IT was, as his mother foresaw, a great surprise for Geoff, to see Grace and Milly established under her wing when he reached home. They seemed to have each got her corner of the drawing-room, as if they had been there all their lives. The windows with that great distance stretching blue and far underneath, and the smoke, which was London, at their feet, attracted them both—a standing wonder and miracle; but Milly had brought down her little work-basket, and placed it on a corner of Mrs Underwood’s special table, and there she had settled herself as if she belonged to it; while Grace had got to the books which stood in low bookcases on either side of the fireplace. For the first hour Geoffrey really believed, with a wonder which he could hardly restrain, that his mother had broken loose from her life-long bondage to her sister, and that this bold step had really been taken by herself on her own responsibility. It was herself who undeceived him on this point. When the dressing-bell rang, and the girls went up-stairs to prepare for dinner, he put his arm round her and thanked and praised her. “It was like yourself to do it, mother,” he said warmly. “When you follow your own kind heart, you always do what is best.”
“Yes, my dear,” said Mrs Underwood, faltering; “indeed, indeed, I hope it is for the best. At least, that has been my meaning, dear. And Anna said——”
“Anna?” cried Geoff, with a cloud coming over his face.
“She thought it was the only wise thing. But she is not to be supposed to know anything about it,” his mother said, lowering her voice and holding up a finger at him. “You must be very careful. If she looks as if she did not like it, you are not to take any notice. I was not to tell anybody she had a hand in it; but of course I never meant to conceal it from you.”
Geoff was so angry and disconcerted, and so sick of the domestic fraud into which his mother had been beguiled, that he went off to his room without a word, leaving her sadly put out, but quite unable to divine what could have offended him. However, by the time he had changed his dress, Geoff, all alone in his room, burst out into a sudden laugh. “She is an old witch,” he said to himself; “she is as clever as—the old gentleman himself.” He was ashamed of the artifice, but could not help being diverted by the skill of that unseen helms-woman who managed everything her own way.
Miss Anna came to dinner as usual, leaning on her stick, and she received the girls with stately surprise, as if their presence was quite unlooked for but gradually unbent, and by degrees grew brilliant in her talk, and amused and delighted them. Geoffrey looked on with a mixture of shame, amusement, and contempt, at this pretended thawing and acceptance of what she could not prevent. She acted her part admirably, though now and then he surprised a glance of satisfaction and secret triumph which made him furious. But she kept up her show of reluctance so far that no one was invited into her boudoir that evening. They went back to the drawing-room again after dinner, where Geoffrey found both the girls standing within the half-drawn curtains of the window, looking down upon the London lights. They stood close together, talking low, talking of the great city all muffled and mysterious in mist, and smoke, and darkness, at their feet. When Geoffrey joined them, they stopped their conversation. “I am afraid I have interrupted you,” he said.
“Oh no, no! We can’t help talking of one thing. It is wearisome to other people; but after all it is only a few days. We were wondering where it was that he is lying,” said Milly.
Geoff pointed out to them as well as he could where the spot was.
“We have so often talked of seeing London, and thought what it would be like and what we should like most in it,” said Grace. “We little thought——”
He seemed to be taken into their confidence as they broke off and stood gazing with brimming eyes towards the place where their father lay.
“And now you will have no association with London but that of pain,” he said.
There was a pause, and then it was Milly who replied, “People have been very kind to us. We can never forget the kindness wherever we may be.”
To this Grace assented with a little reservation. “Yes, we shall never forget Grove Road—your mother and you, Mr Geoffrey.”
“What!” said Geoff, “are you drawing back already? I was Cousin Geoffrey this morning; and I do not think I have done anything to forfeit the name.”
There was a little murmur of apology from both; and there is no telling how long they might have lingered there, with the light and warmth behind them, and the wide world of sky and air, and distant mighty multitudinous life before, had not Mrs Underwood come forward anxiously to see what was going on. She had begun to feel herself deserted, and to remember again what she had once felt and said about the old lady. She had not so much as thought of the old lady since she brought them into the house; but now the murmur of voices behind the curtain; the natural, inevitable manner in which Geoff found his way there, the solitude into which she was herself thrown, brought back all her alarm. “Geoff,” she said, “you must not keep them in the cold: there is a great draught from that window: we always have the curtains drawn. Come in, my dears, come in to the light; there has been so much rain that it is quite cold to-night.”
They came directly, obedient to the call; there was no undutifulness, no resistance. They must have felt they were doing wrong, they obeyed so quickly, she thought. But then Mrs Underwood had a very happy hour. Geoffrey took up the evening paper which had been brought in for him—Miss Anna having previously finished it and sent it with a message that there was nothing in it—while Grace returned to her examination of the books, and Milly settled herself by Mrs Underwood’s side. She was glad to see that he could still think of politics, although they were here. Miss Anna, in order that she might come down gradually from her eminence, had left the door of communication open between her room and this one, and sometimes launched a word at them, stimulating their somewhat languid talk. For neither Mrs Underwood nor Milly were great talkers; they sat together, finding great fellowship in this mere vicinity, now and then exchanging a word as they lent each other the scissors or the thread. And Geoff read his newspaper calmly in this calm interior, where there was still no appearance of any power or passion which might either break old ties or form new.
