CHAPTER V
During this last month Aunt Cathie had been all that is connoted by that immense word "happy." When Lucia had come to live with her aunts a year ago, Aunt Catherine began to want, though never to get, but during this last month she had continued to want and had reaped a wonderful harvest. Lucia, of course, had been the sun and wheat of her harvesting, and the crop, as Aunt Cathie reaped it, had never ceased to grow and ripen, fresh shoots rising continually from the ground over which her sickle had passed, rising and growing tall and swelling with grain in a sort of celestial profusion unknown to naturalists.
Before the beginning of the halcyon month which dated accurately from the night when Lucia had lit all her candles in the room under the eaves, and called herself to account for what she had done, and what she had left undone, Aunt Cathie had grown almost resigned—not quite, because nobody ever gets quite resigned to anything he desires—to the nonfulfilment of her dreams. She had hoped so much for Lucia's arrival, had told herself that with this young girl in the house some aftermath of youth, anyhow, would gild its grey fields, that, as in a glass at least, she would enjoy the reflection of sunlit pictures even though the actual sun had long ago set for her. Then followed a year of disenchantment; it was as if some curse had been on them, so that instead of the house and the elderly sisters growing young, Lucia had grown old, had lost her spring, her pleasure, her elasticity. But a month ago all had changed.
Lucia became sunny, became young, became busy—such, at least, was the natural inference. Aunt Cathie, led by her, became so busy also that she had literally no time to think how busy she was, else she would surely have felt giddy, and perhaps taken sal-volatile. Always before she had felt (especially in July) that she was being driven, and that if she was not going out to tea to-day, she was sure to be doing so the day after to-morrow, and had no time to herself. But now, not only, in spite of the menacing imminence of the alternate Tuesdays, did girls come in after lunch, and stayed to tea, and talked French or sketched or played duets, but Aunt Cathie herself took part in these delirious entertainments. She had on hand at the present day a majestic water-colour sketch of the railway embankment seen over the pear-trees, with a perfect sunset of colour on the right to portray the blaze of the flower-bed, and hardly, so to speak, had she sat down to put in more of the pear-tree touch, than Miss; Wilson arrived from the Close, to talk French with Lucia. Aunt Cathie herself rarely ventured on a vocal exhibition of that elusive tongue, but she understood quite three-quarters of what the two girls said, and sometimes put in a parfaitement, in quite the right place. Then almost before she had recovered from the shock of understanding so much French, Miss Majendie would arrive for duets, and here Aunt Cathie was again in request, and stood beside the piano, beating time with a paper-knife, since Lucia and Miss Majendie did not always agree as to the beginnings of bars. They were learning Tschaikowsky's "Pathetique" for four hands, and here Aunt Cathie had a much-needed rest in the middle, since, when Mr. Tschaikowsky chose (as no doubt he had a perfect right to do) to compose music with five crochets in the bar, it was really impossible to follow him, not to say conduct him; and as Cathie sometimes beat six, but oftener four, it had been arranged that the five-four time should be unbeaten since it was unbeatable.
Faint signs of returning animation could also be seen by the careful observer in the conduct of Aunt Elizabeth. She had learned a new stitch, and she was learning a new patience. Otherwise, she was much the same, and still extremely difficult.
