Great-Uncle Humphrey's Will

16

Great-Uncle Humphrey’s Will

    “Of course I came as soon as I got your message, my dear Aden,” said Mrs Parker, “but I did not feel it necessary to bring the other girls: they have never met their Great-Uncle Humphrey. And Alfreda was most anxious to get home; so I have sent them on, as your good Tomkins was so obliging as to volunteer his escort in addition to your mamma’s men.”—Mrs Parker had brought only Henrietta. Mr Tarlington had, frankly, been too glad to see her to speculate why.—“And as Theo had just met us when your message came, he decided to come with us: his Vicar is a most understanding man, and I’m sure will raise no objections.”

    “No, of course not: particularly in such a case, ma’am,” agreed Mr Tarlington, smiling at her. And feeling more than something of a hypocrite: for he, Harley and Dr Fairbrother had privily agreed that Miss Pansy was right in declaring they must on no account divulge the story of the Claveringham girls’ flight to Mrs Parker.

    “How is the old man, Aden?”

    Mr Tarlington sighed. “I haven’t liked to say so in front of the Miss Ogilvies, Aunt, but it is clear to me he is fading fast. He is still quite coherent; but he has that look about him.”

    Mrs Parker nodded. “There is no mistaking it. Though I would not have thought— I beg your pardon, my dear boy: I did not in the least mean to pry.”

    He shrugged a little. “You are not prying, Aunt Venetia: I doubt if you would know how to! I have seen men die in battle, of course, but more especially linger on and die long enough after the battle. They become... I cannot explain it: the word ‘transparent’ springs to mind. I remember very distinctly my grandfather had the same look about him, before he died.”

    “Yes,” she said in a low voice, squeezing his arm. “Of course.”

    “Well, it is far too late tonight, but I will take you to his house the first thing tomorrow.”

    Mrs Parker nodded, and set down her teacup. Henry had been dispatched to bed: she and Mr Tarlington were having a private interview. “Of course. Aden, my dear: I wish you will tell me a little more about this Dr Fairbrother with whom the girls are staying.”

    Aden smiled a little. The Parkers were with him at the Mitre: they had not had this address, but Theo had simply checked at the best inn the place had to offer. “I think you will like him. There is no nonsense about him, though he is undeniably eccentric.”

    “I see. But is he a fit person for the three girls to be with?”

    Mr Tarlington rubbed his nose. “He is certainly old enough to be their father. And he’s actually got Fliss behaving like a normal human being: that must surely be a recommendation?”

    “You are too hard on that girl, Aden!” she protested with a smothered laugh.

    He smiled. “I was round there early yester morning, and Fliss was helping a grubby little boy with no front teeth to give the parrots their seed and water. And what is more, she was not bossing the boy unmercifully!”

    “That sounds most promising!” she said, frankly laughing, this time. “But how old is the boy? About five?”

    “Mm? Oh! No: I’d say he’s tennish. Wynn Fairbrother took him off a chimney-sweep. He’s a humanitarian, did I say? The lack of teeth is due to the sweep’s habit of hitting the boy in the face when he did not wish to get up the tall chimneys, ma’am.”

    Mrs Parker shuddered. “Dreadful! It is a practice of which Simeon disapproves so strongly! I shall look forward to meeting Dr Fairbrother, then.”

    Mr Tarlington had thought she might: mm. He rose, smiling, and saw her to her room.

    “Who is this fellow? Didn’t send for him,” grumbled Mr Humphrey Ogilvie, next morning. “Can’t abide young fellows.”

    “I’m your great-nephew Theo Parker, sir. I shall wait downstairs, in that case,” said Mr Parker, retiring.

    “That’s the fellow that’s a damned clergyman,” grumbled Mr Ogilvie. “Can’t abide clergyman, lawyers, nor damned doctors!”

    “Never mind, he’s gone,” said Pansy cheerfully.

    Mr Ogilvie squinted at her. “Don’t you go and marry a clergyman.”

    “Ugh! No!” she said, startled into expressing a genuine horror. “I couldn’t!”

    “Good,” he muttered, pleating feebly at his sheet. “Good.”

    “Ma’am, he’s gettin’ tired,” whispered Mrs Joy to Mrs Parker. Mrs Joy was the old man’s new housekeeper, and yet another relative of Mrs Mayes. It was not altogether apparent whether “Joy” was her Christian name or her surname but everyone was tactfully overlooking the point.

    Mrs Parker nodded. “Girls, I think we should let Uncle Humphrey get some rest,” she murmured.

    “That husband of yours didn’t come,” said the old man suddenly.

    “No: Simeon is not here, Uncle Humphrey,” she replied soothingly.

    “Good,” he said. “Good. Can’t abide clergymen.”

    Mrs Parker led the girls out, as his eyes slowly closed.

    “Oh, dear,” said Delphie, blowing her nose as they went downstairs. “He seems very weak.”

    Mrs Parker sighed. “I think he is just holding on until his purpose be accomplished, my dear.”

    “What is it?” asked Pansy.

    “I have no notion, my love. And I think we must not expect it to be a rational one, at this point.”

    “I see,” she said heavily.

    Mrs Parker looked at her doubtfully. “Pansy, my dear, surely you do not begrudge the old man a visit?”

    “I wouldn’t, if he would but appear pleased to see us. Or at the least satisfied. Only he seems to dislike us as much as ever, Aunt Venetia!”

    “Mm. The imminence of death frequently does not change a person’s essential character, my dear child,” she said on a dry note, as they went into the shabby sitting-room.

    “An intelligent woman, our mutual aunt,” noted Mr Tarlington with a grin, laying aside a book and getting up.

    “She is not actually a relation of yours at all,” pointed out Pansy with some satisfaction.

    “Pansy, my dear, that will do,” said Mrs Parker briskly. “If you cannot behave like a grown-up young lady in these trying circumstances, then perhaps you had better run out into the garden, and spend a little time in the sun and fresh air.”

    Pansy went very red. “I would much rather be outside, anyway! Great-Uncle Humphrey has never liked me, and taking the stage cost us a considerable sum, and I was right in the first place to say we needn’t come!” She rushed outside.

    “I’m so sorry, Aunt Venetia,” faltered Delphie.

    “Nonsense, my dear: there is no need to apologize for her. She will be better once she has had a little air. I think possibly she is so grumpy because the old man’s continuing intransigeance has been a little shock to her. And also, of course, such a time cannot but recall the death of your dear papa to her.”

    Delphie nodded silently.

    “Well?” said Mr Tarlington, assisting his aunt to a sofa near the fire. Out of the corner of his eye he could see that Henry was seating herself on a chair rather removed from the rest of the group.

    Mrs Parker swallowed a sigh. “It is as we thought, Aden.”

    “Mm. Did it appear that your arrival was what he was waiting on?”

    “No,” said Henry from her seat near the window.

    Mrs Parker hesitated. “On the whole I would say not, no. But then, if it is not that, what is it? He expressed no disappointment that I had not brought the other girls.”

    “And he dismissed me, as I said,” said Theo, smiling at Mr Tarlington.

    “Aye,” he said, rubbing his nose. “Oh, well, possibly it will all become clear. He desired us yesterday to send for his lawyer, as I think I mentioned, and the man will be here later today.”

    Mrs Parker nodded. “Delphie, my dear, has he made a will at all?”

    “I’ve no idea, Aunt Venetia.”

    “It would make it much simpler, if he has. But let me see... Well, besides ourselves there is only Cousin Maria and the old Scottish connections. And Uncle Humphrey quarrelled bitterly with Cousin Maria—nigh on forty years ago, I think!”

    Delphie looked puzzled. “I don’t recall Papa ever... No, wait: is there a McIntyre in the case?”

    “Aunt Eliza McIntyre: yes. She is not truly an aunt. Second cousins of Uncle Humphrey’s, I think they must be. There are three of them: we do correspond, but have not visited since Alfreda was a very little girl. They are all very elderly, now: Aunt Eliza McIntyre, Uncle Fergus Ogilvie and Aunt McDonald. They all live together: the two ladies are childless widows and the old brother never married. Cousin Maria looks after them all.”

    “So Cousin Maria ain’t one of their offspring, ma’am?” asked Mr Tarlington, intrigued by the intricacies of it.

    “Oh, no. She is one of the Oxford Ogilvies. My own cousin; but her papa and mamma died many years ago. And her brother was a soldier, and was killed in battle when I was a little girl. I remember the family was all in mourning, and my brother Quentin said it was a meaningless ritual, and Mamma became very upset!”

    “Oh, dear, that sounds like Papa!” admitted Delphie.

    “So, that’s the last of the Ogilvies, eh?” said Mr Tarlington thoughtfully.

    “Yes. It will be highly unfair if he does not leave everything to Delphie and Pansy, but then, he has always been an eccentric old fellow, and l think we must be prepared for anything.”

    “Yes: we had come to that conclusion, had we not, Miss Ogilvie?” he said.

    Delphie nodded, quite matter-of-factly, Mrs Parker was glad to see.

    “Though I am afraid young Pansy may be a little bitter if her sister receives nothing,” added Mr Tarlington.

    “She—she is very partisan,” murmured Delphie, blushing.

    “You could say so!” he said with a laugh.

    Mrs Parker glanced from one to the other, but decided there was nothing in it. And nor, though he seemed amused by her, did Aden appear to affect Pansy. So perhaps Alfreda’s hint, what seemed a very long time back, now, that their Cousin Aden seemed interested in Henry, and that she might be more interested in him than she as yet knew, might yet be proven correct? “Henry, my love, come and sit nearer the fire,” she said.

    “It is a very mild day, Mamma. I am quite warm enough,” replied Henry.

    Mr Tarlington looked at her uncertainly. “Would you care for a stroll in the garden, Cousin Henrietta?”

    “Say, rather, jungle!” said Henry with a smile. “Well, I should, but I think Pansy is sulking in it.”

    He smiled. “Then we might go through the back jungle and onto the river path.”

    “Yes, off you, go my love,” said Mrs Parker cheerfully. “That will give me the opportunity for a pleasant cose with Delphie!”

    Henry rose slowly. “Very well. If you think so, Mamma.”

    Mr Tarlington held the door open for her. “Your Great-Uncle is weak, but it is highly unlikely he will die in your absence,” he murmured.

    Henry flushed. “I was not thinking— And in any case he clearly does not care if I am here or not; or, I think, know who I am.”

    She was silent as they went through the jungle that had once been a kitchen garden and onto the tow-path. Mr Tarlington picked a pink rose from the tangle that sprawled over the wall and half over the gate, but then did not offer it to her: just twirled it absently between his fingers.

    After walking for some time without speaking Henry stopped, and said with a sigh: “The river is so peaceful.”

    “Yes,” he said, coming up very close to her elbow. “What is it? Have you never been close to a death before?”

