GEOFF had not thought it necessary to say anything about his intention, but he had made up his mind during the vigil of the night to act for himself. He did not go to the chambers, which he shared with a friend, or to his club for his letters, or to any of his usual haunts; but went direct to Piccadilly, which is a long way from Grove Road. A long walk is sometimes an advantage when you are going to have a decisive interview; but Geoffrey, it is to be feared, did not do himself much good by thinking of the hostile party whom he was about to meet. They were not only not disagreeable to him, but the very sight of them stilled every warlike inclination in his breast. Not only he did not want to fight with them, but his desire was to take up their cause and fight it for them, against himself and all belonging to him—which it will readily be perceived was not a way to do any good. He saw them only too clearly in his mind’s eye: the one sister standing a little in advance of the other; the eyes of Grace shining with courage and high spirit, while those softer lights under Milly’s soft brows rose upon him from time to time, always with a new eloquence of appeal. “If she were to ask me for my head, I think I would give it her,” Geoff said to himself; but there was no chance that she would ask for his head. He thought of them as he had seen them first, seated close by each other, turning two wistful, pale faces and eyes wet with tears upon him as he stood at the door, alarmed by his own intrusion. Their black dresses and their piteous looks had made an impression upon him which would never be effaced; and he had heard their story with a knot in his throat, ready to weep for very sympathy. When the same wonderful pair had arrived at Grove Road, he had been too much startled to know what to do or say. But now he was going to them with all his wits about him, no surprise possible, to open up all the question, and discuss it amicably, and help them, if it was possible to help those whose cause was so entirely in opposition to his own.
Grace and Milly were together as usual in the sitting-room, which had become by this time so intolerable to them. They were both very much surprised when he came in. They rose to their feet in wonder and partial dismay. They had been talking over all their affairs, and had come to a kind of conclusion between themselves; but this was a circumstance upon which they had not calculated. They had thought it very unlikely that they should hear anything more of Grove Road unless they themselves took the initiative. They gazed at each other with their usual mutual consultation, bewildered; but as soon as they came to themselves they too were very anxious to be polite to the enemy.
“I hope you will not think me intrusive,” he said.
“Oh, no; we do not know any one—” This was intended to mean that a visitor was welcome; but the speech was broken off in consequence of the embarrassment of the speaker.
“If what we think is true, we—my mother and I—should be more to you than anybody else in England,” Geoff said.
“But if what we think is true,” cried Grace, “or rather what you think—for we know nothing—we are enemies, are we not?”
“I don’t see why we should be. I have come to tell you all I know. You ought to have at least what information we can give you in order to find out who you really are, Miss——”
“Yorke,” cried Grace, “Yorke! that is our name; and as for finding out who we are, that is quite unnecessary. We may be strangers here,” the girl cried, holding her head high. “We have been very unhappy and very unfortunate, oh, miserable here! But when we are at home everybody knows who we are. We are as well known as you or any one. The Yorkes of Quebec—you have only to ask any Canadian. If you think it is necessary to find out a family for us, you are very, very much mistaken! England is not all the world. We are unknown only here.”
Her eyes flashed, her cheeks coloured as she spoke; all her pride was roused; and Milly held up her head proudly too. They had not been used to be nobodies, and they did not understand nor feel disposed to submit to it. This was a totally different thing from claiming their rights.
“I beg your pardon,” he said. “You know I don’t mean anything disrespectful; but you know also that there is another question. It is not as Miss Yorke that there can be any question between you and me. It is as the daughter of my mother’s cousin, Leonard Crosthwaite. Will you let me explain to you how the matter stands between us, if you are his children? This is how it is. Abraham Crosthwaite, an old unmarried uncle, died twenty years ago, leaving his money to Leonard, who had disappeared some time before. It was an old will, and it was supposed by everybody that Uncle Abraham had altered it in behalf of his nieces, Anna, and Mary, who is my mother. But he did not alter it; and when he died this was the state of affairs. Leonard Crosthwaite had not been heard of for ten years: everybody thought him dead; he had been advertised for, and had not replied. My mother and Aunt Anna were the next of kin. They succeeded without a question. Everybody had expected them to succeed. Uncle Abraham had announced over and over again his intention to give them everything he had. My mother had taken care of him for some years; of Aunt Anna he had always been proud. I never in my life heard any question of their rights, until all at once, a fortnight since, some one appeared at our house calling himself Leonard Crosthwaite——”
“Mr Geoffrey, papa would never have said he was any one, unless it had been true.”
“I cast no doubt upon that. I tell you only of our wonder, our alarm. My mother thought she recognised something in him like her cousin. Aunt Anna from the first said no; but you will take these statements for what they are worth. Aunt Anna would naturally resist anything that threatened to interfere with her comfort. My mother, on the other hand, is easily persuaded. I, of course, could say nothing on one side or the other. The gentleman I saw had every appearance of being a gentleman, and a man of truth and honour——”
Milly gave him a grateful glance behind her sister—a glance of tender thanks which made his heart beat. As for Grace, she bowed her head with a sort of stately assent.
