in for it so long. But it was satisfactory to hear that his present fellow-pupils did not go in for that sort of thing, and Constance felt sure that her uncle and aunt would be pleased with him and think him much improved.
p. 163CHAPTER XXIV
THE REVENGE OF SORDID SPIRITS
‘I am quite convinced,’ said Ida Morton, ‘it is quite plain why we are not invited.’
‘My dear, you see what your aunt says; that Mrs. Bury’s daughter’s husband is ordered to India, and that having the whole family to stay at Northmoor gives them the only chance of being all together for a little while, and after their obligations to Mrs. Bury—’
‘Ma, how can you be so green? Obligations, indeed! It is all a mere excuse to say there is not room for us in that great house. I see through it all. It is just to prevent us from being able to ask inconvenient questions of the German nurse and Mrs. Bury and all!’
‘Now, Ida, I wish you would put away that fancy. Your uncle and aunt were always such good people! And there was Mrs. Bury—’
‘Mother, you will never understand the revenge of sordid souls,’ said Ida tragically, quoting from
‘Revenge! What can you mean?’
p. 164‘Of course, you know, Mrs. Bury never forgave Herbert’s taking her for a tramp, and you know how nasty uncle was about that white rook and the bets. Oh, it is quite plain. He was to be deprived of his rights, and so this journey was contrived, and they got into this out-of-the-way, inaccessible place, and sent poor Conny away, and then had no doctor or nurse—exactly as people always do.’
‘Oh, Ida, only in stories! Your novels are turning your head.’
‘Novels are transcripts of life,’ again said Ida, solemnly quoting.
‘I don’t believe it if they put such things into your head,’ said her mother. ‘Asking Herbert to be godfather too! Such a compliment!’
‘An empty compliment, to hoodwink us and the poor boy,’ said Ida. ‘No, no, ma, the keeping you away settles it in my mind, and it shall be the business of my life to unmask that!’
So spoke Ida, conscious of being a future heroine.
It was quite true that Herbert had been asked to stand godfather to his little cousin’s admission into the Church, after, of course, a very good report had been received from his tutor. ‘You are the little fellow’s nearest kinsman,’ wrote Lord Northmoor, ‘and I trust to you to influence him for good.’ Herbert wriggled, blushed, thought he hated it, was glad it had been written instead of spoken, but was really touched.
His uncle had justly thought responsibility would be wholesome, and besides, Herbert represented to him his brother, for whom he had a very tender feeling.
It was quite true that Northmoor was as full as p. 165it would hold. Mrs. Bury’s eldest daughter was going out to India, and another had a husband in the Civil Service; the third lived in Ireland, and the only way of having the whole family together for their last fortnight was to gather them at Northmoor, as soon as its lord and lady returned, nor had they been able to escape from their Dolomite ravine till the beginning of May, for the roads were always dangerous, often impassable, so that there had been weeks when they were secluded from even the post, and had had difficulties as to food and fire.
However, it had done them no harm, and was often looked back upon as, metaphorically as well as literally, the brightest and whitest time in their lives. Frank had walked and climbed both with Mrs. Bury and on his own account, and had drunk in the wild glories of the mountain winter, and the fantastic splendours of snow and ice on those wondrous peaks. And, with that new joy and delight to be found in the queer wooden cradle, his heart was free to bound as perhaps it had never done before, in exulting thankfulness, as he looked up to those foretastes of the Great White Throne.
Never had he had such a rest before from toil, care, and anxiety as in those months in the dry, bracing air, and it was the universal remark that Lord Northmoor came back years younger and twice the man he had been before, with a spirit of cheerfulness and enterprise such as had always been wanting; while as to his wife, she was less strong than before, but there was a certain peaceful, yet exulting happiness about her, and her face had gained wonderfully in sweetness and expression.
p. 166The child was a fine plump little fellow, old enough to laugh and respond to loving faces and gestures. Mary had feared the sight might be painful to Lady Adela, and was gratified to find her too true a baby-lover and too generous a spirit not to worship him almost as devotedly as did Constance.
Perhaps the heads of the family had never seen or participated in anything like the domestic mirth and enjoyment of that fortnight’s visit; Bertha was with Lady Adela, and the intimacy and confidence in which Frank and Mary had lived with Mrs. Bury had demolished many barriers of shyness, and made them hosts who could be as one with their guests—guests with whom the shadow of parting made the last sunshine seem the more bright.
‘I did not know what I was letting you in for,’ said Bertha, in apology to Mrs. Bury.
‘My dear, I would not have been without the experience on any account. I never saw such a refreshing pair of people.’
‘Surely it must have been awfully slow—regular penal servitude!’
‘You confuse absence of small talk with absence of soul, Birdie. When we had once grown intimate enough to hold our tongues if we had nothing to say, we got on perfectly.’
‘And what you had to say was about Master Michael?’
‘Not entirely; though I must say the mingled reverence and curiosity with which they regard the little monster, and their own fear of not bringing up their treasure properly, were a very interesting study.’
p. 167‘More so than your snowy peaks! Ah, if the proper study of mankind is man, the proper study of