Thus the soft evening sped along. It gave Mrs Underwood a little tremor to see that when Geoff laid aside his paper he went to the table at which Grace was seated with a number of books round her, and began an earnest conversation. But she reflected within herself that it was not Grace but the little one, and took comfort. Perhaps she would not have been so much consoled had she known what the subject of the conversation was. Grace was so buried in the books which she had collected from the shelves, that she scarcely noticed, till he spoke, the shadow which was hovering between her and the light.
“I want to tell you,” he said—and she started, looking up at him with a little impatience, yet—as remembering the calls of politeness, and that she was his mother’s guest—with a smile—“I have laid the whole matter before the lawyer whose name I gave you to-day,” Geoffrey said.
“The whole matter!—there is no whole matter; nothing but guesses and perhapses. We do not want anything more said about it, Cousin Geoff.”
“But we must have something more said about it, Cousin Grace. Who can tell? It might be dragged to light in the third or fourth generation,” he said with a smile. “Your grandson might question the right of mine, to any small remnant that may be left by that time.”
“I will answer for my grandson,” said Grace.
“But I cannot answer for mine; probably he will be a headstrong, hot-headed fellow. No, it must be settled now. Mr Furnival wants to know what evidence you have, one way or another; if you have anything that throws light on the subject: any clue to the past or information about the family or name? You may trust everything to his hands.”
“But I told you we had no information whatever—none. I never heard the name before. My brother is called Leonard, that is the only thing; and there are one or two memoranda of papa’s.”
“These will be of the utmost value.”
“I don’t think you will find them of any value at all. One is in his little diary that he kept during the voyage. I do not like to give it into any stranger’s hands. No, there is nothing private in it; but only the little things that—that are more hard to look at than great ones,” said Grace. “Little, little things that we did every day—that we never shall do any more.”
There was a pause, and then he said, insisting gently, “You must not think me troublesome and pertinacious; but you may be sure it will be handled with reverence, and given back to you without delay.”
“You can’t think how little it is, it is nothing,” she said; but finally she consented to bring all the scraps together and place them in Geoff’s hands. They were not much when they were put together. First, the entry in the diary: “Same name in directory at old address. To go first thing and enquire.” Then the still more hieroglyphical notes written on the same paper which contained the address, “Left July ’45. U.A. died ’55. Due with interest for twenty years—but forgiven;” and the repeated 3 Grove Road, written over his blotting-book, and repeated on at least two pieces of paper. Geoff folded them carefully up, and sealed them into a packet. His mind was heavy, but his heart was light. He saw moral confirmation indisputable in these scraps of writing. It seemed to him that in no way could his mother retain her fortune against a claim so certain; but he saw at the same time that there could be no legal proof, and that his aunt would be triumphant and retain hers. Was not this the best solution of the matter that could be? He did not see his way yet about his own work and ability to make up to his mother for what she must lose; therefore his mind was troubled and in difficulty still; but to know that when he came home at night he should find Milly shyly smiling at Mrs Underwood’s side, taking her place as if in her own home, beguiled the young man out of all his cares. Whatever happened, nothing could take from him this sweet evening, and other sweet evenings like it.
A week of close domestic intercourse, long evenings spent together, how rapidly acquaintance grows under such circumstances! They made the most delightful family party, moving from one room to another in the long delicious evenings, cheerful, though still subdued by the recent grief which was so ready to revive in the girls’ eyes at any chance allusion. This made a tenderness in their intercourse which nothing else could have done. Even Miss Anna was tender of the young mourners, and it was she who most steadily exerted her powers to cheer them, and win from them smiles, and even laughter, and a hundred little returns towards amusement, towards the brighter impulses of life. But perhaps what they enjoyed most was to stand behind the half-drawn curtain in the evenings, and gaze out on London, and talk, with tears which no one rebuked, which Geoff, their only companion, if any reliance could be placed upon his voice, was often very near sharing. They told him about their father, about the household at home, about their first glorious morning in London, when they had gone to Westminster and feared no evil; and Geoff listened with sympathy, with tender curiosity, with all the youthful freemasonry which understands almost without a word. While these talks were going on, Mrs Underwood, stranded as it were outside, would sit fidgeting in her chair, longing to interfere, thinking within herself of the old lady left alone, and scarcely able to restrain her trembling anxiety, lest things should go too far, and her doom be sealed. Miss Anna, on the contrary, watched over the young people, going and coming with that little pat of her stick upon the floor, and restraining her sister. “You simpleton,” she would say in a whisper, “don’t you see everything is going to a wish? What could you desire more? They are getting acquainted; they are getting on as fast as possible.” “Oh, but Anna!” poor Mrs Underwood would say, getting up and sitting down again. “My boy, my boy!” “Oh, hold your tongue, you silly woman! Your boy is happier than he ever was in his life,” said the imperious sister, sitting down to keep watch over Geoff’s tranquillity. Mrs Underwood dared not stir, with Miss Anna guarding her like this; but she moaned within herself and shook her head. It was all a conspiracy to take her son from her. She liked the little one well enough—nay, very much, as she sat on the low chair, and talked a little now and then, and was always ready with the scissors. Mrs Underwood had a way of losing hers, and she had never had a daughter to find them for her, to know by instinct when she wanted them for her work as Milly did. That was all very pleasant. And it might be good as a family arrangement; Anna thought so, and Anna knew best; but to tell her that her boy had never been so happy—though she had devoted herself to him all her life—this was indeed too much to bear.