“He was to come back; but we heard no more of him, until I came here to this hotel, and was entirely puzzled, as you know. I saw you, and thought you were very kind to interest yourselves about a person whom you had never heard of. When I saw you yesterday at Hampstead, I thought again it was kindness merely—that you had heard of the man of whom I was in search——”
“You must have thought us very extraordinary to interfere.”
“I thought you,” he said somewhat incoherently;—“but it does not matter what I thought you. Circumstances make us, as you say, almost enemies, who might have been—who ought to have been, dear friends.”
They both looked at him with melting eyes. “Yes,” said Grace, with a beautiful flush of sympathy, “cousins, almost like brothers and sisters. And perhaps, that may be still!” she cried. “Listen, this is what we had made up our minds to——”
“Let me say out my say first,” he said with a not very cheerful smile. “You are strangers, and you are too young to know how to manage such a complicated case. If you are Crosthwaites, and my cousin Leonard’s daughters, it will be best for us in the long run, as well as for you, that it should be proved—that the question should be settled. And you cannot know of yourselves what is necessary. I have brought you the names of two good lawyers—respectable, honourable men, either of whom will advise you wisely.” He took out a piece of paper as he spoke and handed it to Grace. “With either of these you will be safe,” he said.
The girls looked at each other for a moment; then Grace rose up and held out her hand to her adversary, seeing him through wet eyes. “Cousin Geoffrey,” she said, “I am sure you must be of the same blood with our father, for this is exactly what he would have done. Let us call you cousin: it is all we want, Milly and I. We had made up our minds this morning to forget it altogether, never to say another word or think of it any more.”
Milly’s hand was held out too, though more timidly. She did not say anything, but she looked a great deal more than Grace had said, he thought. He had risen too in a tremulous state of excitement and generous enthusiasm. It was only his left hand that he had to give to the younger sister, but even in that fact there seemed to both of them something special—a closer approach.
“I do not know what to say,” he said, “dear, brave, generous girls! To have you will be worth a great deal more than the money. We are friends for ever, whatever may come of it.” Then he kissed first one hand and then the other with quivering lips, the girls, blushing both, drawing close to each other, abashed, yet touched beyond description with a kind of sacred joy and awe. The emotion was exquisite, novel beyond anything in their experience; and the young man, thus suddenly bound to them, was as much affected as they.
“But we cannot accept this, all the same,” he said at last. “I should say all the less:—it must be investigated, and everything found out that can be found out.”
“We do not wish it; we will not have it,” the girls cried both together. But Geoffrey shook his head.
“You have nobody else to look after your interests. I am your next friend,” he said. “Don’t you know that is how we do in English law? Those who are too young or too helpless to plead for themselves plead by their next friend. And that is the most fit office for me.”
“Then that makes England a little like what we thought it: not like the cruel, cruel place,” cried Grace, “that it has been to Milly and me.”
“It has been cruel,” he said tenderly, with a voice which had tears in it, like their eyes. And there was not much more said, for they were all touched to that point at which words become vulgar and unmeaning. He went away shortly after, his heart swelling with tender brotherliness, friendship, and all the enthusiasm of generosity. The mere suggestion of their sacrifice had made him capable of that which had seemed so terrible to him an hour ago. He went out with his heart beating, full of high purpose and inspiration, quite happy, though that which had made him so miserable yesterday appeared now assured and certain. Such is the unreasonableness of youth.
When he had gone the girls turned to each other half laughing, half crying. They were happy too in this little encounter of generosity and impulsive feeling. “That is what we thought Englishmen were like,” said Grace.
“And he is the first Englishman we have known,” said Milly.
“Very different from Dr Brewer,” cried the elder sister.
Milly looked up, wondering, with a little “Oh!” of startled, almost wounded feeling. To compare Geoffrey to Dr Brewer!—or to any one, she whispered deep down in her being, out of hearing even of herself.
They had scarcely recovered from the commotion of this crisis when some one again knocked at the door. “It will be that doctor,” Grace said under her breath; and she was in no hurry to reply. It was only upon a second summons that she went forward slowly, reluctantly to open the door. And there outside stood Geoffrey’s mother, somewhat fluttered, somewhat red, not knowing very well how to meet the two enemies of her peace. She came in with a little eagerness and kissed them both; and then she delivered herself breathlessly of her mission.
“I said I would come and see you to-day. Oh, my dears! I am afraid you thought Anna was not very kind yesterday. She is an invalid, you know; she has tempers now and then. Oh, I don’t mean you to think she has a bad temper or is unkind. Nothing at all like that; but only—you can imagine if she had a bad night or a little extra ache. We ought all to be very forbearing, you know, and put up with people who are often in pain. Dear children! when I see you here in an inn, and think how many empty rooms we have got at home—there are more rooms, a great many more rooms than you would think in the Grove Road houses. And though Anna lives with me, the house, you know—the house is mine.”