Lucia had followed Lord Brayton on foot to the cricket-ground, and so busy were her thoughts that she noticed neither the heat of the day nor the dust of the road. A month age she had made some careful plans, and the careful plans were, and had been, rewarded in a manner that it was profane not to consider providential. She had had only to bestir herself and beckon, and lo, as in the vision of Ezekiel, the dry bones of Brixham began to rattle and come together, and if it was not an exceeding great army that stood up, certainly the officers in the garrison, and the houses in the Close, and the inhabitants of the Hollies and the Laburnums and the Cedars and the Fig-trees, instantly showed that they were not thistles. She met Miss Wilson at a garden-party, and instead of putting her nose in the air and talking about her fortnight in London, put her nose down and talked about the coming month at Brixham. They were, if not friends, French acquaintances, and determined to meet once a week and talk no English at all. The effect was that Marjory Wilson fell in love with Lucia, and if on a particular Wednesday they were not talking French at Fair View, it was because they were talking English at the Deanery. Similarly, Nellie Majendie, the daughter of the Colonel of the regiment, took Lucia to her musical bosom, and wondered how it were possible that Lucia had been in the town for a whole year without their making friends. Then again Lucia had sent to intimate to Helen Vereker that all she really cared about was flowers, the names of which, by the aid of an old gardening manual, she learned with extraordinary speed, and morning by morning Miss Vereker used to arrive with a small basket of plants, which had homes made for them in the flower-beds before the sun came on to them, or Miss Wilson arrived to talk French. On such occasions Aunt Cathie took her part, and stood by like a grenadier with a watering-pot in her hand, until Miss Vereker said, "Now, please, Miss Grimson, will you pour it freely and then stamp it down, and then pour on a little more, while Lucia and I put in this salvia. Lucia darling, you must plant that yourself. It is simply beautiful, not red, like the ordinary autumn salvia, but golden, just the colour of your hair!"
And then the two girls would move on to the next vacant space in the flower-bed, and bend over it with trowel and shrinking from worms, and secret whispers would pass, which poor Aunt Cathie longed to hear. But for her it was exciting just to "water freely," and tread down with her large firm feet, and be ready for further orders.
Like all girls, Lucia's friendships at this period of her life were with girls. That they talked over the younger officers of the garrison, and the sons of the Laburnums, and the Fig-trees, and a remarkably interesting curate of St. Faith's, who wore a rope round his chest for purposes of mortification of his flesh, was not to be denied. Miss Wilson's brother had been to bathe with him, and had seen him take it off, before entering the water with a loud flat splash, and the strands of it made red marks on his skin. He had put it on again after leaving the water, and had gone straight to a tennis-party at the Hollies, where he had played with extraordinary skill, and had said a number of tender things to Miss Wilson between the sets. Her brother had alread; told her about this sensational fact of the rope, and it showed that he must be thinking a good deal about her if he could be so detached from himself while privately suffering agonies. She thought he meant something, but she wasn't sure, and what would Lucia do? He was the younger son of a baronet, but the elder brother was unmarried, and he really had the most delightful eyes. Also, he made smashes at the net which were extraordinary considering the rope. Or did he make it more slack for tennis-parties? Archie thought not.
But Archie and Tommy and Dicky and Harry had interested Lucia very little. She had no use for them, and she cared not at all for what was useless. At the same time, she kept everything, so to speak, until its uselessness was proved. It was possible, by means of the girls with whom she played duets and talked French and planted salvias, that something might come her way. But their brothers were perfectly futile; the only thing that might come her way, via them, was marriage with them, and for that she had no mind. The younger son of an impecunious baronet—she looked him up in Debrett—was the best of the bunch, but it really could not even be called a bunch. As far as she was concerned it was a concourse of fortuitous atoms. But from her point of view, though she neglected, or rather never thought of neglecting, the brothers, she made friends with the sisters. With an acuteness that did her credit, or at any rate did justifiable discredit to the world, she saw that the lower rungs of the ladder by which a climber means to mount are made of the sex of the climber.
Up to a certain age, girls will help the climbing girl in a way that young men cannot unless among them is contained the young man she wishes to marry. And throughout the length and breadth of Brixham she had till to-day seen no young man whom she ever so faintly contemplated in this light. She felt certain that if she was to make herself, to emerge, she must first make friends with the girls round her. She might, perhaps, "climb out" on them. Now who could "climb out" anywhere on the shoulders of the younger son of a baronet, or on Claude Wilson's shoulders, who hoped some time to be a partner in a solicitor's office, or on the shoulders of Harry Majendie, who, if all went well, and since he had interest, might be an archdeacon before he died?
But the climber cannot have too many friends of her own sex. Something may happen to them; they may emerge into a bigger life, where the men of a country-town cannot emerge. Also, being a friend of a girl, she could get asked to what is known as the "county." Very likely Harry Majendie knew the son of someone who was county. But he could not sue for an invitation for Lucia. But Nellie Majendie could (and would) certainly ask the daughter of the county that her dear friend Lucia might come to the fireworks. And fireworks would lead to lunch. There was the avenue. But males at present were no kind of use to her. At least she had not, up till now, come across the male who could be. And Lucia was extremely practical.
