The Eldest Son Part 6

"Well, perhaps not this afternoon, d.i.c.k," replied Aunt Laura. "It might upset the house for Sunday to make a change, and I should not be quite ready to superintend it. But on Monday, or even Tuesday--I am not particular--I could make ready. There is no immediate hurry. It is enough for me to know that I am to have the things here, and I shall think upon them with very great pleasure. I'm sure I cannot thank you enough, dear d.i.c.k, for your kindness. It is of a piece with all the rest. Why, I do not believe you have yet seen my beautiful table.

Children dear, see here! Is it not convenient? I can place my favourite book here by my side, and when I am tired of reading, without moving from my seat, I can lay it down, and there is my work ready for me underneath, and in this pocket, as you see, are all sorts of conveniences, such as scissors, little tape-measure in the form of a silver pig, and so on; and here an ivory paper-knife. It is indeed a handsome present, is it not?"

"It's lovely, Aunt Laura," said Joan. "Who did it come from?"

"On Thursday," replied Aunt Laura. "Thursday morning. No, I am telling you a story. It was Thursday afternoon, for Hannah was just about to bring in the tea."

"Who gave it you, Aunt Laura?" asked Joan again.

"Did I not tell you?" said Aunt Laura. "It was dear Humphrey. He sent it down from London. He came in to see me when he was last at Kencote and described to me such a table as this, which I admit I _did_ say I should like to possess, but certainly with no idea that he would purchase one for me. But there! all you dear boys and girls are full of kind thoughts for your old aunt, and I am sure it makes me very happy in my loss of your dear Aunt Ellen to think I have so much left to be thankful for."

When the twins were in their bedroom getting ready for luncheon Joan said, "I wonder why Humphrey is so attentive all of a sudden to Aunt Laura."

"There's more in it than meets the eye," said Nancy. "Did you notice how surprised d.i.c.k looked when she said Humphrey gave it her? And then he frowned."

"I expect d.i.c.k thinks Humphrey is too extravagant. It must have been an expensive table. And I know Humphrey has debts, because he asked me to open a tailor's bill that came for him and tell him the 'demnition total,' as he was afraid to do it himself. It was more than a hundred pounds, and he said, 'I wish that was the only one, but if it was I couldn't pay it.'"

"Poor old Humphrey!" said Nancy. "I say, Joan, do you think he is making up to Aunt Laura, so that she will pay his bills for him?"

"What a beastly thing to say, Nancy!" replied Joan. "Of course, none of the boys would do a thing like that. Besides, Aunt Laura hasn't got any money."

"No, I don't suppose so," said Nancy reflectively. "I expect father gives her an allowance, poor old darling!"

But Aunt Laura had money. She had the thirty-six thousand pounds which her father had left to her and her sisters, and she had, besides, the savings of all six ladies through a considerable number of years.

CHAPTER V

LADY GEORGE

The Squire had a touch of rheumatism, and was annoyed about it, but also inclined to give Providence due credit for so visiting him, if he must be visited at all, at a time of hard frost. "If I coddle myself up to-day and perhaps to-morrow," he said over the luncheon table, "I shall be able to hunt all right on Monday, if the frost breaks. I suppose you wouldn't care to go over those Deepdene Farm figures this afternoon, d.i.c.k, eh?"

"We might have an hour with them before dinner," replied d.i.c.k. "I thought of riding over to Mountfield to see Jim this afternoon. I want a little exercise."

"I don't know whether you will find Jim in," said Mrs. Clinton.

"Muriel, and I think Mrs. Graham, are coming over here this afternoon."

"I'll take my chance," said d.i.c.k.

The twins saw him off from the hall door. He rode a tall bay horse, which danced with impatience on the hard gravel of the drive as he looked him over, drawing on his gloves.

"Dear old Cicero! doesn't he look a beauty?" said Nancy. "What was his figure, d.i.c.k?"

"You will never be able to get on him," said Joan. "Shall I bring a chair?"

But d.i.c.k was up and cantering over the crisp gra.s.s of the park, managing his nervous powerful mount as if he and the horse were of one frame and as if nothing could separate them.

"He does look jolly," said Joan admiringly.

"He's a good man on a horse," acquiesced Nancy.

"All the boys are. So they ought to be. They think about nothing else."

"You know, I think d.i.c.k is just the sort of man a girl might fall in love with," said Joan. "He's very good-looking, and he has just that sort of way with him, as if he didn't care for anybody."

