephew was always selfish,’ said Miss Glenlyne; ‘he was brought
up by a foolish mother, who taught him to count upon inheriting his
uncle’s money, and never taught him any higher duty than to seek his
own pleasure, so far as he could gratify himself without offending his
uncle. She taught him to flatter and tell lies before he could speak
plain. He was not altogether bad, and might have been a much better
man if he had been differently trained. Well, well, I daresay he was
most to blame throughout the business. I’ll say no more against poor
Félicie; only it was not kind of her to leave an invalid mistress who
had shown her a good deal of affection.’
‘Whatever error she committed she suffered deeply for it,’ said
Lucille. ‘The sin was chiefly another’s, but the sorrow was all hers.’
‘Ah, my dear, that’s the usual distribution between a man and a
woman,’ replied Miss Glenlyne, considerably softened by this time.
She turned and scrutinised Lucille’s candid countenance—took the pale
interesting face between her hands and held it near her.
‘Yes,’ she said at last, ‘you have Félicie’s eyes and Félicie’s mouth.
I can readily believe that you are her daughter. And pray, Mr. Davoren,
what is your interest in this young lady?’
‘We are engaged to be married,’ answered Lucius.
‘Indeed! Not in an underhand way, I hope, like Félicie and my nephew,
who must have been making love by some secret code before my very face,
when I hadn’t a suspicion of any such thing.’
‘We are engaged with the full consent of Lucille’s adopted father—her
only friend,’ answered Lucius.
‘I am glad of that. And what put it into your head to come to me?’
‘Because I thought you might be able to assist Lucille in establishing
her claim to any heritage to which she may be entitled.’
‘If she is the legitimate and only child of Henry Glenlyne, she is
entitled to a very fine estate, which is now enjoyed by a man my
brother never intended to benefit by it. He was doatingly fond of his
brother’s son Henry; and although the young man disappointed him in
many things, that love was never seriously diminished. He left Henry
the bulk of his fortune, with reversion to any child or children that
might be born to him. He knew that I had an income more than enough for
my wants, so he left almost all to his nephew. Spalding Glenlyne’s name
was put in at the suggestion of Mr. Pullman, but it was never supposed
that he would inherit the estate.’
Once set going, Miss Glenlyne was quite willing to relate all she could
remember about her brother Reginald, her nephew Henry, and Félicie
Dumarques. She spoke of the Spalding Glenlynes with rancour, and
declared her readiness to assist Lucille, so far as lay in her power,
in the assertion of her claim to the Glenlyne estate, which consisted
of various lands and tenements in Norfolk, and though yielding the
usual low rate of interest, produced between three and four thousand a
year.
Before taking her chicken-broth, Miss Glenlyne ordered an impromptu
dinner of mutton-chops to be prepared for her visitors, and, when
Lucius mentioned his sister Janet as a reason for declining this
proffered hospitality, insisted that he should go instantly and
fetch that young lady. Lucius dutifully obeyed, and while he was gone
Miss Glenlyne opened her heart more and more to Lucille, moved by the
recollection of that gentle girl who had ministered to her frivolous
and innumerable wants with such unwearying solicitude.
‘It makes me feel twenty years younger to have you with me,’ said the
old lady. ‘I like young faces and pretty looks and gentle manners.
Spilling, my maid, whom you saw just now, is good and devoted, but she
is elderly and uncultivated and not pleasant to look at. She knows I
like quiet, of course, at my age and with my weak health. I have had
bad health all my life, my dear; quiet is essential. But Spilling is
over-anxious on this point, and keeps every one away from me. I am
shut up in this drawing-room like a jewel that is kept in cotton-wool
and never taken out to be worn. Spilling is extremely attentive—never
lets my fire get low, or forgets the correct time for my beef-tea and
chicken-broth. But I feel the solitude depressing sometimes. A little
youthful society, a little music, would be quite cheering. You play and
sing now, I daresay?’
‘Very little, though I am fond of music,’ answered Lucille; ‘but Janet,
Mr. Davoren’s sister, sings beautifully.’
‘I should like to hear her. Félicie used to sing to me of an evening,
while I sat in the dusk to save my poor eyes, such pretty simple French
_chansons_. How I wish you could come here and stay, with me!’
‘You are very kind to think of it, Miss Glenlyne,’ answered Lucille,
thinking what a curious life it would be with this old lady, who seemed
half a century older than the energetic unconquerable Homer Sivewright,
‘but I’m afraid I couldn’t leave my grandfather.’
‘Your grandfather?’
‘He is not really my grandfather, though I believed that he was till
very lately; but he has been good to me and brought me up. I owe him
everything.’
