old man!’ began Mary. ‘Then—oh! do you mean that he died too?’
‘Yes; he was ill before, and this was a fatal blow. It appears that he was aware that I was next in the succession, and after the boy’s death had desired the solicitor to write to me as heir-at-law.’
‘Heir-at-law! Frank, do you mean that you are—’ she said, turning pale.
‘Baron Northmoor,’ he answered, ‘and you, my patient Mary, will be the baroness as soon as may be.’
‘Oh, Frank!’—and there was a rush of tears—‘dear Frank, your hard work and cares are all over!’
‘I am not sure of that,’ he said gravely; ‘but, at least, this long waiting is over, and I can give you everything.’
‘But, oh!’ she cried, sobbing uncontrollably, with her face hidden in her handkerchief.
‘Mary, Mary! what does this mean? Don’t you understand? There’s nothing to hinder it now.’
She made a gesture as if to put him back from her, and struggled for utterance.
‘It is very dear, very good; but—but it can’t be now. You must not drag yourself down with me.’
‘That is just nonsense, Mary. You are far fitter for this than I am. You are the one joy in it to me.’
‘You think so now,’ she said, striving to hold herself back; ‘but you won’t by and by.’
‘Do you think me a mere boy to change so easily?’ said the new lord earnestly. ‘I look on this as a heavy burthen and very serious responsibility: but it is to you whom I look to sweeten it, help me through with it, and guard me from its temptations.’
‘If I could.’
‘Come, Mary, I am forced to go to London immediately, and then on to the funeral. I shall miss the train if I remain another minute. Don’t send me away with a sore heart. Tell me that your affection has not been worn out by these weary years.’
‘You cannot think so, Frank,’ she sobbed. ‘You know it has only grown. I only want to do what is best for you.’
‘Not another word,’ he said, with a fresh kiss. ‘That is all I want for the present.’
He was gone, while Mary crept up to her little attic, there to weep out her agitated, uncertain feelings.
‘Oh, he is so good! He deserves to be great. That I should be his first thought! Dear dear fellow! But I ought to give him up. I ought not to be a drag on him. It would not be fair on him. I can love him and watch him all the same; but oh, how dreary it will be to have no Sunday afternoons! Is this selfish? Is this worldly? Oh, help me to do right, and hold to what is best for him!’
And whenever poor Mary had any time to herself out of sight of curious eyes, she spent it in concocting a letter that went near to the breaking of her constant heart.
CHAPTER II
HONOURS REFLECTED
On the beach at Westhaven, beyond the town and harbour, stood a row of houses, each with a garden of tamarisk, thrift, and salt-loving flowers, frequented by lodgers in search of cheap sea breezes, and sometimes by families of yachting personages who liked to have their headquarters on shore.
Two girls were making their way to one of these. One was so tall though very slight, that in spite of the dark hair streaming in the wind, she looked more than her fifteen years, and her brilliant pink-and-white complexioned face confirmed the impression. Her sister, keeping as much as she could under her lee, was about twelve years old, much more childish as well as softer, smaller, with lighter colouring and blue eyes. Going round the end of the house, they entered by the back door, and turning into a little parlour, they threw off their hats and gloves. The younger one began to lay the table for dinner, while the elder, throwing herself down panting, called out—
‘Ma, here’s a letter from uncle. I’ll open it. I hope he’s not crusty about that horrid low millinery business.’
‘Yes, do,’ called back a voice across the tiled passage. ‘I’ve had no time. This girl has put me about so with Mrs. Leeson’s luncheon that I’ve not had a moment. Of all the sluts I’ve ever been plagued with, she’s the very worst, and so I tell her till I’m ready to drop. What is it then, Ida?’ as an inarticulate noise was heard.
‘Ma! ma! uncle is a lord!’ came back in a gasp.
‘What?’
‘Uncle’s a lord! Oh!’
‘Your uncle! That stick of a man! Don’t be putting your jokes on me, when I’m worrited to death!’ exclaimed Mrs. Morton, in fretful tones.
‘No joke. It’s true—Lord Northmoor.’ And this brought Mrs. Morton out of the kitchen in her apron and bib, with a knife in one hand and a bunch of parsley in the other. She was a handsome woman, in the same style as Ida, but her complexion had grown harder than accorded with the slightly sentimental air she assumed when she had time to pity herself.
‘It is! it is!’ persisted Ida, reading scraps from the letter; ‘“Title and estates devolve on me—family bereavements—elder line extinct.”‘
‘Give me the letter. Oh, you gave me such a turn!’ said Mrs. Morton, sinking into a chair.
‘What’s the row?’ said another voice, as a sturdy bright-eyed boy, between the ages of his sisters, came bouncing in. ‘I say, I want my grub—and be quick!’
‘Oh, Herbert, my dear boy,’ and his mother hugged him, ‘your uncle is a lord, and you’ll be one one of these days.’
‘I say, don’t lug a man’s head off. Who has been making a fool of you?’
‘Uncle Frank is Lord Northmoor,’ said Ida impressively.
‘I say, that’s a good one!’ and Herbert threw himself into a chair in fits of laughter.
‘It is quite true, Herbert,’ said his mother. ‘Here is the letter.’
A bell rang sharply.
‘Bless me! I shall not hear much more of that bell, I hope. Run up, Conny, and say Mrs. Leeson’s lunch will be up in a moment, but we were hindered by unexpected news,’ said Mrs. Morton, bustling into the kitchen. ‘Oh dear! one doesn’t know where one is.’
‘Let her ring,’ said Ida. ‘Send her off, bag and baggage! We’ve done with lodgings and milliners and telegraphs, and all that’s low. We shall all be lords and ladies, and ever so rich.’
‘Hold hard!’ said Herbert, who had got possession of the letter. ‘He doesn’t say so.’
‘He’ll be nasty and mean, I daresay,’ said Ida. ‘What does he say? I hadn’t time to see.’
Herbert read from the neat, formal, distinct writing: “I do not yet know what is in my power, nor what means I may be able to command; but I hope to make your position more comfortable and to give my nephew and nieces a really superior education. You had better, however, not take any steps till you hear from me again.” There, Ida, lots of schooling, that’s all.’
‘Nonsense, Bertie; he must—if he is a lord, what are we?’
Hunger postponed this great question for a little while; but dinner had been delayed till the afternoon school hour had passed, and indeed the young people agreed that they were far above going to their present teachers any more.
‘We must acquire a few accomplishments,’ said Ida. ‘Uncle never would afford me lessons on the piano—such a shame; but he can’t refuse me now. Dancing lessons, too, we will have; and then, oh, Conny! we will go to Court, and how they will admire us!’
At which Herbert burst out laughing loudly, and his mother rebuked him. ‘You will be a nobleman, Herbert, and your sisters a nobleman’s sisters.