    “It isn’t that. My Uncle Alfred, Dimity’s father, died not long since. We children scarcely knew him, however. But then, I don’t know Great-Uncle Humphrey, either. And we had a little brother who died: between Tim and Lucy. Though he lived only a few days, so it was not as if one knew him as a person. Mamma was very upset, it took her many months to get over it.”

    “Yes,” he said gently: “but this is not the same as the loss of a child. The old man is a good age.”

    “Mm. It isn’t the thought of death, Cousin Aden. It’s just that it seems so... ghoulish,” said Henry, swallowing hard, “for us to—to have come here.”

    Mr Tarlington did not smile. “I can see that it could appear in that light. But I think your mamma’s feeling that the old man’s estate should rightly come to the Miss Ogilvies is quite genuine.”

    “Yes.” Henry hesitated. “It is just... waiting for him to die,” she said in a low voice.

    Mr Tarlington put his hand lightly on her shoulder. “Yes. Death is so brutally practical an event.”

    Henry looked up at him with a startled expression. “Why, yes! That is precisely it.”

    “My older brother was killed at Waterloo,” he said abruptly.

    “I know,” said Henry hoarsely. “I’m very sorry, Cousin.”

    Mr Tarlington did not reply.

    “You must miss him,” said Henry timidly, not sure if was better or worse to insist. Though he himself had brought the subject up: would he have done so if he did not wish it to be spoken of?

    “Yes. He was a very good fellow,” he said with a sigh. “We had little in common, really, save our profession. Vernon never claimed to have a brain in his head, but he had... a generous spirit. Does that sound ridiculous?”

    “No.”

    He sighed again. “I miss him for his own sake. And then, I— Well, it is hard to explain. It is not merely that I resented very much being pitchforked into the position of the eldest son of the house, the which I will not scruple to say to you, Cousin Henrietta, I did.”—Henry looked up at him doubtfully: he was frowning, staring at the placid river.—“I…” His voice trailed off: he stared blankly at the river.

    “What?” said Henry in a timid little voice.

    “Even when we were widely separated by the demands of our profession, there was always the feeling that he was there to rely upon. Perhaps all younger brothers feel that; I don’t know.”

    Henry thought about it. “I see. I had never thought about it before. But yes, that is the sort of feeling I have about Alfreda. It would be dreadful to lose her,” she said hoarsely.

    “Yes.”

    They both stared at the river without speaking.

    Henry was about to thank him for telling her all that, when Mr Tarlington came to, noticing with a start that he had pulled the rose to pieces, and said lamely: “What a fool: I meant to give this flower to you.”

    “There were plenty,” replied Henry feebly. Oh, dear, she had left it too late, and he would think... Well, that she had not truly understood his feelings or that she was just a dim, schoolgirlish Miss, or—or both!

    “Mm. Shall we walk on a little, Cousin?”

    They walked on, and at his suggestion sat down on a bench. Henry looked at him uncertainly.

    “I wish to tell you something,” he said, wrinkling his nose a little, “but as I need to preface it with the warning that you should on no account repeat it to your mamma, I’m wondering whether I ought to, after all!”

    “Oh,” said Henry in a tiny voice.

    Quite unexpectedly, Henry had found her feelings in a turmoil at seeing Cousin Aden again. Her mother had whirled her away from London so fast that she had not had any time to think about leaving, and at first she had been simply glad to be getting away from the city and going home. But by the morning of her second day on the road she had become conscious of a strange sensation of desolation. Mamma had not said anything about her and Dimity possibly joining Lady Tarlington and Fliss in Brighton, later in the summer. And although Lady Tarlington had once suggested the Parkers might care to join her family for Christmas at Aden’s place in the country, there had been no further mention of the scheme. And of course Chipping Abbas was a long way from their obscure little Devon village and the Parkers had no money for unnecessary journeys across England. So it would be very nearly a whole year before she would see him again.

    When Tomkins had appeared with the message that Mrs Parker was asked for in Oxford and Alfreda had said quietly that if Mamma did not need her, she would much prefer to continue on home to Lower Beighnham, Henry could have screamed at her. She had volunteered hoarsely to accompany Mamma. Mrs Parker had given her a sharp look, which Henry had noticed with a sinking feeling, but to her surprize had agreed she would be glad of her company. In the post-chaise Henry had waited in shrinking silence for Mamma to remark on the oddness of her decision to her accompany her, or to say something pointed about Cousin Aden, but to her tremendous relief, her mother had refrained. Which was as well, because of course she would have had to tell her it was no such thing, she did not think of him in that way at all, it was merely that he had become a—a friend, to whom she could talk!

    When they had actually met again she had flushed up very much and been unable to say anything more than: “How do you do, Cousin?” in a tiny voice which had sounded in her own ears as pathetically Missish. Her emotions had been so disturbed that she had not perceived that Aden had also flushed up and been incapable of uttering anything very much.

    Now her heart hammered in her breast and she clasped her hands very tightly together and said: “Go on.” Though that was undoubtedly not a ladylike thing to say in the circumstances.

    “Well...” said Aden slowly. He took a deep breath. “You know the Claveringham sisters, I think?”

    Henry went chalk-white: all that she could think was that he must have offered for one of them. She did not stop to wonder why he would be telling her this. Her whole being seemed to be an anguished cry of “NO!” She looked at him with her eyes quite  blank.

    “What is it?” he said in horror, putting a hand over her clenched ones.

    “Nothing. Go on,” said Henry in a voice she did not recognize as her own.

    “You have not heard any rumours, have you? Nothing of what—er—what Lord Hubbel might be up to?”

    She looked at him dazedly.

    “No, how could you, on the road to Devon!” he said with a little laugh. “What is it, then? Do you not feel well?”

    “I am quite well. Go on,” said Henry grimly.

    “Er…” He looked at her doubtfully. “As you know, Fliss and I escorted your cousins here. We had set out rather late, and so broke our journey at an inn, where we encountered Lady Jane and Lady Sarah.” Rapidly he told her of the ladies’ fugue and his decision to help them.

    At the end of his narrative, Henry said in what was scarce more than a whisper: “Is that all?’

    “Er—more or less, yes.” She had not laughed at his report of the double masquerade or of Pansy and Fliss enduring the rigours of Blefford Park’s gilded chapel. Aden frowned. “Are you feeling quite the thing, my dear?”

    Henry went very red. ‘You should not be calling that.” She gulped. “Are you going to marry one of those ladies?”

    “What?” he said in astonishment.

    Henry went redder than ever. “It would complete the rescue. And the Claveringhams are a terribly good family, and—um—I dare say your mother would be very pleased.”

    “At having Lady Hubbel for a relation?” said Aden with a loud laugh.

    “Don’t be silly,” returned Henry stiffly.

    “I’m sorry. But I was so taken aback, I— Well, it is true that Dr Fairbrother suggested Harley take one of ’em off our hands in that fashion!”

    “Which?”

    “Er—either.” He looked at her doubtfully. Henry was chewing her lip, glaring at her hands in her lap. “Henry,” said Aden with the beginnings of a laugh in his voice, as it dawned on him why she had reacted as she had: “you cannot seriously have thought I would wish to marry one of the Claveringhams, surely?”

    Henry got up. “Why not, it would be suitable.”

    He rose and put his hand gently under her elbow. “I shall not marry where I cannot love. I thought I had made that clear to you, when I spoke to you of poor dear Christian’s disastrous marriage?”

    “No.” She swallowed. “I did not get that impression, at all events.”

    “No,” he said slowly. “Perhaps I thought it—but thought it so strongly, you know, that—that afterwards I felt I had told you. I’m sorry: does that sound quite absurd?”

    “No, I sometimes get mixed up like that, too,” said Henry, not looking at him.

    “Mm. –Come along, we had best go back,” he said, turning her gently in the direction of her great-uncle’s house.

    Henry looked about her in a bewildered fashion. “Oh! Yes.”

    Aden left his hand under her elbow as they walked slowly along. After a little Henry tried stealthily to remove her arm from his grasp. Aden looked at her sideways and tightened his grip. He could not see very much of her face because of her bonnet but he saw the curve of her cheek redden. He smiled a little, though at the same time his blood was pounding in his veins.

    At Great-Uncle Humphrey’s broken-down back gate Henry took a deep breath and said firmly: “Do you seriously intend sending the ladies down the river, Cousin?”

    “Mm? Oh!” Mr Tarlington began picking roses. “At this stage, it seems a definite possibility, yes. And you do promise not to breathe a word of the scheme to Aunt Parker, don’t you?”

    “Yes, of course. –It sounds great fun. I wish I might go.”

    “It would be quite ineligible,” he said firmly. “I could not permit it.”

    “I was not precisely asking you!” retorted Henry with spirit.

    “No, but you see, somehow or another, and I confess I cannot see how, I seem to have been appointed—er—commander-in-chief of the expedition,” he said, shrugging a little.

    Henry replied seriously: “Of course you can see how. It is because you are fitted for command, and have the habit of it.”

    “Um—well, possibly,” he said weakly.

    “Mr Quayle-Sturt struck me as a pleasant gentleman, but I would say that he would defer to you, in such a situation,” said Henry thoughtfully, narrowing her eyes.

    “Uh—well, he was my junior officer in the regiment!” he said with an awkward laugh.

    “Not only because of that.”

    “Well, since you are in no doubt that I have charge of this dashed enterprise, you may also be in no doubt,” said Mr Tarlington, rallying somewhat, “that I shall never permit you to be part of it!”

    “That is truly unjust and ungenerous,” said Henry through her teeth.

    “It is ungenerous of you to say so,” he said steadily, ceasing to pick the roses. He looked her firmly in the eye.

    After a moment Henrietta, who was very pink, said: “I beg your pardon. Of course you are quite right. It would not be suitable. –Shall you go?” she added on a wistful note.

    “No. I must escort Fliss back to London.”

    Henry’s chief reaction to this reply was overwhelming relief that he would not be alone on a riverboat for a considerable period of time with the well-born and extremely suitable Ladies Jane and Sarah Claveringham. “Oh,” she said weakly.

    “And besides, a commander-in-chief, you know, who risks himself with his troops, though generally considered to be brave, is generally considered also to be foolhardy and irresponsible,” drawled Mr Tarlington, arranging the roses in his fist in a becoming array. “For if we were all captured, who would arrange a rescue?”

    “Very true. Though I cannot see how you could possibly be captured: it is such a mad scheme that no-one would suspect it. Oh dear, I wish I could come!” cried Henry unaffectedly, envisaging it.

    Mr Tarlington did not reprove her again. He smiled and said: “I wish you could, too. But one has certain responsibilities to oneself and to others.”

    “Yes, of course,” said Henry, smiling at him. “I sorry I was so rude and—and horrid and brattish, Cousin!”

    “You were not,” he said stiffly, bowing. “Here.”

    Henry took the roses numbly. “I thought they were for Great-Uncle Humphrey’s room.”

    “No.”

    She licked her lips and looked at the roses in a bewildered fashion.