Miss Glenlyne questioned Lucille a good deal about her past life, its
early years and so on, and seemed warmly interested. She was not an old
lady who poured out her spare affections upon more or less deserving
members of the animal kingdom, and she had been of late years almost
cut off from communion with humanity. Her heart opened unawares to
receive Lucille.
‘If you are my nephew’s daughter, it stands to reason that I am your
great-aunt,’ she said; ‘and I shall expect you to pay me some duty. You
must come to stay with me as soon as this adopted grandfather is well
enough to do without you.’
‘Dear Miss Glenlyne, I shall be most happy to come. I am more glad than
I can tell you to find some one who is really related to me.’
‘Don’t call me Miss Glenlyne, then, but Aunt Glenlyne,’ said the old
lady authoritatively.
Miss Spilling felt as if she could have fallen to the ground in a swoon
when she came into the drawing-room five minutes afterwards and heard
the strange young person call her mistress ‘Aunt Glenlyne.’
‘How you stare, Spilling!’ cried the old lady. ‘This young lady is my
grandniece, Miss Lucille Glenlyne.’
After this Spilling stared with almost apoplectic intensity of gaze.
‘Lor, Miss Glenlyne, that must be one of your jokes,’ she exclaimed.
‘You wouldn’t call one of the Spalding Glenlynes your niece, and I know
you’ve no other.’
‘I never make jokes,’ answered her mistress with dignity; ‘and I beg
that you will show Miss Lucille Glenlyne all possible respect, now, and
on every other occasion. I have ordered a hurried dinner to be prepared
for Miss Lucille and her friends, who, I am sorry to say, have to
return to London this evening. They will dine in the back drawing-room,
so that I may take my own simple meal with them.’
Miss Spilling felt as if the universe had suddenly begun to crumble
around her. Her hold upon that sense of identity which sustains mankind
amidst the mysteries of an unexplainable world seemed to waver. Dinner
ordered and without prior consultation with her—a new era of waste and
rioting set in while her back was turned! She fumbled in an ancient
beaded reticule, produced a green glass bottle of weak salts, and
sniffed vehemently.
‘Sit down, and be quiet, Spilling,’ said Miss Glenlyne. ‘I daresay you
and my niece will get on very well together. And her arrival won’t make
any difference in what I intended to do for you.’
‘What I intended to do,’ sounded vague. Miss Spilling had hoped the
intention was long ago set down in black and white—made as much a
fact as it could be before Miss Glenlyne’s decease. She gave another
sniff at her salts-bottle, and sat down, meek but not hopeful. This
liking for youthful faces was one of her employer’s weaknesses, against
which she had brought to bear all the art she knew. For fifteen years
she had contrived to keep pleasant people and youthful faces for the
most part outside any house occupied by Miss Glenlyne. That lady
had descended the vale of years in company with pilgrims almost as
travel-worn and as near the end of the journey as herself: no reflected
light from the countenances of younger travellers had been permitted
to shine upon her. Kensal-green and Doctors’-commons—all images that
symbolise approaching death—had been kept rigorously before her. Youth
had been represented to her as the period of deceit and ingratitude.
If any young person, by some fortuitous means, did ever penetrate her
seclusion, Miss Spilling immediately discovered that young person
to be a viper in disguise—a reptile which would warm itself at Miss
Glenlyne’s hearth, only to sting its benefactress. And Miss Glenlyne,
always uncomfortably conscious that she had money to bequeath, and that
humanity is sometimes mercenary, had discarded one acquaintance after
another, at the counsel of Miss Spilling, until she found herself in
extreme old age with no companionship save the somewhat doleful society
of her counsellor.
It was wonderful how brisk and light the old lady became in her niece’s
company. She made Lucille sit next her, and patted the girl’s hand with
her withered fingers, on which the rings rattled loosely, and asked her
all manner of questions about her childhood and her schooldays, her
accomplishments, her vague memory of mother and father.
‘I’ve a portrait of your father in the dining-room,’ she said; ‘you
shall go down and look at it by and by.’
Lucius returned with Janet, whom Miss Glenlyne welcomed with much
cordiality, evidently struck by the beauty of that noble face which
had beguiled Geoffrey Hossack into that not-uncommon folly called love
at first sight. The little dinner in the back drawing-room was a most
cheerful banquet, in spite of Miss Spilling, who presided grimly over
the dish of chops, and looked the daggers which she dared not use. Miss
Glenlyne even called for a bottle of champagne, whereupon Miss Spilling
reluctantly withdrew to fetch that wine from the cellaret in the
dining-room. Unwelcome as was the task, she was glad of the opportunity
to retire, that she might vent her grief and indignation in a series of
sniffs, groans, and snorts, which seemed to afford her burdened spirit
some relief.