They did not know very well what answer to make, but they put her in the best chair the room contained, and sat round her listening, which was, of course, the best thing to do.
“Yes, the house is mine. I am the real mistress of it, though Anna often takes a great deal upon her; but I don’t mind, I really don’t mind. And when I have set my heart upon anything she never interferes. Do you know what I have come for now? I have come to take you both back with me home.”
“Home!” the girls drew a long breath after the word. They seemed scarcely able to realise to themselves what it meant.
“Yes, home. I have set my heart upon it. If you are Leonard Crosthwaite’s daughters—I declare,” cried Mrs Underwood, her real feelings breaking in through all the flutter of words that had been put into her mouth—“I declare I don’t know whether I wish you to be Crosthwaites or not! Two nice girls—two dear girls; I am sure you have been nicely brought up, and that your mother is a nice woman. Poor dear!” said the kind soul, wiping her eyes and forgetting her rôle altogether. “My heart bleeds for her, poor dear!”
This brought the girls, who could doubt, clinging round her, hanging about her. Their soft touch, their tender faces went to her heart. No woman who is good for anything, not even the jealous mother of an only son, defending him from all feminine wolves, can resist the contact of innocent girls—creatures of her own kind. It was a novel pleasure to Mrs Underwood, who never had a daughter, and had always been an exclusively devoted parent, absorbed in her son. She put one arm round each and kissed them again, this time in all truth and tenderness, and with her heart full of natural feeling. “Will she have heard of it yet?” she said in a tone of tender awe.
“Oh, not for nearly a week yet,” the girls cried. And Mrs Underwood wept in sympathy.
“Poor dear! Oh, God help her, poor dear! I know what it is myself; but I was with him till the last moment. She will think if she had been here it would never have happened. Oh, God help her, poor dear! Then,” she added a minute after, as if this had been a reason, “you must get your boxes ready and come with me at once, my poor children; I cannot leave you here. I tell you I don’t know whether I shall be glad or sorry, if it is settled that you are Leonard Crosthwaite’s children. Sorry, I suppose, because I shall lose my money; but now that I know you I should be almost as sorry to lose you.”
This, though it was sudden, was real and true; for the kind woman felt that she had done them injustice. They were not dangerous adventuresses, hunting Geoff, but good girls, breaking their hearts for their mother, and counting the days till she should hear that terrible news. Mrs Underwood jumped into enthusiasm for them because she had been so much afraid of them before.
“You shall not lose either us or the money,” said Grace. “We had resolved before Mr Geoffrey was here, that we should do nothing more and think nothing more about it. If papa had meant us to do anything he would have said so. We made up our minds to this—this morning, before Mr Geoffrey was here.”
“My dears!” said Mrs Underwood, bewildered. She had no head for business, and she could not understand more than one thing at a time. She withdrew her arm a little and said doubtfully, “Then Geoffrey has been here?”
“He came—in the most generous, noble way. I am so glad, I am so thankful,” cried Grace, “and so is Milly—that we had quite made up our minds before.”
Mrs Underwood breathed forth a sigh of resignation. “I must hear all about this after,” she said, faltering; “but, my dears, the fly is standing at the door, and it is no use keeping it waiting. Put up your things as quickly as you can. Anna thinks—I mean I feel quite sure that you ought not to be staying at an inn in your circumstances. If your luggage is too heavy for the fly the heavy boxes can be sent afterwards. Of course you have all your coloured things, poor dears; and to go into such deep mourning with nobody to advise you! The best thing will be to bring just what is necessary. Run and put your things together and I will wait here.”
Then there passed between Milly and Grace a final consultation, several volumes in one glance. “Do you really mean that we are to go with you—to go home with you? Do you really want to have us?” said Grace with quivering lips.
“Oh, my dear, of course, of course I want you! And Anna—well, we need never mind Anna. You will amuse her too. She is very fond of clever people, and you are clever; at least you are clever, my dear,” Mrs Underwood said, patting Grace upon the shoulder; “and you are the little silly one, you will just do for me,” she said, putting her arm through Milly’s. Then her countenance clouded over. The girls did not know what to make of it. They could not hear the voice which was in Mrs Underwood’s ears—her own voice, saying, “I wonder why he should always be going to see the old lady—when he has me?” She gazed into Milly’s face and wondered wistfully whether it would frown at her, and find fault with Geoff for his attention to his mother. “It is nothing, my dear, nothing,” she said, recovering herself; “a little pain that I am quite used to. Go and get ready, like dear children; it will be such a surprise for Geoff.”
Thus Mrs Underwood carried out Miss Anna’s plans. That lady smiled when she heard the arrival, the boxes carried up-stairs, the sound of the young voices in the house. She thought it was all her doing, and that Geoff was a young precisian and his mother a fool, and she herself the only member of the family capable of doing anything in its defence.