    Mr Tarlington bent down and put his face very close to her bonnet. “Beware, Cousin Henrietta, I am on the verge of producing an acrostic on the subject of—”

    “I see!” cried Henry angrily. “It is a stupid jest and you think I—I— Well, you may take them back!” She thrust the roses at him.

    “No,” he said, going even redder than she was. “It wasn’t a jest, Henry: I’m sorry. I passed that frivolous remark because... I don’t know,” he ended lamely. “Please keep the roses.”

    Henry’s lips trembled and she found to her horror she was on the verge of tears.

    Aden scowled. “I would not for the world have upset you,” he said stiffly.

    She did not reply.

    “Shall you—shall you keep them, then?” he said in a voice that shook. “It—it was not a jest.” Henry did not reply or look up. “They—they are so pretty, I wished to give them to you,” he said lamely.

    Henry swallowed.

    “Do you believe me?”

    “Yes.”

    Mr Tarlington gripped the licheny old wooden gate very hard and said: “Cousin Henrietta, pray believe that I could conceive of nothing nearer to Paradise upon earth than journeying down the river with you. Without any damned Claveringhams in question!” he added, rather loudly.

    “Ssh!” said Henry on a strangled laugh, looking up at him. “You will give the game away!”

    Aden was pretty sure he already had. He looked down at her pink-flushed face and the roses that she was holding very near it, and at the tears that shone in her big dark blue eyes, and said with an effort: “I suppose we had best go in. Mrs Joy will have made us something to eat, I think.”

    “Oh! Yes!” gasped Henry.

    He took her arm gently and led her along the remains of a garden path.

    Later that day, as he and Theo attempted to stroll in the jungle that was Mr Humphrey Ogilvie’s front lawn, he found himself saying: “I wonder, would your mamma find it ineligible if I were to write to Cousin Henrietta of our doings this summer?”

    Concealing his astonishment, Theo replied: “Why, no. I am very sure you would not wish to write anything in the least improper! And Henry would very glad to have news of yourself and Fliss.”

    “Mm. Well, Fliss swears she will write regularly to Alfreda, but I’ve never known her to string as much as two words together voluntarily. Her letters from school used to read something like: ‘Dear Mamma and Papa and Everybody, Miss Blake says we have to write a letter this evening, the which is stupid as I shall see you all very soon. School is boring as ever. Miss Whosis has a pink bonnet that is finer than mine. Affectionately yours.’”

    Mr Parker laughed very much and owned with a twinkle in his eye: “I’m afraid Dimity’s weren’t much more enlightening! Henry, however, is an excellent correspondent, and the family would look forward most eagerly to her letters. I think you will enjoy her style, Cousin: she has a most observant eye, and quite an unique way of putting her observations.”

    Mr Tarlington’s hands clenched. “Will she write back, Theo, do you think?”

    Theo replied very gently: “Of course she will, if you write to her.”

    “Good,” he said hoarsely, licking his lips. “I don’t know that I’m much of a hand at letter-writing, meself, but I’ll give it a go!”

    “Splendid,” said Theo tranquilly. “I say, I had no idea the old man had let the place get to this state of rack and ruin. I used to visit occasionally, you know, when I was up at the university, though he disliked me even then, and would usually refuse to see me for more than a couple of minutes. He was miserly enough, then, but at least he would occasionally have this hayfield mown!”

    Mr Tarlington returned an appropriately light answer. But he was under no illusion: he had given himself away to Theo Parker completely. But he did not really mind: Theo was a thoroughly decent fellow.

    On his lawyer’s arriving later that day, Mr Ogilvie testily sent all his relatives from the room. After a little Mrs Joy came downstairs and with a bob to Mr Tarlington informed him that the old man wanted to see “that fellow as was with ’em” and she thought it must be he. Mr Tarlington swallowed a grin and accompanied her upstairs. After that nothing much happened except that Mrs Joy was dispatched to fetch Dr Fairbrother.

    The lawyer had been accompanied by a clerk but, Mr Ogilvie having informed them he could not abide young men, he had been sent to wait downstairs until he might be needed. It was not long before Mrs Parker was plying him with tea and some of Mrs Mayes’s excellent fruit-cake, and not long after that before she was asking him tactfully if the old man had so far made a will.

    “Aye, he did, ma’am, only then he sends to Mr Rudd to say as he wants it all tore up. Mr Rudd were not half disturbed, acos it were a perfectly good will, and then if a man dies intestate, what is what we calls it in the law when he leaves no will, there might be all sorts of complications. So he comes round to see him with the will, only Mr Ogilvie flies into a rage and chucks it onto the fire. Six months agone and more, that were, if I remember rightly.”

    “As recently as that?” she said limply.

    “He must have destroyed it when he sent us the five thousand guineas, and personally I think that is fair enough,” said Pansy.

    “No, ’t’weren’t that, Miss,” he said, going scarlet to the tips of his large, protruding ears.

    “It must have been.”

    “No: Mr Rudd said the old man had a letter from Scotland what sent him proper up in the boughs. Only he won’t tell him what it says, not no-how.”

    The Parkers and Ogilvies looked at one another with wild surmise.

    “And—er—he did not make a new will, at that stage, Mr Spraggs?” murmured Mrs Parker, handing the cake again.

    “No, ma’am. –Thank you kindly, ma’am. This be not half a tasty bite! At the office we don’t never get a bite in the afternoon, for Mr Rudd he will have it that if it ain’t noses to the grindstone, the work don’t get done. Only Mr Quirke, what is our head clerk, he maintains as a cup of somethin’ hot will make the work go all the easier, in especial if it be a chilly afternoon.”

    “So who wins, Mr Spraggs?” asked Pansy eagerly.

    Mr Spraggs gulped, coughed and thumped himself on the chest. “It be what we calls a compromise, Miss!” he gasped.

    “Have a sip of tea, Mr Spraggs,” murmured Delphie.

    Mr Spraggs siphoned up tea. “Beggin’ your pardon, ladies and sir, I’m sure. Yes: a compromise, Miss! That be what we calls in the law—”

    “Yes, I know what a compromise is, Mr Spraggs,” agreed Pansy, “but what in this instance is your compromise?”

    “In the warmer weather a pot of tea is made for all us clerks, and in the winter Mrs Quirke, she is allowed to bring us a cup of soup. Only we is not allowed actual food, Miss, like not even a bun nor nothin’.”

    “I see. I think that represents a victory for Mr Quirke, then, more than a compromise!” she said, laughing.

    Mr Spraggs grinned. “Yes, but it won’t do for Mr Rudd to get that idea into his head, Miss!”

    Mr Parker chuckled, and said: “You will perceive, my dear Cousin Pansy, that as in most offices, or so I am led to believe, it is really the head clerk who rules the roost!”

    Mr Spraggs at this laughed so much he choked and had to siphon tea into his gullet again to recover himself.

    Henry had not spoken or even smiled very much throughout this interchange: her mother looked at her with a tiny smile. She had not been shown the roses but she had looked in upon Henry in her room on her daughter’s return from her stroll and had seen them there on the dressing-table. She had asked idly if Henry had picked them and Henry had flushed up and returned gruffly: “No.” Mrs Parker had not asked any more, but she could see that something must have happened between the pair on their walk, and was very glad of it. And not displeased, either, to find that Henry was growing up at last!

    Dr Fairbrother and Mr Tarlington now having been closeted with the old man for some considerable time, Mr Spraggs was sent for. He hurried upstairs, but was down again pretty soon with a disappointed look on his knobby, youthful face.

    “It were only witnessin’,” he reported glumly. “Mr Rudd, he writ it all out himself. A beautiful hand he do have for a dockermint, too. –That is like a paper, Miss,” he said helpfully to Pansy. “Only a dockermint is what we calls it in the law.”

    “I see,” she said weakly.

    “In the office, of course, we has many types of dockermint, wills is not the only ones. Why, there be dockermints for things as would surprize you, Miss!”

    It was by now glaringly plain to the company that the knobby-faced Mr Spraggs had fallen violently for Pansy’s brown curls, pink cheeks and great dark eyes. Certain of those present looked at him with amused sympathy.

    Mr Tarlington had followed the clerk downstairs. He sank into a chair with a sigh, and took a large piece of cake. “Do tell us what other dockermints you deal with,” he urged. Not with amused sympathy, or anything like it.

    Mr Spraggs gave him a doubtful look, but said: “Well, there be affydavits, out of course, sir. They be a special dockermint as we has in the law, for a swearing.”

    “Ah,” returned Mr Tarlington. –Mr Parker here bit his lip and went to stare fixedly out of the window.

    “And—er—deeds, I suppose?” ventured Mrs Parker kindly.

    “Deeds! Why, ma’am, there be Deeds of This, and Deeds of That, and Deeds of The Other, in the law! We has that many Deeds I could not count ’em! And I could not begin to tell you even all the sorts, lessen you was to mention a Deed in partickler!”

    “Deeds of Settlement?” suggested Mr Tarlington.

    “Ah! Yes, indeed, sir!”—Mr Tarlington eyed him somewhat wildly as this came out of his mouth but fortunately Mr Spraggs was so fired up with enthusiasm for his subject that he did not notice.—“We certainly has them, and if you think it an ordinary thing that a gent may make a Deed of Settlement upon his marriage, well, I can tell you that ain’t the half of it! No, not the quarter!”—He did not perceive, in his enthusiasm, that a slight flush had now mounted to Mr Tarlington’s dark cheekbones, but Mrs Parker most certainly did. And also that her daughter had blushed brightly and was staring fixedly into her own lap.—“Why, we had a gent t’other day as does not half well in a certain line of trade in the town, and he has seventeen grandchildren. And so we has to draw up seventeen Deeds, one for each of them children. And six of ’em be growed, and they gets a Deed of Settlement each; but the others, they be only little ’uns, and so we has to draw up a Deed of Trust for each of them! And a tidy sum he puts away for ’em, when they be growed, too! For a Deed of Trust, Miss,” he said, suddenly focussing on Pansy again, “is what we calls it in the law when the money be put away, like in trust, you see, until the person be of age.”

    “I see. Where is the money actually kept, Mr Spraggs?”

    The company presumed that this innocent enquiry would entirely throw Mr Spraggs; but not so: “Well, some we has in our great safe, Miss, only often the gent do have it in his bank, only he cannot touch it not no-how within the law. Acos it be in trust, you see.”

    “I see,” she said weakly.

    Certain of those present could not but conclude that she had asked for it.

    Dr Fairbrother came down soon after that, and accepted the remains of the cake. “Well, it’s done,” he said, shaking his head.

    “It’s all right, Dr Fairbrother, we were not really expecting anything,” said Pansy quickly.

    “Eh? Oh. Not that,” he replied, frowning. “Um, can’t discuss it, Pansy.”

    “No, of course,” said Delphie. “How is he, dear sir?”

    “Weaker: I’ve sent for the doctor,” he said, making a face. “The old boy’s taken against him, of course, but— Oh, well. I doubt if he can do any good, if he does consent to see him.”

