Part 39 (1/2)

Lady Newhaven insisted on attending the funeral, a little boy in either hand. Rachel had implored that she would spare the children, knowing how annoyed their father would have been, but Lady Newhaven was obdurate.

”No,” she said. ”He may not have cared much about them, but that is no reason why they should forget he is their father.”

So Teddy and Pauly stared with round eyes at the crowd, and at the coffin, and the wealth of flowers, and the deep grave in which their old friend and play-fellow was laid. Perhaps they did not understand. They did not cry.

”They are like their father. They have not much heart,” Lady Newhaven said to Rachel.

d.i.c.k, who was at the funeral, looked at them, winking his hawk eyes a little, and afterwards he came back boldly to the silent house, and obtained leave to take them away for the afternoon. He brought them back towards bed-time, with a dancing doll he had made for them, and a man's face cut out of cork. They met Rachel and the governess in the garden on their return, and flew to them with their trophies.

d.i.c.k waited a moment after the others had gone in.

”It seems hard on him to have left it all,” he said. ”His wife and the little chaps, and his nice home and everything.”

Rachel could say nothing.

”He was very fond of the boys,” he went on. ”He would have done anything for them.”

”He did what he could,” said Rachel, almost inaudibly, and then added: ”He was very fond of you.”

”He was a good friend,” said d.i.c.k, his crooked mouth twitching a little, ”and a good enemy. That was why I liked him. He was hard to make a friend of or an enemy, but when he once did either he never let go.”

Rachel s.h.i.+vered. The frost was settling white upon the gra.s.s.

”I must go in,” she said, holding out her hand.

”Are you staying much longer?” said d.i.c.k, keeping it in his.

”I leave to-morrow morning very early.”

”You will be in London, perhaps.”

”I think so for the present.”

”May I come and see you?”

The expression of d.i.c.k's eyes was unmistakable. In the dusk he seemed all eyes and hands.

”Dear Mr. d.i.c.k, it's no use.”

”I like plain speaking,” said d.i.c.k. ”I can't think why it's considered such a luxury. You are quite right to say that, and I should be quite wrong if I did not say that I mean to keep on till you are actually married.”

He released her hand with difficulty. It was too dark to see his face.

She hesitated a moment, and then fled into the house.

It is a well-known fact that after the funeral the strictest etiquette permits, nay, encourages, certain slight relaxations on the part of the bereaved.

Lady Newhaven lay on the sofa in her morning-room in her long black draperies, her small hands folded. They were exquisite, little blue-veined hands. There were no rings on them except a wedding-ring.

Her maid, who had been living in an atmosphere of pleasurable excitement since Lord Newhaven's death, glanced with enthusiastic admiration at her mistress. Lady Newhaven was a fickle, inconsiderate mistress, but at this moment her behavior was perfect. She, Angelique, knew what her own part should be, and played it with effusion. She suffered no one to come into the room. She, who would never do a hand's turn for the English servants, put on coal with her own hands. She took the lamps from the footman at the door. Presently she brought in a little tray with food and wine, and softly besought ”Miladi” to eat. Perhaps the mistress and maid understood each other. Lady Newhaven impatiently shook her head, and Angelique wrung her hands. In the end Angelique prevailed.