It was the consciousness of which these thoughts formed background and groundwork that made her walk to the cricket-ground seem short. She could not long resist the impulse of her imagination to leap forward, but before permitting that, she wished to think over, and perhaps look down on, the rungs of the ladder which she had already traversed. Yes; it had been successfully done, and decidedly she had enjoyed herself more in this past month, and had become of greater importance in this microscopic world than ever before. So little effort had really been needed, and it quite pleased her to think that others as well as herself had been the happier for her exertions. And the greatest beneficiary was Aunt Cathie, on whom Lucia almost looked with tenderness sometimes. The old dear required so little; to be allowed to beat time, to show her new stippling touches, to put in an occasional gruff parfaitement, meant so much to her, while to have Aunt Cathie in this mood reacted again, and meant something to Lucia. Fair View, even when they were quite alone, had been so much less boring. After dinner, for instance, instead of Aunt Cathie nodding in a chair, while Lucia herself watched with suppressed yawns the hopeless efforts made by Aunt Elizabeth to defeat the Demon, and made perfunctory replies to her occasional asperities, Aunt Cathie had her Gasc or her "Fou Yégof" open before her, and was not disturbed by Lucia's practising of difficult passages in view of to-morrow's music. Sometimes she even helped Aunt Elizabeth with her dreary employment; but, to be frank, she did not receive much encouragement in this regard, and so did not often come to the rescue. Her efforts and exertions in any case were productive of greater happiness to others as well as herself, and she did not in the least grudge it them. Indeed, she began dimly to see that it "paid" to put people in a good humour, and since every paying concern had her sympathy, she continued to invest her time and her efforts in doing so. The effect, too, was to add to the estimate of her own charm and amiability.
So the retrospect of the last month being satisfactory, and showing a handsome profit, to use a financial term which very well expressed Lucia's view, she let go, so to speak, of the past, and just laid before her mind the new factor. It had come like some sudden unconjectured comet into her horizon, and at present she knew nothing of its orbit, but it was large and bright, and seemed, during the survey she had had of it, to be getting quickly nearer. She did not in the least credit Edgar Brayton with the discernment and good sense necessary to fall in love with her at first sight, but she knew quite well that he had felt her to be attractive. On the other hand, what he had said about Maud clearly showed that he had a great admiration for her, while Lucia knew what her friend thought about him. That was the bald statement of the case.
Lucia had come to the path which led by a short cut to the cricket-field, and she left the hot dusty road to stroll quietly down this, while she thought with great intentness. She knew that she must act in one way or in another way, and she had to choose.
If she decided one way she would firmly and unerringly, though with all the tact in her possession, chase him, run him down, grab him, or do her best in that line (and she rightly felt capable of a good deal). On the other hand, Maud was her greatest friend, and Maud had confided that she was in love with him. And she stood quite still for about three seconds.
From the next field came the sunny sounds of the band, and through the railings she could see the many-coloured crowd. From behind her came the clip-clop of horses' hoofs on the road she had left, and the whirring buzz of motors. The sun was westerly, and spread a golden haze over the brownish-green of the scorched fields, where swallows were flying low. All this she saw with photographic distinctness, and it seemed to her that during those three seconds her mind was empty. It was not really so; it was only that her mind had dived deep, leaving the surface of itself automatically conscious. Then out of her apparently empty mind there suddenly came a couple of thoughts that had the distinctness of spoken words. Indeed, she repeated them aloud.
"It is not in my hands. If he falls in love with me, it will be a thing outside my power. Besides, Maud would not wish to stand in my way. It would be selfish of her, and I am wronging her to think that she could be that; she means her friendship to help and not hinder me."
And Lucia went on again with her quick springy tread, looking her very best. But she had taken a step, and knew it. The knowledge perhaps helped her towards looking her best.
