The moment he was alone Paul fell, with a thrill of the most exquisite anticipation, upon his prize. The journal consisted of large manuscript volumes handsomely bound in red morocco. Lady Maria’s handwriting was small but very legible, and of an extreme neatness, not one correction or erasion appearing in any of the pages that Paul looked at. After browsing indiscriminately for a while, examining the little water-colour drawings that were interspersed among the text, Paul settled down to read the fifth volume, which began with the following words:
Jan. 1st, 1878.
Another year, with its store of tribulations and sufferings, its trials and grievous disappointments, is now before us. Thought much last night, while listening to the New Year bells, of the Dear Dead, and was thankful for all they will have been spared. Felt how willingly I could join them should the Call come to me. As Mr Landor has said, so truly and so touchingly, ‘I warmed both hands before the Fire of Life, it sinks, and I am ready to depart.’ Thought of Dearest Papa and all his sufferings so patiently borne, and of the Loved Grave at Margate. Prayed for strength in the coming year that I and my Dear Ones may be able to bear everything that is in store for us. (N.B. – Must remember to tell Mrs Craven that the beef was overdone yesterday. It makes Josiah so very sad and angry when this is the case, and I feel that it must be quite unnecessary.) As I write poor Ivanhoe lies at my feet. Dear faithful beast, I fear that he may not be spared to see many more New Years; how dreary, how different this house will seem without the feeble, friendly wag of his old weatherbeaten tail …
Hardly had Paul read so far when Bobby came back into the room, shut the door and settled himself down by the fire in the evident anticipation of a good gossip.
‘Look here, old top,’ he said, ‘put down great-grandmamma for a few minutes and listen to a very natty piece of news. No, really, something too incredible is going to happen.’
‘Oh, is it? What?’
‘My cousin Michael Lewes is coming to stay here tomorrow for a fortnight.’
‘What is there incredible about that? Your sister told me in the car that all your aunts and uncles and cousins were coming for Christmas.’
‘Oh, didn’t you know? Why, Michael left England three years ago and got a post in Cairo simply because of Amabelle, because she refused to marry him. She was the love of his life. He’s only been home for exactly a week, and now he’ll find himself in the next house to her – you must say it’s pretty odd. They’re bound to meet.’
‘They may not.’
‘Likely tale! I shall certainly make it my business to see that they do,’ he added mischievously, giving Paul the benefit of that smile with which he had already launched, as it were, a thousand ships.
‘Good gracious,’ said Paul suddenly, forgetting to smile back and shutting up Lady Maria’s journal with a bang. ‘Lord Lewes. Yes, of course I remember all about it now. I’d no idea he was any relation to you though.’
‘My first cousin. Father’s sisters all married well, as it happens, which leaves me quite nicely connected.’
‘You’re a damned little snob.’
‘I know; I glory in it.’
‘Oh, you do, do you? Tell me some more about your cousin though. How old is he now?’
‘Michael is thirty-two or -three I suppose. Amabelle’s what? Nearly forty-five should you think? He was crazy about her, I believe, begged and implored her to marry him, but the old girl had too much sense to do that. And anyway she was frightfully bored by the whole affair. I don’t wonder either. Michael’s awfully sweet, you know, but not exactly a hero of romance.’
‘What did his people think of it?’ asked Paul.
‘His father and mother are both dead, you know. My mother got hold of the wrong end of the stick, as she always does, and thought that poor darling Amabelle was a scheming old tart trying to lure him into her clutches. But Michael settled the whole thing himself by getting another post abroad when he saw that she was determined not to marry him.’
‘D’you think he’ll have got over it by now?’
‘Would one ever get over being in love with Amabelle?’ said Bobby sententiously. ‘I doubt it. I don’t imagine Michael would anyway; he took it very hard at the time; besides, he’s a sentimental old thing. It’s lucky you happen to be an author, Paul, my boy. This house is going to be a perfect hotbed of copy for the next week or two. Another frightfully funny thing has happened, by the way. Mamma has left cards on Amabelle. I can only suppose she has no idea it’s that Mrs Fortescue.’
‘How d’you know she has?’
‘I’ve been over at Mulberrie Farm the whole afternoon playing bridge with Jerome and the Monteaths.’
‘Oh, so that’s your Eton friend. I thought as much. How does Amabelle like the country?’
‘Loathes it, of course. She’s so bored that she’s taken to going out farming every day with old Major Stanworth. It’s frightfully funny, I must say, to hear her talking about Runner Ducks and Middle Whites. Apparently she helped to accouche a cow yesterday.’
‘I must go over and see her tomorrow. How am I going down with your mamma?’ asked Paul, rather nervously, glancing at the precious journal.
‘Quite O.K. so far. She likes the looks of you she told me. But for heaven’s sake keep off the subject of hunting, or I know you’ll put