    “Would he see me, sir?” asked Theo, chewing on his lip.

    “In your capacity as man of the cloth? Doubt it, my boy. Loathes clergymen even more than he does young men in general. Which makes it even odder... Oh, well,” he said, rubbing his face vigorously. “Rudd tells me it’s watertight enough. And we persuaded him in the end to leave out the piece of spite relating to the Scotch cousins.”

    “What have they done, sir?” gasped Mrs Parker. “They are the mildest people!”

    “Mm. Well, that’s apparently it. Seems that—uh—a Maria Ogilvie, that right? Yes,” he said, nodding, as she murmured an affirmative: “I vaguely remember Quentin went up to Edinburgh and had a flaming row with her. Gone over to the Knoxites, had she? Oh, well, never mind,” he said as Mrs Parker looked bewildered.

    “I think it was a matter of the Covenant,” murmured Pansy.

    “Yes, well, never mind. Thing is, she seems to have her heart in the right place and wrote to say she could come and look after him—having found the old people a trustworthy servant that could keep an eye on ’em, y’see. Old Humphrey assumed they were after his fortune and flew into a rage over it. Cut the lot of ’em out forthwith.”

    “Cut out dear Cousin Maria because she was kind to him?” cried Mrs Parker: “I never heard of such a thing!”

    “I did,” said Pansy calmly. “It is the sort of thing Great-Uncle Humphrey does. He despises soft persons.”

    “Pansy!” she cried.

    “I’m sorry, Aunt Venetia: it’s his own phrase.”

    “Yes, I’m afraid it is,” agreed Delphie.

    “Mm.” Dr Fairbrother scratched his chin. “There is the added complication that he also despises wealth. At least, he is convinced that it’s put on earth to—uh—beckon us all to our ruin.”

    “‘Entice’,” said Mr Tarlington sepulchrally from the depths of his armchair.

    “Uh—yes. Thanks, Aden. Entice.”

    “And he generously does not wish to entice Cousin Maria to her ruin?” cried Mrs Parker indignantly. –Though out of the corner of her eye she had seen that Henry had looked at Aden as he spoke, and smiled, and then blushed and looked quickly away again. And she did not feel any indignation on that score.

    “Somethin’ like that,” Dr Fairbrother agreed. “Aden and Rudd and I are agreed he’s not precisely logical about it, but he is rational. –That will be the doctor, now,” he said as there was a knock at the front door, “and if the old man will consent to see him, I dare say he might confirm he’s rational. –You saw it, did you not?” he suddenly added to Mr Spraggs.

    “Yessir! The old gent be all there, right enough!” he gasped.

    “See?” said Dr Fairbrother unemotionally, making to rise.

    “Don’t get up, sir, I’ll get it,” said Theo, going out.

    Dr Fairbrother relaxed into his chair. “Don’t think it will be long, now. Seemed to be just holding out to sign the will,” he said to Mrs Parker.

    “I see.”

    “May not want to see you again, y’know,” he warned.

    “No,” she said with a sigh. “Poor old man. I quite understand, sir.”

    “Doubt you do. Don’t think I do. –Do you, Aden?”

    “I understand that a man’s feelings towards both his relatives and a substantial fortune may be considerably ambivalent: yes.”

    Henry looked at him quickly and smiled tremulously. Mr Tarlington’s eyes met hers: he made a rueful grimace. Henry smiled again, blushed brightly, and did not know where to look.

    For more than one reason Mrs Parker had to swallow hard. She waited until Theo had taken the doctor upstairs before saying: “Is it a substantial fortune, then, Aden?”

    “Lor’, yes, ma’am!” cried Mr Spraggs in astonishment before Mr Tarlington could speak. “Pots, the old gent has in his bank! And boxes and boxes with us, too!”

    “Boxes of what?” asked Pansy in genuine curiosity.

    Mr Spraggs gave her a kindly but superior look. “Well, each estate, which is what we call them in the law, Miss,”—a desperate look here came over Mr Tarlington’s features but the knobby-faced clerk did not perceive it—“has its box, you see. And the richer the estate be, the more boxes it do have. An estate what has nothing very much will not have but the one box. But an elderly gent like your great-uncle, Miss, he will have boxes and boxes, all with his name on ’em!”

    “Oh,” said Pansy feebly.

    Mr Tarlington rose hurriedly. “Come for a stroll in the sun, Cousin Pansy: it’s lovely at this time of day.” He grasped her elbow and hurried her outside before she could utter.

    “My godfather!” he said, once they were out in the jungle. “Why did you set him off again?”

    Pansy gulped. “I wasn’t teasing. I thought— Well, it couldn’t be money, could it? That wouldn’t be sensible. So what would be in the boxes, Mr Tarlington?”

    “Deeds!” said Mr Tarlington wildly. “Dockermints and Deeds! And give him two seconds more and he would have told us, by God!”

    “Oh,” said Pansy sheepishly. “Well, at least you were spared the worst of it.”

    Mr Tarlington took her elbow again and guided her onto the bumpy but relatively clear area that had once been the front drive. He sighed. “’Tis a lovely evening.”

    “Mm. What has he put in the will, Cousin Aden?”

    “I suppose I oughtn’t to say. You’ll know soon enough.”

    “Yes,” she agreed, making a face.

    “Ah,” he said as they reached the gates: “here’s Harley. He’ll look after you: I think I had best get back to Aunt Parker.”

    The innocent Pansy did not realise that Mr Tarlington meant, rather, that on the one hand he wished to get back to Henry’s vicinity and that on the other he had never been one to play dog-in-the-manger, and agreed sunnily to this proposal.

    Aden Tarlington retreated to the house with somewhat of a wry look on his lean countenance. Had Miss Pansy even noticed that Harley was alive, or would the poor fellow be due for something of what he himself had gone through, these past months, with Henrietta? Well, patience no doubt was a virtue. But thank God, she appeared to have woken up at last to the fact that she was a woman, and he a man who admired her, and—well! He went inside smiling a little and unaffectedly drew up a chair very close beside Henrietta’s. He was not unaware that Mrs Parker beamed upon this action or that his beloved reddened and looked as if she wished to sink through Great-Uncle Humphrey’s faded carpet: regrettably, this conjunction of facts caused him to smile even more.

    Mr Quayle-Sturt, oddly, had evinced no displeasure at being informed he could stroll with Miss Pansy in Uncle Humphrey’s front jungle. He asked politely after Mr Ogilvie and Pansy reported what she knew, and warned him about Mr Spraggs.

    “I’m not sorry I’ve missed the juxtaposition of him and Aden!” he said with feeling.

    “I don’t think Mr Tarlington is the sort of man to suffer fools gladly.”

    “Or at all! I hope he didn’t wither the poor fellow?”

    “No. –I see,” said Pansy slowly. “I thought he was impatient with him.”

    “Oh?” said Harley with some foreboding.

    She laughed suddenly. “He got up very quickly and more or less dragged me out here, sir, and I thought it was merely because he could not stand another instant of Mr Spraggs’s company, but it was because he could not trust himself another minute in the same room with him!”

    “Very like,” he said, grinning.

    “It showed more consideration than I would said he was capable of,” said Pansy thoughtfully.

    Mr Quayle-Sturt gave her a sharp look but merely murmured: “He’s not a bad fellow.”

    “No. And he has been wonderful over supporting the Claveringham ladies. Have you had any news of them, sir?”

    “Yes,” he said, grinning. “A note came for me not long since. I felt sure Aden would wish to be apprised of it.”

    “What did it say?”

    Mr Quayle-Sturt laughed. “It wasn’t entirely what it said, Miss Pansy: it was the manner of its delivery! I have it here: do read it.” He produced a neatly folded, but very creased sheet of paper.

    Pansy endeavoured to smooth it without result, and read:

Dear Sir,

    Just a quick note to apprise you that all is well here. Our friends have been set to useful household tasks and not only carry them out with amazing docility, but are also beginning to get the roses back in their cheeks, especially the elder. My M. has taken a great shine to that person, and is feeding the same up on goat’s milk and goat’s cheese, the which I rather think that person has never had to endure before, only is too polite to refuse!

    The bearer will tell you the destination of the gift he brings. We thought it best not to go direct.

Sincerely yours,

G.

    “Fascinating, ain’t it?” said Mr Quayle Sturt, grinning

    “It certainly is! I collect ‘G.’ is the person who is sheltering the ladies? And it must be Lady Jane who is being fed on the goat’s milk and cheese: well, good, they are nourishing. But as to who he may be, and who or what his ‘M.’ may be, and—well, he is a master of deception, sir, for even knowing the full story I have not a clue about him or his place of residence!”

    “The presence of a nanny-goat might be a clue.”

    “True. But there must be more than one nanny-goat in Oxfordshire.”

    “I think he will have thought of that: yes!” he choked.

    “And what was the gift the bearer brought? And its destination?”

    “Well, that,” said Mr Quayle-Sturt, tucking her hand in his arm and observing to his great pleasure that Miss Pansy blushed at the move, “is by far the most fascinating part of the tale. The bearer was a person whose appearance could only be described as louche. He had what I would calculate was a fortnight’s growth of beard,”—he rubbed his own smooth chin thoughtfully: Pansy gave him a startled look, rather as if, Mr Quayle-Sturt was not wholly dismayed to see, it had just suddenly dawned that he was also of the male sex—“his breeches were, I think, old buckskin, tied below the knee but then—er—flapping free in the fashion of some of the country people, his shirt was of very rough homespun and of a colour that was not discernible,”—Pansy swallowed—“and his waistcoat appeared to consist entirely of the cured skins of small furry animals.”

    “Moleskin?” she gulped.

    “Not the fustian kind, but home-cured moleskin, perhaps. He did have a coat, but I think it had originally been made for someone else: it was very large on him, and probably once green, and very skirted but also very—er—fringed as to the skirt. He had favoured the George Inn by the wearing of it, but took it off when they showed him into the parlour—the which they were most reluctant to do, I may add—remarking that it was uncommon warm. Oh: he had boots, but no stockings.”

    “Did he have a hat?” she asked eagerly.

    “No: he had a thatch. Of indefinable colour. And gloves with the ends of the fingers out of them, which he retained, in spite of the warmth of the day.”

    Pansy grinned. “That’s very graphic, sir! And the gift?”

    “For Wynn Fairbrother. It was wrapped in a large piece of sacking and sandwiched between two boards: indeed, at first I thought it was only a parcel of wood.”

    “And?”

    “Three large trout. I took them straight round to his house; trembling, I might add, in my boots.”

    “Poached!” said Pansy with a crow of laughter. “And by the sounds of it the bearer was the poacher himself! How perfect! I only hope Mrs Mayes may serve them up to my Aunt Venetia!”

    “I think she will, if your aunt intends to return there to dine.”

    “Great-Uncle Humphrey won’t see any of us, so I expect she will.”