The field was full, for, as Mrs. Wilson remarked more than once to Margery after a magisterial survey of the occupants of the two rows of chairs that stretched completely round the ground, "all Brixham seems to be here." It was at the moment that she made this discovery for the fourth time that Edgar Brayton entered by the carriage road, and it might have been observed that Mrs. Wilson, Mrs. Vereker, and Mrs. Majendie all got up with a glance at their respective daughters, who followed them like lambs to the pasture rather than the slaughter, and made their way to the refreshment-tent, which was so near to the place at which motors drew up that the ices tasted faintly, but unmistakably, of petrol.
There the three lambs, led by their respective mothers, met, and re-entered into intimate converse together, while the mothers, kept, so to speak, a weather-eye on the tent-door by which it was hoped that Lord Brayton would presently enter to have tea. Little did they know where and with whom he had already had it.
Mrs. Wilson had remarkably good sight, and was noted for having quite lately written out the Lord's Prayer on a piece of paper that was the size of a threepenny-bit. It was no wonder, then, that it was she who, through the open tent-door, perceived Lord Brayton on the other side of the ground and knew that for the present all three, or all six of them, had been foiled and baffled. She had excellent manners, and though naturally eager to be off again, listened without the slightest show of impatience to Mrs. Majendie's account of the Handel Festival, to which she had taken Nellie, and of which she had to describe "the gloriousness" at length. Not till Mrs. Majendie had quite finished (or till Mrs. Wilson really thought she had) did she tell Margery that they were missing all the cricket, and had better go back to their seats again. Whether Mrs. Majendie and Mrs. Vereker suspected something, and were determined not to lose sight of her, or whether on their own account they felt that it was hopeless to linger longer among the petrol-ices, is uncertain—their motives were probably mixed—but they both exclaimed that they too felt that they were missing all the cricket, and accompanied Mrs. Wilson.
Lord Brayton had soon become visible to them all, and they quickened their pace a little. He had found an empty seat behind the Colonel's wife, to whom he was talking, while only two chairs removed from him were the elder Miss Grimsons. It was natural that the Colonel's wife should introduce him, and he moved up next to Miss Cathie. This looked very like invidiousness (a quality which Mrs. Wilson particularly detested) on Miss Cathie's part, though the absence of Margery's friend, that far too attractive niece, made the invidiousness less black than it would otherwise have been.
The circuit of the cricket-field was large, the day was hot, and very soon the mothers were hot too. But maternal duty impelled them to go round to the other side of the ground, where, as Mrs. Vereker said, you get so much better a view of the play, and the procession went briskly on, the mothers walking before, the daughters following after. Mrs. Vereker continued her account of the performance of Israel in Egypt to a distracted audience, while the three daughters talked about the subject of their walk.
"He is laughing at something Miss Cathie has said," remarked Margery. "I wonder where Lucia is. She has met him before, you know."
"And didn't he fall in love with her at once?" said the loyal Nellie.
"Lucia didn't mention it."
Mrs. Majendie turned round and pointed with her bangled arm to the pitch.
"Look, what a beautiful cut, Nellie!" she said; "or was it a pull? It's four runs, anyhow. No, it isn't. How quickly they pick it up and throw it!"
"Yes, mother," said Nellie. "Oh, Helen, I do hope Lord Brayton will fall in love with her. I think he must."
Margery put in her word.
"Lucia is so unselfish," she said. "She probably hasn't come this afternoon because she is making a hat for Miss Elizabeth. She is too sweet to both her aunts. I should be simply fiendish if I had to live all alone with them."
This, again, was the fruit of Lucia's thoroughness. Her month's effort had been perfectly done: she gave the impression of entire sweetness and amiability. But the panegyric was cut short.
"There she is," said Helen Vereker.
Lucia had a favourable moment for her entrance. The ball after that which had produced the beautiful cut had taken a wicket, and in the pause people looked about them. At that moment she came into the field from the footpath, looked brilliantly about her, and caught sight of her aunts. She gave a little smile of recognition to Lord Brayton, and with brazen impudence sat down in the vacant chair beside him. The baffled procession paused for a moment, then went bravely on and took the nearest seats they could find. But they were three whole rows off. Luckily, however, the innings would probably soon come to an end, when there would be a general re-sorting of seats, and Mrs. Majendie tried to remember if there were eleven a side or fifteen. The same doubt had occurred to Mrs. Vereker, and they had a little argument about it.