"I expect lots of girls have fallen in love with him. The question is whether he is ever going to fall in love with them. I'm inclined to think he's turning it over in his mind. I dare say you were blinded by all that business at the dower-house this morning. I wasn't. You mark my word, Joan, d.i.c.k is going to get married."

"I shouldn't wonder. He's grown softer somehow. See how interested he was in the kitchen. Who do you think it is, Nancy?"

"My dear! Don't you know that? It's Grace Ettien. Didn't you notice what a fuss father made of her when she last come over? Took her all round, and almost _gave_ her the place. He doesn't treat girls like that as a rule."

"You didn't say so at the time."

"No; but I've put two and two together since. You see if I'm not right. By this time next year the dower-house will be occupied by Captain and Lady Grace Clinton--and oh, Joan! perhaps there'll be another baby in the family!"

The ecstasy of the twins at this prospect was broken into by Miss Bird, who appeared behind them in the doorway and promised them their deaths of cold if they did not come indoors _at once_.

In the meantime d.i.c.k was trotting along the hard country lanes, between the silent silvered winter woods and the frozen fields, always with an eye about him to see what things of fur and feather might share with him the winter solitude, what was doing in the hard-bound soil, and what in the clear s.p.a.ces of the air. He had the eye of the countryman, trained from boyhood to observe and a.s.similate. He had lived for years the life of court and camp, had adapted himself as readily to the turmoil of London gaieties as to regimental duties in other stations at home and abroad, or to months of campaigning in Egypt and South Africa.

He had skimmed the cream of all such experiences as had come in his way, but here in the depths of the English country, just here where his ancestors had lived for generation after generation, were placed the foundations of his life. Here he was at home, as nowhere else in the world. All the rest was mere accident of time and place, of no account as compared with this one spot of English soil. Here alone he was based and firmly rooted.

Mountfield lay about four miles from Kencote, and the two estates marched, although the one was small as compared with the other. Two years before, Jim Graham, the owner of Mountfield, had married Cicely Clinton, and his only sister just before that had married Walter Clinton, the doctor of Melbury Park, where the Squire was so averse to looking for an heir. So the Clintons and the Grahams were bound together by close ties, and there was much coming and going between the two houses.

Cicely's carriage was before the door as d.i.c.k rode up, and she herself came out as he dismounted. She looked very pretty in her thick furs, young and fresh, and matronly at the same time.

"Oh, d.i.c.k, I'm so glad to see you," she said. "Have you come to see Jim? I'm afraid he's gone over to Bathgate, and won't be back for some time."

"H'm! That's a bore," said d.i.c.k. "You're going over to Kencote, aren't you, Siskin?"

"Yes. I'm going to fetch Mrs. Graham and drive her over. But do come in for a minute or two."

"Oughtn't to keep the horses long in this weather," said d.i.c.k. "Drive 'em about for a few minutes, Carter. I'll just come in and throw my eye over the babies, Siskin."

Cicely's face brightened. She led the way into her morning-room, and turned to kiss her brother, her hands on his shoulders. "Dear old d.i.c.k!" she said. "Do you really want to see the babies?"

"Of course I do," he replied. "You've given us the taste for them over at Kencote. The Tw.a.n.kies foam at the mouth with pleasure whenever the babies are mentioned, and even the governor looks as if a light were switched on in his face when anything is said about them."

Cicely rang the bell. "He is a doting grandfather," she said, with a smile. "I would take them over this afternoon, but it's too cold."

"Nice room, this!" said d.i.c.k, looking round him. "Are you glad to be settled down in the country again, Sis?"

"Yes. Awfully glad," she said. "I hated London, really. At least, I liked meeting the people, but you can only feel at home in the country."

"There was a time," said d.i.c.k.

She blushed. "Oh, don't talk about that, d.i.c.k," she said, in some distress. "I was all wrong. I didn't know what I wanted. I know now.

I want just this, and Jim, and the babies. I was overjoyed when our two years in London were up, and Jim said we could come back here if we kept quiet and lived carefully. Here they are--the darlings!"

The tiny morsels of lace and silk-clad humanity--d.i.c.k, the boy, Nina, the baby girl--who were brought into the room in charge of a staid elderly smiling nurse, looked as happy babies ought to look--as if they belonged to the house and the house belonged to them. d.i.c.k took up his namesake and G.o.dson in his arms and his keen face softened. "He's getting a great little man," he said. "When are you going to cut his hair, Cicely?"