That Stick. Charlotte M. Yonge
not possible to a stick with a real head, but only too easy to a sham one.’
CHAPTER IV
HONOURS WANING
‘And who is the man?’ So asked a lady in deep mourning of another still more becraped, as they sat together in the darkened room of a Northmoor house on the day before the funeral.
The speaker had her bonnet by her side, and showed a kindly, clever, middle-aged face. She was Mrs. Bury, a widow, niece of the late Lord; the other was his daughter, Bertha Morton, a few years younger. She was not tearful, but had dark rings round her eyes, and looked haggard and worn.
‘The man? I never heard of him till this terrible loss of poor little Mikey.’
‘Then did he put in a claim?’
‘Oh no, but Hailes knew about him, and so, indeed, did my father. It seems that three generations ago there was a son who followed the instincts of our race further than usual, and married a jockey’s daughter, or something of that sort. He was set up in a horse-breeding farm and cut the connection; but it seems that there was always a sort of communication of family events, so that Hailes knew exactly where to look for an heir.’
‘Not a jockey!’
‘Oh no, nothing so diverting. That would be fun!’ Bertha said, with a laugh that had no merriment in it. ‘He is a clerk—an attorney’s clerk! What do you think of that, Lettice?’
‘Better than the jockey.’
‘Oh, very respectable, they say’—with a sound of disgust.
‘Is he young?’
‘No; caught early, something might be done with him, but there’s not that hope. He is not much less than forty. Fancy a creature that has pettifogged, as an underling too, all his life.’
‘Married?’
‘Thank goodness, no, and all the mammas in London and in the country will be running after him. Not that he will be any great catch, for of course he has nothing—and the poor place will be brought to a low ebb.’
‘And what do you mean to do, Birdie?’
‘Get out of sight of it all as fast as possible! Forget that horses ever existed except as means of locomotion,’ and Bertha got up and walked towards the window as if restless with pain, then came back.
‘I shall get rid of all I can—and come to live as near as I can to Whitechapel, and slum! I’m free now.’ Then looking at her cousin’s sorrowful, wistful face, ‘Work, work, work, that’s all that’s good for me. Soberly, Lettice, this is my plan,’ she added, sitting down again. ‘I know how it all is left. This new man is to have enough to go on upon, so as not to be too beggarly and bring the title into contempt. He is only coming for to-morrow, having to wind up his business; but I shall stay on till he comes back, and settle what to do with the things here. Adela and I have our choice of them, and don’t want to leave the place too bare. Then I shall sell the London house, and all the rest of the encumbrances, and set up for myself.’
‘Not with Adela?’
‘Oh no; Adela means to stick by the old place, and I couldn’t do that for a constancy—oh no,’ with a shudder.
‘Does she?’ in some wonder.
‘Her own people don’t want her. The Arlingtons are with her now, but I fancy she would rather be sitting with us—or alone best of all, poor dear. You see, she is a mixture of the angel that is too much for some people. How she got it I don’t know, not among us, I should think, though she came to us straight out of the schoolroom, or I fancy she would never have come at all. But oh, Lettice, if you could have seen her how patient she has been throughout with my father, reading him all about every race, just because she thought it was less gall and wormwood to her than to me, and going out to the stables to satisfy him about his dear Night Hawk, and all the rest of it. When she was away for that fortnight over poor little Michael, I found to the full what she had been, and then after that, back she comes again, as white as a sheet, but all she ever was to my father, and more wonderful than all, setting herself to reconcile him to the notion of this new heir of his—and I do believe, if my father had not so suddenly grown worse, she would have made us have him up to be introduced—all out of rectitude and duty, you know, for Adela is the shyest of mortals, and recoils by nature from the underbred far more than we do. In fact, I rather like it. It gives me a sensation. I had ten times rather this man were a common sailor, or a tinker, than just a stupid stick of a clerk!’
‘Then Adela means to stay at the Dower House?’
‘Yes, she has rooted herself there by all her love to her poor people, and I fancy, too, that she does not want to bring Amice up among all the Arlington children, who are not after her pattern, so she intends to bear the brunt of it, and not leave Northmoor, unless the new-comers turn out unbearable.’
‘She goes away with her brother now.’
‘Oh yes, she must, and Lord Arlington is fond of her in a way! Can’t you stay on with me, Lettice?’
‘I wish I could, my dear Birdie, but I am anxious about Mary; I don’t think I must stay later than Sunday.’
‘Yes; you are too devoted a mother for me to absorb. Never mind, you will be in London, and I shall soon be within reach of you. You are a comfortable person, Lettice.’
CHAPTER V
THE PEER
Poor Miss Lang! After all her care that her young pupils’ heads should not be turned by folly about marriage and noblemen, the very event she had always viewed as most absurdly improbable had really occurred, and it was impossible to keep it a secret; though Miss Marshall did her very best to appear as usual, heard lessons with her accustomed diligence, conducted the daily exercises, watched over the instructions by masters, and presided over the needlework. But she grew whiter, more pinched, and her little face more mouse-like every day, and the elder girls whispered fancies about her. ‘She had no doubt heard that Lord Northmoor had broken it off!’—‘A little poky attorney’s clerk, of course he would.’—‘Poor dear thing, she will go into a consumption! Didn’t you hear her cough last night?’—‘And then we’ll all throw wreaths into her grave!’—‘Oh, that was only Elsie Harris!’—‘Nonsense, Mabel, I’m sure it was her, poor thing. Prenez garde, la vieille Dragonne vient.’
That Lord Northmoor was to come back by the mail train was known, and Miss Lang had sent a polite note to invite him to afternoon tea on the Sunday. The church to which he had been for many years devoted was a district one, and Miss Lang’s establishment had their places in the old parish church, so there was not much chance of meeting in the morning, though one pupil observed to another that ‘she should think him a beast if they did not meet him on the way to church.’
It is to be feared that she had to form this opinion, but on the other hand, by the early dinner-time, tidings pervaded the school that Lord Northmoor had been at St. Basil’s, and sung in his surplice just as if nothing had happened! The more sensational party of girls further averred that he had been base enough to walk thither with Miss Burford, and that Miss Marshall had been crying all church time. Whether this was true or not, it was certain that she ate scarcely any dinner, and that Miss Lang insisted on administering a glass of wine.
Moreover, when dinner was finally over, she quietly crept up to her own room, and resumed her church-going bonnet—a little black net, with a long-enduring bunch of violets. Then she knelt down and entreated, ‘Oh, show me Thy will, and give me strength and judgment to do that which may be