Lucia, meantime, was unconscious of the enormity of her crime in taking the chair next Lord Brayton, for though it was difficult to see how a party of six could have sat on it, all three mothers considered that they and theirs had been positively defrauded. But her quick, lucid brain was somewhat acutely occupied with a little difficulty in which she had possibly landed herself. For it had been she who had taken the original step of calling on Lord Brayton, or, to be more completely accurate, had thrust the card engraved with her aunts' names and her own into the hands of a footman, and had instantly retreated again on her bicycle. She had known at the time the irregularity of such a proceeding, and had done it quite deliberately, simply because she wished and intended to renew her acquaintance with Lord Brayton. Her plan, however, as she saw now, had not been sufficiently thought out, for she had anticipated only that he would ask them to garden-parties or something of the kind, and had quite overlooked the fact that he would most probably return the call. And now that she found him sitting by her aunts, he would probably if, indeed, he had not already done so mention to them that he had taken tea at their house. After that a little consideration would certainly make Aunt Elizabeth wonder at the unusualness of a man newly come to the place calling on three maiden ladies, who, as far as she was aware, had not called on him. Aunt Elizabeth might not see that at once, but in a day or two she was almost certain to do so, for it was eminently characteristic of her, so Lucia thought, to make disagreeable discoveries after a little interval, during which others imagined she had forgotten all about the occurrence. But even while she glanced quickly through these possibilities the blow fell in a smarter and more unexpected manner than she had anticipated.
"I was so sorry," said Lord Brayton to Aunt Cathie, "that I was out when you called. But I have been so very busy this last fortnight that I have seen nobody but my agent."
Luckily, Aunt Elizabeth was the other side of Aunt Cathie, and though she would indignantly have denied the imputation, the fact was that she was a little deaf. Aunt Cathie, however, turned to Lord Brayton in scarcely concealed surprise, when she saw Lucia looking at her with entreaty, and nodding gently at her. Aunt Cathie was not remarkably quick at taking hints, but there was no mistaking Lucia's look.
"You must have been driven," she said. "But what a good thing Lucia was in to-day! We are lucky to have such fine weather, are we not?"
That certainly was a safer topic; Aunt Cathie had changed the subject with a wrench, it might be, but changed it she had, and Lucia was grateful, for the greater danger of Aunt Elizabeth knowing was for the time averted. But after what had happened it was clear she must make Aunt Cathie her confidant. She thought that she could see her way through that.
Her opportunity occurred after they got back from the match. Elizabeth instantly went upstairs to lie down after the excitement, but the other two went out into the garden to see how things were looking "against," as Aunt Cathie put it, "the first alternate Tuesday." She also was bursting to know what Lucia's signal had meant, but as soon as they were alone, Lucia opened the subject herself, knowing well that an unasked confidence is more highly prized than one that is asked for. Aunt Cathie, she felt sure, would ask about it, unless she herself took the initiative. Nor did she intend to fall into the further mistake of inventing palliatives for what she had done. She wanted help, and knew quite well that help is given most readily to those who are abject. She prepared to be abject. She guessed, too, very well how tenderly (and how queerly) Aunt Cathie loved her, and how eager she was for intimacy. So she meant to make the most of that.
"Aunt Cathie," she said, "I've done something quite awful and disgraceful, and I want to tell you about it. May I?"
Cathie's heart gave a little leap, and a sudden colour came into her cheeks. She almost hoped that what Lucia had to tell her very bad indeed: it would add preciousness to her confidence. Her emotion made her more than usually brusque.
"Well, get on then," she said.
"I tell you, Aunt Cathie," said Lucia, "because I believe you are my friend, and would like to help me."
The pathetic old face grew more eager, and Aunt Cathie laid her hand on Lucia's arm.
"Yes, dear," she said.