    This proved indeed the case: the doctor advising that the old man was like to linger on for perhaps a few days, the party adjourned to Dr Fairbrother’s house.

    Mrs Parker was loud in praise of the beautiful fish, which were of the size suitable to baking in the oven with bay leaves, onion and a little wine to flavour them, the which Mrs Mayes had done; and Mrs Mayes beamed in gratification. Pansy ate her portion up looking positively angelic, so if anyone had been in doubt as to whether the trout had been come by legally, they need not have been any longer.

    Mrs Joy had made beds up in the old man’s house for the Parkers and the Miss Ogilvies; and in the evening they returned there. Mr Quayle-Sturt volunteered eagerly to escort them, even although with Theo in their party they really did not need an escort at all—the more so as he knew Oxford rather well, and Harley Quayle Sturt did not. Mr Tarlington, who was deep in a volume of Dr Fairbrother’s, did not dispute the honour with him, though he gave him a wry glance, and he went off looking very pleased with himself.

    After a moment Fliss said: “Goodness!”

    “Would you rather come back to the hotel with me, just for tonight?” murmured her brother, not looking up.

    “No, of course not! Jacky and I have determined to go out early tomorrow—just into the garden,” she added hurriedly, as her brother looked up with the beginnings of annoyed astonishment on his face—“and pick some special flowering grasses for the pets.”

    “They ain’t pets,” he said with a grin.

    Dr Fairbrother gave a warning cough.

    “Uh—well, good: glad to see you have found a reason for rising before noon. What were you on about, then?”

    “What? Oh! Um—don’t you think Mr Quayle-Sturt seemed very eager to accompany them, Aden?”

    “Mm.”

    “Aden!”

    “Look,” he said with a frown: “if he is falling for young Pansy, just leave him to it, all right? I think she’s too immature to pay him much notice as yet, but at least she’s bright enough for him, which is more than can be said for the score of dim damsels he’s paid half-hearted court to these last ten years or so.”

    “Ye-es... But Aden, she has nothing,” she quavered.

    He frowned.

    “Half of five thousand guineas,” Dr Fairbrother reminded them.

    “Mrs Quayle-Sturt will not count that!” cried Fliss.

    “That’s true,” said her brother, pulling an awful face. “I wouldn’t refine too much on it, Fliss. Harley is his own master. And knows his own mind, what’s more.”

    “Yes, I suppose it is only the two younger brothers that Mrs Quayle-Sturt bosses around,” she said happily. –Dr Fairbrother grinned to himself.

    “Mm.”

    “Only...” said Fliss slowly.

    “What?” groaned her brother.

    “Imagine having Mrs Quayle-Sturt for a mamma-in-law!”

    “Uh—by God,” he said in a shaken voice. “You have a point.”

    Fliss nodded her buttery curls vigorously. Dr Fairbrother was in wheezing agony.

    “Mind you, Pansy’s a strong-minded little character,” said Mr Tarlington.

    “Aden, one would have to be more than strong-minded to stand up to that woman!”

    Dr Fairbrother blew his nose vigorously and entered into the conversation officially. “Well. Pansy is. Only this dame’s a dragon, is she?”—The Tarlingtons nodded.—“Hm. Let’s hope something turns up to sweeten the pill, then.”

    Fliss was crying loudly: “What could, pray?” and so did not notice that the zoologist and her brother exchanged meaning glances at this point.

    Old Mr Ogilvie lingered on over that night and the next day, now very much weaker and scarcely talking at all, and died quietly in the very early hours of the morning of the day following. Delphie and Mrs Parker were able to comfort themselves with the thought that they had been at his bedside at the last.

    Pansy had also been there, but she was not able to comfort herself with the fact. She did not delude herself that Henry shared the feelings of their relatives, but as Mrs Parker was keeping her close by her side was unable to have private speech with her; and so fell back upon Mr Quayle-Sturt.

    “I am persuaded he had not the slightest notion that any of us was there!” she said crossly as they strolled in the garden on the day of the funeral.

    “Very likely not,” agreed Harley tranquilly. “That is not the point, however.”

    “Yes, it is! For Aunt Venetia said—”

    Mr Quayle-Sturt had tucked her arm in his. At this he put his free hand over her hand and squeezed it gently. “No. The point is that your aunt and your sister are comforted by the belief that their presence gave the old man some comfort at the last.”

    After a moment Pansy swallowed. “I see. Yes. You mean it is the living who count, not the dead? Papa always maintained that.”

    “I think certainly it is the living with whom we must be concerned: yes.”

    “Yes,” said Pansy, looking at him gratefully. “I think so, too. Delphie thought we should go into mourning when Papa died, though he himself did not wish it and in fact had asked us not to. He said if we wished to show we remembered him, we should rather wear bright red! But it is as you said, sir: thinking of the living rather than the dead; for when Papa had gone I couldn’t see that wearing black would do him in the least harm, and it seemed to matter a lot to Delphie, so I did it.”

    “I see,” he said gently. “Was he ill for long, Miss Pansy?”

    Pansy sighed. “Not really. He was quite old. He was a lot older than Aunt Venetia: there were several brothers and sisters between them who died in infancy. It was his heart, sir. He had had a fever in childhood which often leaves the heart weak. Though he had lived a very vigorous life, never regarding it. But the doctor told us there had been to his knowledge at least one other attack, the last time Papa was in South America, which Papa had concealed from us. He had one attack, and was put to bed, and although the doctor said there was a hope of recovery in such cases, Papa himself never thought so, and—and in the two weeks before his second and fatal attack talked to us a lot, and, I suppose, prepared us for being without him.”

    “I see. I envy you: my papa died when I was away with the Army.”

    Pansy looked at him with sympathy but did not know what to say.

    “Then I sold out, because— Well, there was the property, and someone had to look to my brothers and sisters.”

    “Yes. And to your mamma?”

    “Er—yes. Though she is a very capable woman.”

    Pansy nodded innocently. Mr Quayle-Sturt experienced a strong desire to complain of his mother to her but, though he did not think that Miss Pansy would be shocked, it would not have been at all the thing; and so he held his peace.

    Pansy looked round old Mr Ogilvie’s overgrown garden without seeing it and sighed. “I must admit that I couldn’t tell whether Delphie desired us to go into mourning as a mark of respect for Papa’s memory, or merely to keep persons like Mrs Bridlington from gossiping.”

    “I think that is immaterial,” said Harley, squeezing her hand gently again. “What must count, is that she wished it.”

    “Yes. –Thank you for taking it seriously,” she said abruptly, reddening. “Because I am only seventeen most people treat me like an idiot child!”

    “Mm. Though Wynn Fairbrother does not.”

    “He will not always be serious, however.”

    “No, so I have noticed. He does it with everybody, however, not just with you. I think,” said Harley, wrinkling his brow over it, “that it is his way of preventing people, even those of whom he is very fond, of becoming too close.” He looked at her a trifle anxiously, afraid she would not like to hear this.

    But Pansy only nodded and said: “Yes, I’d decided that. It can be irritating, but for my part, I find I can accept it as just a part of his essential character. I don’t much like people in general, either, so I can sympathize with his preferring animals.”

    Mr Quayle-Sturt nodded. “But there are some people of whom you are very fond, doubtless?”

    Pansy looked dubious and finally said: “Two, I suppose. Well, I am also very fond of Ratia Bellinger and Matt Dawson—that is our maid, and the boy who helps in the garden and crews for me. But now that Papa is gone—”

    “Of course: you feel closest to your sister, and to Dr Fairbrother,” he said kindly.

    Pansy pulled her hand out of his arm, scowling. “No! You are patronising me, just like all the rest!”

    “No—truly!” he stuttered. “I had assumed— Well, you seem very fond of him.”

    “Have we not just said,” said Pansy fiercely, “that he is the sort of person who does not allow other human beings to get very close to him?”

    “Er—yes, but—”

    “I meant Delphie and Commander Carey,” said Pansy crossly, marching away from him towards the house. “Come on, I mean to go to this funeral,” she said over her shoulder.

    Mr Quayle-Sturt’s mamma would not have approved of a very young lady’s attending a funeral, and it had been plain to Harley, though he was not at all sure if it was to Pansy herself, that Mrs Parker would prefer the girls not to come to the actual graveside. However, he said nothing: merely ran to catch her up.

    Mrs Parker looked askance at Pansy mounting into the carriage with an huge bunch of meadow flowers and grasses, but said nothing. At the graveside Pansy tossed the bunch into the grave, with a defiant look on her face. Mrs Parker was somewhat comforted by the Vicar’s saying to her afterwards: “I remember when I was a very young man that old Mr Ogilvie was often to be seen wandering the meadows and riverbanks, picking wild grasses. He had something of a botanical collection, I believe.”

    “I see,” she said limply.

    “It was his hobby,” agreed Pansy. “But when his legs went he couldn’t indulge it any more. It made him very bitter.”

    To Mrs Parker’s great relief the Vicar did not attempt anything platitudinous along the lines of these things being sent to try us, but just nodded sympathetically.

    Whether or no such things were sent to try, Mrs Bridlington’s visit of condolence that afternoon was most certainly a trial. The more especially as she attempted to pry out of Mrs Parker, imprimis, whether she was staying in the house because it had been left to her, and secundus, whether the Miss Ogilvies were to inherit the old man’s supposed fortune.

    “She is like that,” said Delphie on a grim note as the large lady sailed off to her carriage. “I can only regret Dr Fairbrother had the drive cleared.”

    “Indeed,” said Mrs Parker weakly. “But—but it was kind of her to solicit Lady Naseby’s interest on your behalf, my dears.”

    “Yes,” said Delphie hurriedly. “Of course it was.”

    Pansy got up, looking cross. “I’m going for a walk. I can’t breathe.”

    “Pansy! No!” gasped Delphie. “Not by yourself!”

    Pansy paused at the door, looking disconcerted. “Oh, I’d forgotten. Um—if I just go down to the back of the garden and walk along the river— No, very well. Just in the garden, then,” she said glumly.

    “Perhaps if I come, too,” suggested Henry uncertainly.

    Theo rose, smiling, saying that it would be his pleasure to accompany the girls for a walk along the river, and he fancied he could introduce Cousin Pansy to a little nooky place that in spring had the loveliest primroses in all of the county. Pansy replied with a laugh that she knew every nooky place along the river, and ran to get her bonnet.

    “I’m very glad to see she is beginning to learn how a young lady should go on,” said the innocent Mrs Parker happily to Delphie as the front door was heard to close behind the trio.

    Poor Delphie was, of course, aware that Pansy, far from thinking of the conventions, was merely wary of being cornered by Lord Hubbel’s men. She winced. “Yes,” she said faintly.

    Mrs Parker perceived that Delphie was tired by the strain of it all, and mentally congratulated herself on having insisted on putting off the reading of the will until the morrow. She had been working on a little crocheted spencer for Lucy but of course had not produced the work during Mrs Bridlington’s visit. She got it out now, spread a silk handkerchief over her black gown to protect it, and began to show Delphie the pattern. Delphie was capable of plain sewing but had almost no other hand-skills, having been brought up between her papa and Briggs, and once Mrs Parker discovered that her niece would like to learn, there was no stopping her.

