here in the schoolroom.”
Refreshments were not likely to be disdained at any hour, and many pairs of eyes gleamed. Miss Amelia arranged the procession into decorum, and then, with Sara at her side heading it, she led it away, leaving the Last Doll sitting upon a chair with the glories of her wardrobe scattered about her; dresses and coats hung upon chair backs, piles of lace-frilled petticoats lying upon their seats.
Becky, who was not expected to partake of refreshments, had the indiscretion to linger a moment to look at these beauties—it really was an indiscretion.
“Go back to your work, Becky,” Miss Amelia had said; but she had stopped to pick up reverently first a muff and then a coat, and while she stood looking at them adoringly, she heard Miss Minchin upon the threshold, and, being smitten with terror at the thought of being accused of taking liberties, she rashly darted under the table, which hid her by its tablecloth.
Miss Minchin came into the room, accompanied by a sharp-featured, dry little gentleman, who looked rather disturbed. Miss Minchin herself also looked rather disturbed, it must be admitted, and she gazed at the dry little gentleman with an irritated and puzzled expression.
She sat down with stiff dignity, and waved him to a chair.
“Pray, be seated, Mr. Barrow,” she said.
Mr. Barrow did not sit down at once. His attention seemed attracted by the Last Doll and the things which surrounded her. He settled his eyeglasses and looked at them in nervous disapproval. The Last Doll herself did not seem to mind this in the least. She merely sat upright and returned his gaze indifferently.
“A hundred pounds,” Mr. Barrow remarked succinctly. “All expensive material, and made at a Parisian modiste’s. He spent money lavishly enough, that young man.”
Miss Minchin felt offended. This seemed to be a disparagement of her best patron and was a liberty.
Even solicitors had no right to take liberties.
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Barrow,” she said stiffly. “I do not understand.”
“Birthday presents,” said Mr. Barrow in the same critical manner, “to a child eleven years old! Mad extravagance, I call it.”
Miss Minchin drew herself up still more rigidly.
“Captain Crewe is a man of fortune,” she said. “The diamond mines alone—”
Mr. Barrow wheeled round upon her. “Diamond mines!” he broke out. “There are none! Never were!”
Miss Minchin actually got up from her chair.
“What!” she cried. “What do you mean?”
“At any rate,” answered Mr. Barrow, quite snappishly, “it would have been much better if there never had been any.”
“Any diamond mines?” ejaculated Miss Minchin, catching at the back of a chair and feeling as if a splendid dream was fading away from her.
“Diamond mines spell ruin oftener than they spell wealth,” said Mr. Barrow. “When a man is in the hands of a very dear friend and is not a businessman himself, he had better steer clear of the dear friend’s diamond mines, or gold mines, or any other kind of mines dear friends want his money to put into. The late Captain Crewe—”
Here Miss Minchin stopped him with a gasp.
“The LATE Captain Crewe!” she cried out. “The LATE! You don’t come to tell me that Captain Crewe is—”
“He’s dead, ma’am,” Mr. Barrow answered with jerky brusqueness. “Died of jungle fever and business troubles combined. The jungle fever might not have killed him if he had not been driven mad by the business troubles, and the business troubles might not have put an end to him if the jungle fever had not assisted. Captain Crewe is dead!”
Miss Minchin dropped into her chair again. The words he had spoken filled her with alarm.
“What WERE his business troubles?” she said. “What WERE they?”
“Diamond mines,” answered Mr. Barrow, “and dear friends—and ruin.”
Miss Minchin lost her breath.
“Ruin!” she gasped out.
“Lost every penny. That young man had too much money. The dear friend was mad on the subject of the diamond mine. He put all his own money into it, and all Captain Crewe’s. Then the dear friend ran away—Captain Crewe was already stricken with fever when the news came. The shock was too much for him. He died delirious, raving about his little girl—and didn’t leave a penny.”
Now Miss Minchin understood, and never had she received such a blow in her life. Her show pupil, her show patron, swept away from the Select Seminary at one blow. She felt as if she had been outraged and robbed, and that Captain Crewe and Sara and Mr. Barrow were equally to blame.
“Do you mean to tell me,” she cried out, “that he left NOTHING! That Sara will have no fortune! That the child is a beggar! That she is left on my hands a little pauper instead of an heiress?”
Mr. Barrow was a shrewd businessman, and felt it as well to make his own freedom from responsibility quite clear without any delay.
“She is certainly left a beggar,” he replied. “And she is certainly left on your hands, ma’am—as she hasn’t a relation in the world that we know of.”
Miss Minchin started forward. She looked as if she was going to open the door and rush out of the room to stop the festivities going on joyfully and rather noisily that moment over the refreshments.
“It is monstrous!” she said. “She’s in my sitting room at this moment, dressed in silk gauze and lace petticoats, giving a party at my expense.”
“She’s giving it at your expense, madam, if she’s giving it,” said Mr. Barrow, calmly. “Barrow & Skipworth are not responsible for anything. There never was a cleaner sweep made of a man’s fortune. Captain Crewe died without paying OUR last bill—and it was a big one.”
Miss Minchin turned back from the door in increased indignation. This was worse than anyone could have dreamed of its being.
“That is what has happened to me!” she cried. “I was always so sure of his payments that I went to all sorts of ridiculous expenses for the child. I paid the bills for that ridiculous doll and her ridiculous fantastic wardrobe. The child was to have anything she wanted. She has a carriage and a pony and a maid, and I’ve paid for all of them since the last cheque came.”
Mr. Barrow evidently did not intend to remain to listen to the story of Miss Minchin’s grievances after he had made the position of his firm clear and related the mere dry facts. He did not feel any particular sympathy for irate keepers of boarding schools.
“You had better not pay for anything more, ma’am,” he remarked, “unless you want to make presents to the young lady. No one will remember you. She hasn’t a brass farthing to call her own.”
“But what am I to do?” demanded Miss Minchin, as if she felt it entirely his duty to make the matter right. “What am I to do?”
“There isn’t anything to do,” said Mr. Barrow, folding up his eyeglasses and slipping them into his pocket. “Captain Crewe is dead. The child is left a pauper. Nobody is responsible for her but you.”
“I am not responsible for her, and I refuse to be made responsible!”
Miss Minchin became quite white with rage.
Mr. Barrow turned to go.
“I have nothing to do with that, madam,” he said uninterestedly. “Barrow & Skipworth are not responsible. Very sorry the thing has happened, of course.”
“If you think she is to be foisted off on me, you are greatly mistaken,” Miss Minchin