"Well, look away: I can't look you in the face. What I have done is this. I went to Brayton Hall, without telling either you or Aunt Elizabeth, and left your cards. I did it because I wanted us to know Lord Brayton. I like that sort of house: I want to be asked to it. I didn't mean to tell you, and I only do so because I was in a difficulty, as you saw, to-day, and was afraid that you would say something awful to Lord Brayton. Oh, and I thank you very much for getting me out of that difficulty. It was dear of you."
The speech did not fall short of perfection. There was an entire frankness about it and absence of concealment which went straight to Aunt Cathie's heart. It was so well planned that it seemed almost brutally natural, and the confession that Lucia would not have told her had it not been for fear of worse consequences, was the most subtle part of it. It was wounding, but of the nature of a surgical wound that implies restoration. And the speech was completely successful.
Cathie's first and almost overwhelming impulse was to kiss Lucia. But there was an even kinder thing to do than that. She did it.
"Don't know London," she said, "but perhaps in London it's usual for a lady to call."
Again Lucia's instinct served her.
"No, dear Aunt Cathie," she said, "it would be quite as unheard of there as here."
Then the first impulse became quite overwhelming. Aunt Cathie drew Lucia's head down, and kissed her firmly.
"Tell me anything next time," she said, "before you're in a mess. Worse it is the better I shall like it. You don't know what it means to me. I'm an old fool, I suppose. Now what's to be done? Elizabeth will wonder why he called; about Saturday. You and I must make a plan. Just you and I. Our secret."
"You dear," said Lucia softly.
Aunt Cathie gave a loud sniff, and stepped on an earwig.
"Well, make a plan, Lucia," she said in a voice that trembled. "I can't do all the thinking. Let's talk it out. To-day is Thursday, is it not?—Elizabeth will say it's so odd he called about Saturday. Then she'll suspect that I left cards on him first, because she has often told me I'm pushing. Ha, we've got it now. I shall tell her I have called."
"Oh, Aunt Cathie, that is good of you," said Lucia. " But won't you mind?"
"Mind what? Telling a fib? Not a bit."
She put up her glasses and gazed severely at a passing train.
"I shall like it, Lucia," she said harshly, " if it pleases you. Now let's have no more of it. Look; the sweet-peas are really beginning to come out."
"But you're a dear," said Lucia again.
"Stuff and nonsense," said Aunt Cathie firmly.
Two days later, confirming the accuracy of Catherine's conjecture, Elizabeth began to wonder audibly. She was employed on a new patience at the time, which gave her an adventitious aid in dialogue, since she could be absorbed in the game whenever she did not wish to answer, and make her own remarks whenever she thought of them. It is only fair, however, to add that the crisis was precipitated by Catherine. She shut up "Le Fou Yégof" with a snap, having got to the end of a chapter.
"I'm thinking of sending a card for our Tuesdays to Lord Brayton, Elizabeth," she said.
"Red ten or black knave," said Elizabeth, trying to think of something sarcastic. Then she was brilliant, pausing with the red ten in her hand.
"The King is to be at the cattle-show that day," she said. "You will no doubt send him an invitation too. And black nine."
"Must be civil," said Aunt Cathie. "He called here, and had tea."
Lucia shut up the piano, but in closing it the lid slipped from her fingers and fell with a crash that set all the strings jarring. Aunt Elizabeth put up her hand to her head, and drew in her breath in a hissing manner.
"Oh, I'm so sorry," said Lucia.
"Never mind," said Aunt Elizabeth faintly. "You couldn't have told my head was so bad, dear, as I have made no complaint. Red eight; but I can't get at it."
There was a long silence, broken by an occasional sigh from Aunt Elizabeth. Then she spoke again.
"No doubt times are changed," she said,"but it is not so long ago when, if a young man, be he plain Mr. Smith or a Duke, came and had tea alone with a girl in a garden, we shouldn't have liked to express our opinion about it. So I express no opinion now. But I suppose I have a right as to my feelings on the subject, though I keep them to myself."
"Stuff!" said Aunt Catherine in a low voice, really not meaning Elizabeth to hear. But perhaps the shock to the aural nerve caused by the crash of the piano-lid had stimulated it, and she did hear.
