The old lady rose and rang the bell.
“Please don’t, aunt,” said Laura. “I never take sherry. I don’t want anything except to talk with you a little about my poor father.”
“Poor Stephen,” replied Mrs. Malcolm. “Sadly imprudent, poor fellow. Nobody’s enemy but his own. And so you are married, my dear? Never mind, Jonam, my niece will not take anything.” This to the butler. “You were adopted by an old friend of your father’s, I remember. I went to Chiswick the day after poor Stephen’s death, and found that you had been taken away. I was very glad to know you were provided for; though, of course, I should have done what I could for you in the way of trying to get you into an institution, or something of that kind. I could never have had a child in this house. Children upset everything. I hope your father’s friend has carried out his undertaking handsomely?”
“He was all goodness,” answered Laura. “He was more than a father to me. But I lost him two years ago.”
“I hope he left you independent?”
“He made me independent by a deed of trust, when I first went to him. He settled six thousand pounds for my benefit.”
“Very handsome indeed. And pray whom have you married?”
“My benefactor’s nephew, and the inheritor of his estate.”
“You have been a very lucky girl, and you ought to be thankful to God.”
“I hope I am thankful.”
“I have often noticed that the children of improvident fathers do better in life than these whose parents toil to make them independent. They are like the ravens—Providence takes care of them. Well, my dear, I congratulate you.”
“God has been very good to me, dear aunt, but I have had many troubles. I want you to tell me about my father. Did you see much of him in the last years of his life?”
“Not very much. He used to call upon me occasionally, and he used sometimes to bring your mother to spend the day with me. She was a sweet woman—you are like her in face and figure—and she and I used to get on very nicely together. She was not above taking advice.”
“Had my father many friends and acquaintances at that time?” asked Laura.
“Many friends! My dear, he was poor.”
“Do you know if he had any one particular friend? He could not have been quite alone in the world. I recollect there was a gentleman who used to come very often to the cottage at Chiswick. I cannot remember what he was like. I was seldom in the room when he was there. I remember only that my father and he were often together. I have a very strong reason for wishing to know all about that man.”
“I think I know whom you mean. I have heard your poor mother talk of him many a time. She used to tell me all her troubles, and I used to give her good advice. You say you want particularly to know about this person.”
“Most particularly, dear aunt,” said Laura eagerly.
“Then, my dear, my diary can tell you much better than I can. I am a woman of methodical habits, and ever since my husband’s death, three and twenty years ago last August, I have made a point of keeping a record of the course of everyday in my life. I dare say the book would seem very stupid to strangers. I hope nobody will publish it after I am dead. But it has been great pleasure to me to look through the pages from time to time, and call up old days. It is almost like living over again. Kindly take my keys, Laura, and open the right-hand door of chiffonier.”
Laura obeyed. The interior of the chiffonier was divided into shelves, and on the uppermost of these shelves were neatly arranged three and twenty small volumes, bound in morocco, and lettered Diary, with the date of each year. The parliamentary records at Strawberry Hill are not more carefully kept than the history of Mrs. Malcolm’s life.
“Let me see,” she said. “Your father died in the winter of ’56; your poor mother a few months earlier. Bring me the volume for ’56.”
Laura handed the book to the old lady, who gave a gentle little sigh as she opened it.
“Dear me, how neatly I wrote in ’56,” she exclaimed. “My handwriting has sadly degenerated since then. We get old, my dear; we grow old without knowing it.”
Laura thought that in that monumental drawing room age might well creep on unawares. Life there must be a long hybernation.
“Let me see. I must find some of my conversations with your mother. ‘. Read prayers. Breakfast. My rasher was cut too thick, and the frying was not up to cook’s usual mark. Mem.: must speak to cook about the bacon. Read a leading article on indirect taxation in Times, and felt my store of knowledge increased. Saw cook. Decided on a lamb cutlet for lunch, and a slice of salmon and roast chicken for dinner. Sent for cook five minutes afterwards, and ordered sole instead of salmon. I had salmon the day before yesterday.’ Dear me, I don’t see your poor mother’s name in the first week of June,” said the old lady, turning over the leaves. “Here it comes, a little later, on the fifteenth. Now you shall hear your mother’s own words, faithfully recorded on the day she spoke them. And yet there are people who would ridicule a lonely old woman for keeping a diary,” added Mrs. Malcom, with mild self-approval.
“I feel very grateful to you for having kept one,” said Laura.
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