Part 17 (1/2)
”A coal-miner,” he explained briefly. ”He was honest and kind-hearted--and I took him for my example. He left me no heirlooms that--”
I turned away, looking at the room's furnis.h.i.+ngs with a feeling of reckless contempt.
”Heirlooms are--are a nuisance to keep dusted!” I declared quickly.
”Yet you evidently like them,” he said, as we took our places again before the fire, and the little maid, in her nervous haste, made an unnecessary number of trips in and out. The firelight was glowing ruddily over the silver things on the tea-table, and looking up, I caught his eyes resting upon the ring I wore--Guilford's scarab. ”That ring is likely an heirloom?”
”Yes--the story goes that Mariette himself found it,” I elucidated, slipping the priceless old bit of stone off my hand and handing it to him to examine.
But as I talked my head was buzzing, for grandfather was at one ear and Uncle Lancelot was at the other.
”Grace, you ought to tell him!” grandfather commanded sharply. ”Tell him this minute! Say to him: 'This ring is an heirloom in the family of my betrothed.'”
”_Rot_, parson!” came in Uncle Lancelot's dear comforting tones.
”Shall a young woman take it for granted that every man who admires the color of her eyes is interested in her entire history?--Why, it would be absolutely indelicate of Grace to tell this man that she's engaged. It's simply none of his business.”
”You'll see! You'll see!” grandfather warned--and my heart sank, for when a member of your family warns you that you'll see, the sad part of it is that you _will_ see.
”It's a royal scarab, isn't it?” Maitland Tait asked, turning the ancient beetle over and viewing the inscription on the flat side.
”Yes--perhaps--oh, I don't know, I'm sure,” I answered in a bewildered fas.h.i.+on. Then suddenly I demanded: ”But what else did Mrs. Walker tell you? Surely she didn't leave off with the mention of one ill.u.s.trious member of my family.”
”She told me about your great-aunt--the queer old lady who left James Christie's relics to you because you were the only member of the family who didn't keep a black bonnet in readiness for her funeral,”
he laughed, as he handed me back the ring.
”They were just a batch of letters,” I corrected, ”not any other relics.”
”Yes--the letters written by Lady Frances Webb,” he said.
It was my turn to laugh.
”I knew that Mrs. Walker must have been talkative,” I declared. ”She didn't tell you the latest touch of romance in connection with those letters, did she?”
He was looking into the fire, with an expression of deep thoughtfulness; and I studied his profile for a moment.
”Late romance?” he asked in a puzzled fas.h.i.+on, as he turned to me.
”A publis.h.i.+ng company has made me an offer to publish those letters!
To make them into a stunning 'best-seller,' with a miniature portrait of Lady Frances Webb, as frontispiece, I dare say, and the oftenest-divorced ill.u.s.trator in America to furnish pictures of Colmere Abbey, with the lovers mooning 'by Norman stone!'”
He was silent for a little while.
”No, she didn't tell me this,” he finally answered.
”Then it is because she doesn't know it!” I explained. ”You see, mother is still too grieved to mention the matter to any one by telephone--and it happens that she hasn't met Mrs. Walker face to face since the offer was made.”
”And--rejected?” he asked, with a little smile.