"It may or may not be stuff," she said in almost a whisper, "though I am not aware to what stuff you allude, but I repeat that as long as I do not give vent to my feelings, they concern nobody but myself. And with regard to sending Lord Brayton a card, I am aware that you intend to do so, Catherine, if you have not already done so, and I merely wish to say that if people go about calling us pushing and forward, I will take my share of the scandal, as if it had been I who urged you to invite him. Whatever you do, Catherine, you may remember that you have got a sister who would never turn her back upon you. And the red eight comes down."
This tender assurance served only to exasperate Aunt Catherine. She had heard that sort of thing before, and knew what it meant, for it always portended some attack on Elizabeth's part.
"But we always send cards to all our calling-list," she said. "And as he has called, he is on our calling-list."
"Then if murderers and forgers left their cards, should we have the pleasure of seeing them on our Tuesdays?" asked Elizabeth.
"But Lord Brayton isn't a murderer or a forger," said Catherine.
Elizabeth gathered up the cards with a trembling hand, for it was clear that no further progress could be made.
"I cannot play my game if you insist on arguing with me," she said, "but it is not of the slightest importance, though the situation was interesting. Even if Lord Brayton is not a murderer or a forger, I do not know that he is the sort of young man whom our mother, Catherine, would have liked to have in the house. I am aware"—and Elizabeth put her handkerchief to her mouth, and spoke through it—"I am aware that I am old-fashioned, but I do not know that I wish to change the best feelings in my nature; and when a young man deliberately comes and calls and has tea without having been asked or called upon, I feel that he is not the sort of young man to encourage. Such a thing was not done in our mother's day, Catherine, and I do not think our own days are better in that we do those things now. Whether it showed true delicacy in Lucia to give him tea and sit and talk to him is, of course, a matter for her to settle, just as asking him to our Tuesdays is a matter for you to settle; and I am aware that my wishes on the subject will be disregarded."
"Very well, then, I won't ask him," said Catherine.
Elizabeth removed her handkerchief.
"I am, of course, assuming that LordBray ton made the call on his own initiative," she said. "But from time to time a doubt has crossed my mind which I have steadily put away from me."
"What doubt?" said Catherine.
Elizabeth closed her eyes and folded her hands.
"As to whether he could have done so extraordinary a thing," she said faintly. "I may be wronging you, Catherine, and I hope I am, but you will set my mind at rest if you tell me that you had not previously called on him."
"I called on him last week," said Catherine, with a sudden and stony glance of triumph at Lucia.
Elizabeth pressed her fingers over her closed eyelids, and breathed rather quickly.
"Don't be foolish, Elizabeth," said her sister. "We used to go there in the old days, and I should like to go there again. You would like to go there, too, only you won't say so."
"I am foolish, no doubt," said Elizabeth with sudden asperity, "and I am content to be so. I wish to ask if Lucia accompanied you on this unmaidenly expedition. Poor Lord Brayton! I pity him, if he is to be at the beck and call of all the pestering people in Brixham."
Lucia had a sudden impulse of kindness. She almost said that it was she who had been, and not Aunt Catherine. But her common sense came to her aid; to do that would only fix falsehoods on Aunt Catherine.
"Lucia knew nothing about it," said Cathie, rather appalled to find how finely and easily she lied.
Aunt Elizabeth rose and tottered to the door.
"It is past my bedtime," she said. "Do not wish me a good-night good-night, Catherine, nor you, Lucia. It would be but a hollow mockery."
Aunt Cathie sat silent a moment or two. Then suddenly she mopped her eyes.
"Poor old Elizabeth!" she said. "She doesn't mean half what she says, Lucia, so don't—don't be distressed. And she knows she doesn't mean it, poor Elizabeth. It's awful when you feel you can't help acting in a way you don't really want to. It's the matter with lots of old maids. Get a touch of it myself. Change the subject."
Ah, but how strong a touch of it she hid in those words! The desire of her soul was vastly different to the message of her voice, for she longed, longed that Lucia should just come across to her, and kiss her, or hold her hand, or even only pointedly change the subject, so that Aunt Cathie could see that she changed it in accordance with her wish. Instead, Lucia changed the subject with perfect naturalness, and said she would go to bed also, as it was past ten.