    When Lord Harpingdon appeared in Mr Tarlington’s company some twenty minutes later, Mr Tarlington at least was most entertained to notice that Mrs Parker’s face expressed the strangest mixture of emotions: she was quite evidently torn between gratification at his Lordship’s calling to express condolences, and renewed hopes for Alfreda, on the one hand, and on the other, a strong desire to get on with the crochet lesson!

    Mr Rudd gave a little cough. “I fancy you will not be surprized to learn, Mrs Parker, that the provisions of Mr Humphrey Ogilvie’s will are a trifle unusual.”

    “Er—indeed,” said Mrs Parker weakly, wishing he’d get on with it. And that he had not brought the knobby-faced Mr Spraggs, for the clerk was sitting bolt upright on a little hard chair with his bony knees rather far apart, staring fixedly at Pansy with what Mrs Parker could only characterize as a goopy expression on his face.

    “Just get on with it, there’s a good fellow,” drawled Mr Tarlington.

    The will began with the appointing of Mr Rudd and Mr Tarlington as executors—Mr Spraggs here looked hopefully at Pansy but she did not ask for clarification—and continued with the smaller bequests. Mrs Joy received twenty pounds for coming to look after the old man. Few of those present were in much doubt that it had not been his own idea, but Mrs Joy, looking very much like her name, gasped and went a bright peony hue and said it was nothing at all and all she had done was make him warm and comfy and tidy up the house a bit. As it was evident to the Miss Ogilvies and Dr Fairbrother that she had in fact scoured the house from top to toe, they smiled very warmly at her at this point.

    Then came bequests of one hundred guineas each to Mrs Parker and Cousin Maria Ogilvie, “to be spent on something frivolous.”

    “Oh! You made him put that in!” cried Pansy, beaming upon Dr Fairbrother.

    “What: the frivolous bit? No, that was his own idea.”

    “No: the mention of Cousin Maria!”

    “Yes, indeed,” said Mr Tarlington, smiling.

    “Dear Cousin Maria will be thrilled,” said Mrs Parker, blowing her nose. “But as to frivolous—!”

    “I dare swear, Mrs Parker, that we might stretch a little point in the matter of the definition,” said Mr Rudd kindly. “Well, now we turn to the disposition of some of the—er—movables. I think I may summarize, here. His library goes to his old college, and his collections of botanical specimens to the Royal Society. His chiming watch he has left to Master Daniel Parker.”

    “Oh!” cried Mrs Parker, clasping her hands and beaming.

    “Who is not to receive it until he turns eighteen years of age,” said Mr Rudd on a severe note.

    “No, indeed! Why, I remember Uncle Humphrey’s watch from when I was a little girl!” cried Mrs Parker, very pink-cheeked. “It is the loveliest piece!”

    “A very fine mechanism,” approved Mr Rudd.

    “What about the mechanical canary?” asked Pansy eagerly.

    “That is the next paragraph, Miss Pansy.” Mr Rudd read out solemnly: “‘The mechanical whistling canary in a gilded cage which belonged to my late mother, Mrs Gloria Ogilvie, to Miss Lucy Gloria Parker.’”

    “Oh, my goodness,” said Mrs Parker weakly. “How sweet of him.”

    “Read the rest of that paragraph,” said Dr Fairbrother drily.

    Mr Rudd read out: “‘In the hope that she has no ear whatsoever.’” Henrietta choked; Mrs Parker swallowed.

    “I think it has become even janglier than you remember it, Aunt Venetia,” said Pansy helpfully. “But I’m sure Lucy will love it anyway: I did, when I was her age. --I’m sorry, Mr Rudd: pray go on.

    “The collection of large sea-shells to yourself, Miss Pansy.”

    “Oh: wonderful!” cried Pansy, very surprized.

    “The miniature of Mrs Gloria Ogilvie taken upon her marriage is to go to Miss Philadelphia Ogilvie, as also the pearls.”—Delphie pinkened and smiled.—“The set of pale sapphire earrings and brooch that were Mrs Gloria Ogilvie’s to Miss Alfreda Parker.”—Mrs Parker gasped, and smiled.—“The miniature of the late Mrs Gloria Ogilvie as a child to Miss Dimity Parker, and the coral necklace to Miss Henrietta Parker.”—Henry pinkened, the more so as her mother was nodding and smiling at her.—“That disposes of the last of the late Mrs Gloria Ogilvie’s personal jewellery, Mrs Parker. Now we come to the items of male jewellery: the gold watch which came to Mr Humphrey from his late brother Mr Henry Ogilvie, to Mr Theophilus Parker, as the eldest great-nephew.”—Mr Parker looked startled, but smiled; Pansy, who had thought his full name must be Theodore, looked very startled indeed, but then grinned to herself.—“The diamond cravat-pin to Mr Ludovic Parker. –I did try to represent to Mr Ogilvie—this was at the time of the drawing up of the previous will,” he explained to Mrs Parker on an apologetic note: “that the pin is very much in the style of the last century, and not such as a modern young man would be able to wear—”

    “Oh, no! Ludo will be so gratified to have it!” she protested. Henry gave her a doubtful look but she ignored it.

    Mr Rudd coughed. “Of course, madam. The final small bequests are as follows: the gold seal ring to Master Egbert Parker; to Master William Parker the French enamelled snuff-box, and to Master Timothy Parker the chased silver one;”—Henry was looking incredulous but Mrs Parker determinedly avoided her daughter’s eye—“and the antique cameo pin to Master Daniel Parker. The last is a very valuable piece, Mrs Parker, but the old gentleman was adamant it was to go to the little boy.”

    “Daniel will treasure it, sir,” she said, mopping her eyes.

    “Mamma, he will not even know what it is!” said Henry, very red.

    Her mother replied calmly: “When he is older, my dear. Is it not sweet? He has remembered all the children!”

    Dr Fairbrother smiled but said: “I fear the credit was not all his, Mrs Parker: Mr Rudd, here, had more than a hand in it.”

    Mr Rudd coughed. “I did no more than remind Mr Ogilvie that small individual bequests, in particular where children are concerned, must always strike a thoughtful note.”

    “Oh, indeed!” she said mistily.

    Mr Tarlington drew a deep breath. “And it’s just as well he did, Aunt, in view of what follows. I fear you may find some of it distressing.”

    “We did not expect a thing from him, poor dear old man!” she said, blowing her nose and stowing her handkerchief away. “Even though I wrote to him of all the children and their doings he never replied, you know! I shall not be at all disappointed, dear boy, rest assured.”

    Mr Tarlington looked somewhat desperately at the lawyer. “Can you skip the actual language?”

    Mr Rudd reddened. “It was Mr Ogilvie’s wish; as I think you must recall, sir, that—that this portion of the will be read verbatim.”

    “We understand,” said Theo gravely. “Pray continue, sir.”

    Mr Rudd took a deep breath. “The late Mr Ogilvie’s property was substantial. The real property comprises not only this house, but other properties in the town, from which he derived rent, and a fair-sized estate inherited from his late brother, consisting of a house and immediate grounds, and several farms.”

    “We assumed he had sold all of Uncle Henry’s property,” said Mrs Parker feebly.

    “So did we: he never mentioned it to us, did he, Delphie?” said Pansy.

    “I thought that might be the case, Miss Pansy,” agreed the lawyer. “The property has been let for many years, but is in very good condition, as are the farms. There are also very substantial moneys invested in the Funds, and certain London commercial properties which bring in considerable rental. As you of course know, Mr Ogilvie lived very frugally, which has certainly allowed interest to accumulate, but there was no need of his doing so: his income has for many years been in the region of thirty thousand pounds.”

    The company gaped at him.

   “That cannot be right!” gasped Mrs Parker. “Why, that is an immense fortune!”

    “Yes. Get on with it, Rudd,” said Mr Tarlington.

    The lawyer inclined his head and began to read out laboriously: “My real properties at Oxford in the county of Oxfordshire, consisting of...,” By the time he had passed “and the income deriving therefrom,” which took considerable time, and had got to: “together with the contents of the said house at Number 11...” the company was beginning to look somewhat glazed. Mr Ogilvie’s Oxford property was indeed extensive and so was the legal jargon needed to describe it.

    “—to my great-nephew Mr Theophilus Parker, son of my niece Venetia Parker née Ogilvie and of Mr Simeon Parker, incumbent of the Parish of Lower Beighnham, in the hope that the said Theophilus Parker will proceed to demonstrate that it is only the lure of a regular income for the performance of nothing very much which will persuade a man to take Holy Orders, and that the abandonment of such is generally accomplished as fast and with as little thought as the dropping of a hot coal.” Mr Rudd swallowed hard and looked very apologetically at the Parkers.

    “Sorry,” said Mr Tarlington simply. “At least he didn’t add any strings to it. –I collect the income derived from the property would be around ten thousand?” he said to Mr Rudd.

    “A little more, sir. Say twelve.”

    “Twelve thousand pounds a year,” said Mrs Parker numbly. “Theo, my love: it’s a fortune!”

    Theo was very flushed. He bit his lip.

    “Theo, it is an insult!” cried Henry hotly.

    “Hush, Henry,” said Mrs Parker firmly. “Theo, dearest, you cannot refuse it!” she urged. “Think of your brothers and sisters!”

    “Yes. I shall consult Papa,” he said in a stifled voice.

    “Of course, my love!”

    Mr Rudd coughed. “‘The residue of my estate, both real and personal, consisting of—’”

    “Is there more?” said Delphie in bewilderment.

    “Most certainly, Miss Ogilvie. All of the London properties, and the country estate.”

    “Oh: yes.”

    “Call it the residue, Mr Rudd,” said Dr Fairbrother, sighing.

    “Er... Yes. The residue is left to Miss Pansy Ogilvie. In trust until she comes of age, the trustees being myself and Dr Fairbrother. I am afraid I must read out the—er—rider, Miss Pansy.”

    “Yes,” said Pansy numbly.

    Swallowing, Mr Rudd read out: “‘...to my great-niece, Miss Pansy Ogilvie; with the note that as she is like to prove herself no more sensible than the rest of humanity in spite of early promise to the contrary, she shall have the wherewithal to attract the sort of venal fellow for a husband that fortune usually attracts, and go to perdition in the usual way with him.’”

    “What?” gasped Mrs Parker in horror.

    “Help!” gasped Henry.

    “We tried to stop him, Aunt,” said Mr Tarlington grimly.

    “Well, I don’t want it!” cried Pansy furiously. “And what about poor Delphie?”

    “We made him leave that bit out,” said Dr Fairbrother.

    “What bit?” she demanded.

    “Pansy, my love—” began her aunt.

    “What, Dr Fairbrother?”