After dinner Miss Glenlyne asked Janet to sing, and they all sat in the
firelight listening to those old Italian airs which seem so full of the
memory of youth; and warmed by these familiar melodies—rich and strong
as old wine—Miss Glenlyne discoursed of her girlhood and the singers
she had heard at His Majesty’s Theatre.
‘I have heard Pasta, my dear, and Catalani, and I remember Malibran’s
_début_. Ah, those were grand days for opera! You have no such singers
nowadays,’ said Miss Glenlyne, with the placid conviction which is
sustained by ignorance.
‘You ought to hear some of our modern singers, Miss Glenlyne,’ replied
Lucius; ‘all the great people come to Brighton to sing nowadays.’
‘I never go out except for an hour in my bath-chair, and I am sure you
have no one like Pasta. Your sister has a lovely voice, Mr. Davoren,
and a charming style, quite the old school. She reminds me of Kitty
Stephens. But as to your having any opera-singer like those I heard in
my youth, I can’t believe it.’
When the time drew near for her guests to depart, Miss Glenlyne grew
quite melancholy.
‘You have cheered me up so, my dear,’ she said to Lucille. ‘I can’t
bear to lose you so quickly. I never took such a fancy to any one—since
I lost your mother,’ she added in a whisper.
‘Lor, Miss Glenlyne,’ exclaimed Miss Spilling, unable to command her
indignation, ‘you’re always taking fancies to people.’
‘And you’re always trying to set me against them,’ answered her
mistress; ‘but this young lady is my own flesh and blood—I’m not going
to be turned against her.’
‘I’m sure I’ve always spoken from a sense of duty, Miss Glenlyne.’
‘I suppose you have. But it is your duty to respect my niece. I am an
old woman, Mr. Davoren, and I don’t often ask favours,’ continued Miss
Glenlyne, appealing to Lucius. ‘I think you ought to indulge my fancy,
if you can possibly do so without injury to any one else.’
‘What is your fancy, Miss Glenlyne?’
‘I want Lucille to stay with me a little while—till we have learnt to
know each other quite well. I am the only near relation she has, and my
time cannot be very long now. If she doesn’t gratify her old aunt on
this occasion, she may never have the opportunity again. Who can tell
how soon I may be called away?’
This from one who was between seventy and eighty was a forcible appeal.
Lucius looked at Lucille with an interrogative glance.
‘I should like very much to stay,’ said Lucille, answering the
mute question, ‘if you think grandpapa would not be offended or
inconvenienced.’
‘I think I could explain everything to Mr. Sivewright, and that he
could hardly object to your stopping here for a few days,’ replied
Lucius.
‘Then she shall stay!’ exclaimed Miss Glenlyne, delighted. ‘Spilling,
tell Mary to get a room ready for Miss Lucille—the room opening out of
mine.’
Spilling, with a visage gloomy as Cassandra’s, retired to obey. It
was nearly the time for Janet and Lucius to depart, in order to catch
a convenient train for their return. Lucille wrote a little note to
Mrs. Milderson, asking for a small portmanteau of necessaries to be
sent to her; and then with a tender hand-pressure, and a kiss on the
landing outside the drawing-room, the lovers parted for a little while,
and Lucille was left alone with her great-aunt. It was a strangely
sudden business, yet there was something in the old lady’s clinging
affectionateness that attached the girl to her already. She seemed like
some one who had long pined for some creature to love, and who had
found her desire in Lucille.
Miss Spilling retired to the housekeeper’s room—a snug little apartment
in the basement—and sat with her feet on the fender, consuming buttered
toast and strong tea, and talking over this new state of affairs with
the cook, while Lucille and Miss Glenlyne had the drawing-room all to
themselves.
‘Do you really believe as how she is missus’s niece?’ asked the cook,
when she had heard Miss Spilling’s recital.
‘No more than you are, Martha,’ answered the indignant Spilling. ‘Only
she’s more artful than the common run of impostors, and she’s backed up
by that letter of Mr. Pullman’s. We all know what lawyers are, and that
_they’ll_ swear to anything.’
‘But what would Mr. Pullman gain by it, miss?’
‘Who knows? That’s his secret. There’s some plot hatching between ’em
all, and Mr. Pullman lends himself to it, and wants Miss Glenlyne to
leave her money to this young woman—and he’s to get half of it, I
daresay.’
‘Ah,’ said cook sententiously, ‘it’s a wicked world!’
And then Miss Spilling and the cook began to talk of Miss Glenlyne’s
will—a subject which they had worn threadbare long ago, but to which
they always returned with equal avidity.