Part 7 (1/2)
Elizabeth used Bristol brick, as she always had done.
”Ah, entirely out of date, Bristol brick. You must send for some of the preparation that William uses, John. Nothing like it. Something or other, it's called; somebody's--I can't remember now, but we will have it, never fear, dearest John. Shameful, for you to be subjected to dull knives _and_ tough poultry. What are these? Strawberries? Dear me! I did hope we could have raspberries this evening. One is so tired of strawberries by this time, don't you think so?”
”I am sorry,” said Mr. Montfort. ”The raspberries will be ripe in a day or two, Sophronia; Willis thought they would hardly do to pick to-day.”
”Oh, but I a.s.sure you, my dearest John, Willis is entirely wrong. I examined the bushes myself; I went quite through them, and found them quite--entirely ripe. That was just Willis's laziness, depend upon it.
These old servants” (Elizabeth had gone to get more cream, the lady having emptied the jug on her despised strawberries) ”are too lazy to be of much use. Depend upon it, John, you will know no peace until you get rid of them all, and start afresh; I am thinking very seriously about it, I a.s.sure you, my dear fellow. Yes, I have been longing for days for a plate of raspberries and cream. I have so little appet.i.te, that whenever I _can_ tempt it a little, the doctor says, I must not fail to do so. No more, dear, thank you! It is of no consequence, you know, really, not the least in the world; only, one can be of so much more use, when one keeps one's health. Ah, you remember what health I had as a child, John! You remember the dear old days here, when we were children together?”
”I remember them very well, Sophronia,” said Mr. Montfort, steadily.
”And speaking of that, I am expecting some young visitors here in a day or two.”
Cousin Sophronia looked up with a jerk; Margaret looked at her uncle in surprise; he sipped his tea tranquilly, and repeated: ”Some young visitors, yes. They will interest you, Sophronia, with your strong family feeling.”
”Who--who are they?” asked Miss Sophronia. ”Most ill-judged, I must say, to have children here just now; who did you say they were, John?”
”Cousin Anthony's children. They lost their mother some years ago, you remember; I fancy Anthony has had rather a hard time with them since.
Now he has to go out West for the rest of the summer, and I have asked them to come here.”
For once Miss Sophronia was speechless. After a moment's silence, Margaret ventured to say, timidly, ”How old are the children, Uncle John?”
”Really, my dear, I hardly know. Two boys and a girl, I believe. I don't even know their names; haven't seen their father for twenty years. Good fellow, Anthony; a little absent-minded and heedless, but a good fellow always. I was glad to be able to oblige him.”
Miss Sophronia recovered her speech.
”Really, my dear John,” she said, with an acrid smile; ”I had no idea you were such a philanthropist. If Fernley is to become an asylum for orphan relations--”
”Sophronia!” said Mr. Montfort.
His tone was quiet, but there was something in it that made the lady redden, and check herself instantly. Margaret wondered what would become of her, if her uncle should ever speak to her in that tone.
”I am sure I meant nothing!” said Miss Sophronia, bridling and rallying again. ”I am sure there was no allusion to our dearest Margaret. Absurd!
But these children are very different. Why, Anthony Montfort is your second cousin, John. I know every shade of relations.h.i.+p; it is impossible to deceive me in such matters, John.”
”I should not attempt it, my dear cousin,” said Mr. Montfort, quietly.
”Anthony _is_ my second cousin. I will go further to meet you, and admit boldly that these children are my second cousins once removed, and Margaret's third cousins. Where shall we put them, Margaret?”
”My dearest John,” cried Miss Sophronia, in her gayest tone, ”you are not to give it a thought! Is he, Margaret? No, my dear fellow! It is n.o.ble of you--Quixotic, I must think, but undeniably n.o.ble--to take in these poor little waifs; but you shall have no further thought about providing for them. Everything shall be arranged; I know the house from garret to cellar, remember. I will make every arrangement, dearest John, depend upon me!”
The evenings were not very gay at Fernley just now. Miss Sophronia could not keep awake while any one else read aloud; so she took matters into her own hands, and read herself, for an hour by the clock. Her voice was high and thin, and kept Mr. Montfort awake; she was apt to emphasise the wrong words, which made Margaret's soul cry out within her; and she stopped every few minutes to chew a cardamom seed with great deliberation. This simple action had the effect of making both her hearers extremely nervous, they could not have explained why. Also, she was afflicted with a sniff, which recurred at regular intervals, generally in the middle of a sentence. Altogether the reading was a chastened pleasure nowadays; and this particular evening it was certainly a relief when she declared, before the hour was quite over, that she was hoa.r.s.e, and must stop before the end of the chapter. On the whole, she thought it might be better for her to go to bed early, and take some warm drink. ”It would never do for me to be laid up, with these children coming to be seen after!” she declared. So she departed, and Margaret and her uncle sat down to a game of backgammon, and played slowly and peacefully, lingering over their moves as long as they pleased, and tasting the pleasure of having no one say that they should play this or that, ”of course!”
The game over, Mr. Montfort leaned back in his chair, with an air of content.
”This is pleasant!” he said, slowly. ”Margaret, my dear, this is very pleasant!” Margaret smiled at him, but made no reply. None was needed: the uncle and niece were so much alike in tastes and feelings, that they hardly needed speech, sometimes, to know each other's thoughts. Both were content to sit now silent, in the soft, cheerful candle-light, looking about on the books and pictures that they loved, and feeling the silence like a cordial.
Suddenly Mr. Montfort's air of cheerful meditation changed. He sat upright, and leaned slightly forward. He seemed to listen for something. Then suddenly, softly, he rose, and with silent step crossed the room and stood a moment beside the wall. It was a very different face that he turned to Margaret the next instant.
”My dear,” he said, ”there is some one in my study.”
”In your study, Uncle John? What do you mean? That is,--how can you tell, uncle?”
”Come here, and listen!” said her uncle. Margaret stole to his side, and listened, her head, like his, near the wall. She heard the crackling of paper; the sound of a drawer pulled softly out; the clank, m.u.f.fled, but unmistakable, of bra.s.s handles. What did it mean? She looked to her uncle for explanation. He shook his head and motioned her to be silent.