    Dr Fairbrother made a face. “Something to the effect of not leaving any of his property to her, because the meek shall inherit the earth.”

    “I shall give you half, Delphie!” cried Pansy. “Can I do that, Mr Rudd?”

    “Er—not until you are of age, Miss Pansy. And as your trustees, Dr Fairbrother and I of course have a duty to advise you not to give away any of your inheritance.”

    “And if you marry before you come of age,” noted Dr Fairbrother, “your husband—this venal fortune-hunter the old fellow had in mind, y’know—will doubtless not permit you to give away a groat.”

    “I am very much afraid that that is precisely what Mr Ogilvie had in mind,” said Mr Rudd faintly.

    “Did he, indeed? Then I shall not marry before I am of age!” she said fiercely. “They cannot make me, can they, Aunt Venetia?”

    “Your—your trustees, my love? No, no, of course not. They are not your guardians, my dear.”

    “We’re only in charge of your worldly goods,” said Dr Fairbrother, making an awful face.

    “The property is all held in trust for you, Miss Pansy,” explained Mr Spraggs hoarsely.

    “Yes,” said Pansy, trying to smile at the clerk through angry tears. “I see.”

    “Have to go up to London, now—well, as soon as you’re out of mourning. Get tricked out in silks and laces and dance with greasy-pawed young dunderheads. The old fellow had that in mind, too,” said Dr Fairbrother sourly.

    “Fairly obviously,” said Henry, almost as sour.

    Mr Tarlington rose. “Doubtless. But I think we need not go into that. Thank you, Mr Rudd: this was in many ways a painful duty, and you have performed it with tact.” He held out his hand to him.

    Very surprized, the lawyer shook it, beaming gratification.

    Mr Tarlington then, though perhaps it was not his place to do so, strictly speaking, the house having become the property of Mr Theophilus Parker, showed him and his clerk out.

    Suddenly Pansy bounced up and rushed after them. “Mr Rudd, may I take the shells immediately?” she panted.

    “The—the— Oh! Er… I think there could be no objection,” he said weakly, feeling Mr Tarlington’s eye upon him. “They will need to be packed very carefully.”

    “Yes, of course. Mr Rudd, he knew I love the shells. Why did he leave me such a treasure on the one hand and curse me with the burden of fortune on the other?”

    Poor Mr Rudd could only quaver: “I know not, Miss Pansy. Believe me, I did my best to represent the desirability of at least dividing the property between yourself and Miss Philadelphia Ogilvie, but—”

    Mr Tarlington’s hand came down heavily on his thin shoulder. “Yes. Off you go, there’s a good fellow.”

    Mr Rudd bowed himself out, Mr Spraggs, in a rather more shambling manner, emulating him.

    Mr Tarlington closed the door, looking dry. “He’s only a functionary, y’know.”

    “Yes. But I thought Great-Uncle Humphrey might have explained his reasoning to him.”

    “No. –Many persons would not regard it as the burden of fortune,” he added, eyeing her sardonically.

    “Great-Uncle Humphrey knew I should, however,” she said grimly. “I’m going out into the garden. By myself.”

    Mr Tarlington merely nodded, and opened the door for her.

    In the sitting-room Mrs Parker had attempted to say: “Twelve thousand pounds a year—and the house, Theo!” But had been frowned down by her son. Then she had attempted to urge Delphie to recognize that Pansy must have a come-out next Season, but had only received for an answer: “Pansy must make up her own mind, Aunt Venetia.” She had fallen back upon wiping her eyes and saying: “Well, it is all very odd, but no doubt the poor dear old man had his reasons! And I am sure that he children will be delighted with their remembrances.”

    “Mamma, the Dean of my college once said to me of that antique cameo he has left Daniel, that its rightful place is in a museum,” said Theo uncomfortably.

    “Well, Daniel may decide about that when he is of age. It is a pity that Lucy gets only the mechanical bird, but there: she will love it! And the sapphires to Alfreda: it is so delightful!”

    “Aunt Venetia, little Lucy may have the pearls,” said Delphie in a stifled voice.

    “No, no, my love: they were left to you! And it will be something like ten years before Lucy may wear pearls: she is but six, you know. And by that time of course Theo will see to it that she has something appropriate to a young girl.”

    “Mamma!” cried Henry indignantly.

    “Hush, Henry,” said Theo faintly. “You must see that I must think of the little ones.”

    “You accept it, my boy: I think one of the old devil’s intentions,” said Dr Fairbrother thoughtfully: “may have been to make you so hopping mad you threw the bequest back in his face.”

    Theo nodded grimly. “I see.”

    “Theo, my love, much good may be done by a man who has both the means and the will to it, as I am sure you have heard your Papa say a thousand times,” Mrs Parker assured him.

    “Yes,” he said tightly.

    “Though much, also, depends on the type of woman such a man takes to wife,” she said carelessly, looking at him out of the corner of her eye.

    “Yes.” He got up. “Pray excuse me.”

    “It has been a shock,” said Mrs Parker in a firm voice as the suddenly wealthy Mr Parker went out. “But soon he will see that it is a splendid thing, for now he may do so much for his brothers and sisters!”

    Henry got up, scowling, and walked out.

    “Of course, Aunt,” Delphie agreed with an effort.

    “Look, shall we go home, Delphie?” said Dr Fairbrother. “Nothing to stay here for. And I dare say Fliss may be pining, all on her lonesome.” Delphie looked at him gratefully, and he got up. “Come on, then. Let’s take the path along the river, eh? –If you don’t mind, Mrs Parker? But come for dinner, of course.”

    “No—er—thank you so much, sir, but I think perhaps Theo may wish to stay quietly at home this evening.”

    Dr Fairbrother nodded. “Very well, then.”

    “Aunt Venetia, if you do not need me?” said Delphie faintly.

    “No, of course, my dear! You run along! We shall have a nice cose about it all, when you have had time to talk to Pansy!”

    Henry had rushed past Mr Tarlington in the hall without a word and run upstairs. He hesitated, then followed her slowly.

    She was discovered not, as he had feared, face down on her bed, sobbing, but standing by her window, glaring out into the sunny summer evening. Regardless of the fact that it was not at all the thing, he went in.

    “Do not dare to say it will be a great thing for the children!” said Henry before he could speak.

    “Why do you assume I am a coward as well as a fool? Of course it will be a great thing for the children,” he replied mildly.

    “Cousin Aden, it is an insult to Theo’s cloth!” she cried, angry tears starting to her eyes.

    “Yes. But your mother is perfectly correct in saying that a man with that kind of wealth may do much good in the world.”

    “Do you?” returned Henry in a voice full of scorn.

    He reddened. “No. Neither my upbringing nor my temperament incline me to charitable acts. Added to which, though I am aware you will not take it as an excuse, I am of the school of thought that believes a man should first put his own house in order, before looking to see what he may do for his neighbours.”

    “His own house! Yours is a wealthy family: what possible need can there have been—” Henry broke off. “Oh,” she said in a small voice. “I see. Your—your tenants, and the people in the tied cottages?”

    “Yes.”

    Henry swallowed. “I’m sorry. I should like to see Chipping Abbas,” she said shyly.

    “I should like you to see it,” replied Mr Tarlington evenly.

    “Did you—” She hesitated and then said: “I can see it must have cost you a good deal to set the estate in order, and—and Fliss happened to mention that it is you who bears the cost of your little brothers’ school fees and—um—that you paid your papa’s gambling debts; I suppose that must have—um—have taken a very great deal of your fortune?”

    “Not really. It is a very large fortune,” he said indifferently.

    “Oh,” said Henry, turning scarlet. “Is it? Um—I do beg your pardon!” she gasped. “I should not have said all that!”

    “You may speak to me on any subject you wish, Cousin Henrietta.”

    This remark did not sound at all kindly: on the contrary, quite grim. Henry looked up at him doubtfully, but took a deep breath and said: “Very well, then: if it is a very large fortune, why do you not attempt to do some good in the world with it?”

    “Suggest to me whom I should first benefit, Miss Henrietta,” he drawled.

    “I might have known you would only mock!” she said fiercely.

    “I am not mocking. The farms have turned the corner, as I think I indicated to you, and my brothers and sisters are provided for. What should first be the object of my charity?”

    Glaring, Henrietta replied: “Papa has always said that if a man truly wishes to do good, he should look for something close to home. What about the poor of the parish?”

    “Um—they have a workhouse,” he said dubiously.

    “Into which you have never once poked y our nose!” she cried.

    “That is quite correct. How often does your nose get poked into the Lower Beighnham workhouse, Miss Henrietta?”

    “It is at Upper Beighnham, not Lower: the two parishes share it. When we are at home, Alfreda and I go over every Wednesday with a basket. Usually just jams and something Cook has baked.”

    “Every Wednesday,” said Mr Tarlington biting his lip. “I beg your pardon.”

    Henry frowned suddenly. “No. Do not. I see what you mean about your upbringing: and Alfreda’s and my charitable acts are the outcome solely of our upbringing.”

    “Not entirely, I think,” he murmured. “Or does Miss Dimity in fact accompany you every Wednesday?”

    “Um—no,” admitted Henry.

    “There you are, then. Upbringing must play a large part, but temperament and inclination are also involved. In my case inclination would be there, did I but have encouragement, I feel!”

    “It is not a joke,” said Henrietta severely.

    “No,” he said, unable to prevent himself from smiling a little. “But will you not encourage me?”

    “I cannot know the exact situation in your parish. Papa always says that outright charity is admirable, but one must examine the root causes of the distress one wishes to alleviate. Most farm labourers do not wish to have to go on the parish, or to end in the workhouse. Certainly those in our area would rather work than not, when the work is available and the remuneration fair. But in so many districts the remuneration,” said Henry grimly, “is not fair at all.”

    “No?”

    “No. A man may labour all his life and never earn more than nine shillings a week!”

    “Nine shillings?” said Mr Tarlington in a shaken voice. “Surely you mean nine pounds?”

    “Do not be a fool! Nine pounds is a year’s income to many people!”

    Mr Tarlington swallowed.

    “A shepherd will earn more, but then he labours seven days a week. In our district the average farm labourer’s wage is now ten shillings a week, but Papa has had to work very hard to achieve that end. And many families still end upon the parish. –If you were a truly good man,” said Henry, narrowing her eyes, “you would give every man upon your estates a little plot of land. Not very much, but enough to grow his own vegetables and keep a pig. And it would be his own, to leave to his children.”

    There was a little silence.

    “Are we not talking here of the enfranchisement of the labouring classes?” drawled Mr Tarlington. “I fear you are a dangerous radical, Miss Henrietta!”

    “Very well, mock!” she cried angrily.

    “I am not mocking,” he said with a little frown. He leaned in the window and stared out at the golden haze of a perfect Oxford evening. “You may call me coward, but I fear my neighbours would say I had run mad if I gave away land. Er—what about cottages?”

    Henry eyed him suspiciously but replied in a firm tone: “Papa says it is a sad but very true human trait not to appreciate what one has not had to work for. His idea is that each family should be offered a cottage, but that they must pay a certain amount out of their weekly wage for it.”

    “Out of ten shillings a week, in that case?”

    “Um—well, that is the wage, but they receive nine and never see the extra shilling, for that is the agreement. In the one or two cases where he has got the landowners to agree, that is,” said Henry with a sigh.

    “I see. One would first have to persuade one’s tenant farmers that their men rate more than nine shillings a week. Or whatever the rate is around our way.”

    “Yes,” said Henry cautiously.

    “I see!” said Mr Tarlington, rubbing his straight nose. “I offer to reduce the fellows’ rent on condition that they pay their labourers a living wage: that it?”

    Henry replied with great approval: “You are certainly not slow, Cousin Aden! Yes, that is it, of course. –And their shepherds.”

    “And their shepherds, certainly. And how do I police this scheme?” he asked politely.

    “You could start by spending more time at your home and less in stupid London!” said Henry with feeling.

    “Er—yes. My ‘home’ as you call it, Miss Henrietta, is dashed lonely. The household consists of myself and my servants. Though my agent is a thoroughly good fellow, and glad enough to eat his mutton with me.”

    Oh,” said Henry, looking at him remorsefully. “Yes. I see.”

    “Nor do I have any very close neighbours.”

    “What about the vicar?”

    Nr Tarlington passed his hand across his hair. This interview was not turning out in the least how he had planned it. He had meant to utter some kindly but avuncular advice on Miss Henrietta’s preferred attitude to her brother’s sudden acquisition of a fortune, and—

    “He is an elderly man. –Yes, very well, I shall suggest he retire and offer him the wherewithal on which to do it!” he said loudly.

    “You could at the least offer him a curate.”

    “I think that is a matter for the Church, not the laity. But certainly he is grateful to dine with me any time I am at Chipping Abbas, yes. Unfortunately his digestion is delicate and he can partake only of such things as chicken broth, asparagus tips, and curds, all of which I cordially loathe.”

    “I quite like chicken broth. And asparagus tips are a delicacy.”

    “Which have a very short season. –Why in God’s name are we talkin’ about the Reverend Hutchinson’s digestion?” he said wildly.

    “I only thought he might be company for you,” said Henry in a small voice.

    “Of course you did!” he agreed with a sudden laugh. “Well, no: he ain’t. I very much like Paul Ainsley and his wife, who live some fifteen miles to the southwest of my place. But it is a long journey, merely to dine.”

    “Bunch Ainsley’s brother, is that?”

    Mr Tarlington nodded. “Yes. You would approve of the way he has set up his labourers in cottages, I think. Well, at all events half his neighbours disapprove!” he said with a chuckle.

    “And—um—I am not sure of the geography, but would that not mean that Bunch’s sister also lives near? –Lady Rockingham,” said Henry, pinkening.

    He smiled. “Daynesford Place is a very long drive from Chipping Abbas. But I agree, Miss Henrietta: Lord Rockingham’s model village is, indeed, a model!”

    “Mm,” said Henry, biting her lip.

    “But I am not as wealthy as he. The Marquis is one of the richest men in England.”

    “Yes. It was a silly thought,” said Henry gruffly.

    “Rockingham would not say so. He is as keen on charitable work as even you could desire. And it must be temperament, for he was at it even before he married the lovely Marchioness,” he said a sigh.

    “Um—yes. Was he? Um—yes, she is lovely,” said Henry, very pink again. “And very kind.”

    “Yes. –There is a considerable age difference between them,” he said abruptly.

    Henry replied seriously: “We noticed that when they spoke to us so kindly at Sir Lionel’s soirée. But where there is true affection, it cannot signify.”

    “Can it not?” he said with a searching look.

    “I don’t think so. How big a gap do you mean?” said Henry, starting to look bewildered.

    “Oh: mayhap not so much as that between Rockingham and his little wife,” he drawled. “Say, sixteen years?”

    “Sixteen is quite a lot,” said Henry weakly.

    Mr Tarlington’s lips thinned. “Aye.”

    “I—I suppose it—it would not signify if the persons cared for each other.”

    “Yes,” he said, clenching his fists. “Cousin, your mamma has said I may write to you this summer, if you should care for it. Should you?”

    Henry nodded speechlessly, her cheeks scarlet.

    “Will you write back?”

    “Um—yes. If you wish. Only—only the doings of our little district will be dull reading, I fear.”

    “No, they will not,” he said, beginning to smile. “For you will describe in great detail all the charitable works which your Papa thinks should be put into effect upon a gentleman’s country estate, and I shall endeavour so to put them!”

    “That is not funny,” said Henrietta crossly.

    “It was not meant to be. Did I not say that in my case inclination would be there, did I but have encouragement? I am afraid my character is not admirable enough for me to do it all on my own. I regret to admit it, Cousin, but there it is.”

    There was a little silence.

    “I have no-one to appreciate it if I do it, or to care if I do not, or— Dammit. Henrietta!” he said loudly. “I am asking for your help!”

    “I see,” she said slowly. “If you are truly serious, then of course we could correspond about it. Papa would be very glad to give you his advice.

    “Thank you.” Mr Tarlington cleared his throat. “That is not, however, why I wish to correspond with you.”

    Henry swallowed. “Oh.” She stared out at the golden evening.

    “Just so long as you understand that, then!” he said loudly.

    “Yes,” said Henry gruffly, not looking at him.

    After a moment he said: “I wish I could invite you to dine at the Mitre this evening, but I am afraid it would not do.”

    “What? Oh: no. –Oh, I see what you mean,” said Henry, biting her lip. “It will be rather awful. But of course Theo should not turn down such a fortune, when he may put it to good effect. It is just—” She broke off.

    “Yes,” he said, smiling very much. “It is just, is it not? I shall see you tomorrow, then, shall I?”

    “Yes,” said Henry in a tiny voice. “I suppose so.”

    Mr Tarlington bowed and held out his hand. Henry looked uncomfortable, but held hers out to him. He took it, bowed again and touched his lips to it. “Good-night. –I ’m glad you came to Oxford,” he added abruptly.

    “Yes,” said Henry in a small, gruff voice. “So am I.”

    Mr Tarlington strode out, smiling very much.

    Henry tottered over to the bed and sank down onto it. Her cheeks were very red. She sat there so long that Mrs Joy had to be dispatched to ask if she wanted her dinner.

    Out in the garden Dr Fairbrother had scratched his chin, looking dubious. “Some would say Pansy must go up to London and be given her chance, y’know, Delphie.”

    “I would have said so, myself, if she had not inherited such a fortune! If—if it had been but a bequest of ten thousand pounds, sir! But it is nearly twice as much as that, a year!”

    “Aye. Do you think your Aunt Parker would be any good at keeping fortune-hunters off her, if she did take her up to London?”

    “No,” said Delphie baldly.

    “No. Look, Portia could: and she’d be glad to, what’s more.”

    Delphie put her hand in his arm and squeezed it. “Thank you, Dr Fairbrother, I think that might be the preferred solution. But I shall not broach the subject with Pansy for some time—if ever.”

    “Good girl. Ah—there she is!’“

    Pansy was in the wreck of the vegetable garden. “Look: artichokes!”

    “So they are, by Jove!” Dr Fairbrother began picking the fat purple-green heads enthusiastically. Pansy already had an armful; Delphie joined in. It occurred to none of them that they were, strictly speaking, Mr Parker’s artichokes.

    “Wonderful!” said Dr Fairbrother at last. “The monkeys adore ’em! –Yes, pick a few of the tighter buds, Delphie, me dear, that’s right: Percival Cummings is partial to a small artichoke head.”

    “I adore artichokes, too: don’t let’s give them all to the monkeys!” said Pansy with a laugh as they departed by the creaky garden gate.

    Dr Fairbrother was gathering a few runner beans as he went. “Shan’t do that! Look: have some!” He dropped some fat, black-spotted, shiny pink beans into Pansy’s grubby hand.

    “Lovely!” she beamed.

    “Aye.” He stuck his handful of bean pods inside his proper black coat and picked a pink rose off the garden wall as Delphie closed the gate. “Take off that damned coal-scuttle, Delphie, me dear, makes you look like Ma Bridlington.”

    Delphie laughed, and removed her bonnet, slinging it over her wrist by its ribbons.

    Dr Fairbrother tucked the rose behind her ear and kissed her pink cheek softly. “Same shade exactly: you’re like a rose yourself, me dear.”

    Delphie gulped; Pansy gave a muffled squeak.

    “’T’wasn’t too bad for an old buffer. I thought!” he said indignantly.

    “No!” gasped Pansy. “Ow! Help!” She went into a paroxysm of laughter, reeling about helplessly.

    “Hang on! You’ll be in the river!” cried the zoologist.

    “It has a scent,” said Delphie very faintly.

    Pansy yelped.

    “Not of fragrance tea!” gasped Delphie. She went into a sniggering, spluttering fit, scattering artichokes around as she did so.

    “What?” cried Dr Fairbrother. “What’s the joke?”

    “Mr Quayle-Sturt wrote—” gasped Pansy. She broke down.

    Delphie drew a deep breath and declaimed sentimentally: “‘As dainty as a rose of fragrance TEA.’”

    Pansy shrieked, and was off again.

    Dr Fairbrother began to pick up the scattered artichokes, grinning. “Come on, you can tell me all about it as we go.”

    “Well,” began Delphie, tucking her arm in his: “our Cousin Alfreda is a lovely young woman, but she is common-sensical and intelligent as well as pretty. While in town she—she—”

    “‘Attracted the notice’, is the phrase, I think,” said Pansy, grinning.

    “Ah! Attracted the notice...”

    The story lasted very nearly to the zoologist’s gate and as they had to come up from the river and emerge onto a road to get to his house, the inhabitants of his street were gratified by the spectacle of the man of science falling all over the pavement, yelping.

    “I can feel a sonnet coming on!” he warned.

    “Ooh, yes! Address it to Mr. Q.-S.!” urged Pansy.

    “I was hoping to address it ‘To Mr P.C. the Second, Upon his Receipt of a Fine Artichoke,’” he objected.

    Delphie choked.

    “Come on: let’s see who can write the best sonnet to Mr P.C. upon his receipt of a fine artichoke!” cried Pansy, rushing to the door.

    Dr Fairbrother winked at Delphie, tucking her hand back in his arm. “Come on.”

    “Thank you,” she whispered.

    “Any time there’s a rose hanging over a garden wall for me to pinch, it’s yours,” he said solemnly.

    Delphie merely squeezed his arm and said nothing. But her look spoke volumes.

    Pansy’s huge inheritance was not mentioned that night in Dr Fairbrother’s house, and the whole evening was happily given over to the consumption of artichokes and the composition of very bad verse.

Next chapter:

https://theogilvieconnection.blogspot.com/2022/09/developments.html