“It is the easiest way, perhaps, of setting things right,” she said, not without an anxious glance; “but even bricks and mortar are apt to lead you further than you think. You remember Mr. Briggs, in Punch?”
“They will not lead me too far,” said Theo. “I am all in the way of renovation and restoration. You should see—or rather, you should not see, for I am afraid you would be shocked—our own house—”
“What are you doing? No, I should not be shocked. I never was a devotee of the Warren. I always thought there were a great many improvements I could make.”
“Oh, mamma!”
“You must remember, Chatty, I was not born to it, like you. What are you doing? Are you building? Your letters are not very explicit, my dear.”
“You shall see. I cannot describe. I have not the gift.” Here the cloud came again over Theo’s face, the cloud which he had pushed back on his entrance as if it had been a veil. “We have let in a little light at all events,” he said, “that will always be something to the good. Now, mother, let me have some lunch; for I cannot stay above an hour or so. I have to see Longstaffe. There has been a great deal to do.”
“Mr. Longstaffe, I am sure, will not give you any trouble that he can help.”
“He is giving me a great deal of trouble,” said the young man, with lowering brows. Then he cleared up again with an effort. “You have not told me anything about your doings in town.”
“Oh, we did a great deal in town.” Here Mrs. Warrender paused for a moment, feeling that neither did the auditor care to hear, nor the person concerned in those doings care to have them told. Between these two, her words were arrested. Chatty’s head was more than ever bent over her muslin, and Theo had walked to the window, and was looking out with the air of a man whose thoughts were miles away. No one said anything more for a full minute, when he suddenly came back, so to speak, and said, with a sort of smile:—
“So you were very gay?” as if in the meantime she had been pouring forth an account of many gaieties into his ear. So far as Theo was concerned, it was evidently quite unnecessary to say any more, but there was now the other silent listener to think of, who desired that not a word should be said, yet would be equally keen to note and put a meaning to the absence of remark. Between the two, the part of Mrs. Warrender was a hard one. She said, which, perhaps, was the last thing she ought to have said: “We saw a great deal of your friend Mr. Cavendish.”
“Ah, Dick! yes, he’s about town I suppose—pretending to do law, and doing society. Mother, if you want me to stay to luncheon—”
“I will go and see after it,” said Chatty. She gave her mother a look, as she put down her work. A look—what did it mean, a reproach for having mentioned him? an entreaty to ask more about him? Mrs. Warrender could not tell. When they were left alone, her son’s restlessness increased. He felt, it was evident, the dangers of being left with her tête-à-tête.
“I hope you didn’t see too much of him,” he said hastily, as if picking up something to defend himself. “Cavendish is a fellow with a story, and no one knows exactly what it is.”
“I am sure he is honourable and good,” said Mrs. Warrender, and then she cried, “Theo! don’t keep me in this suspense—there is something amiss.”
He came at once, and sat down opposite to her, gazing at her across the little table. “Yes,” he said with defiance, “you have made up your mind to that beforehand. I could see it in your eyes. What should be amiss?”
“Theo, you do me wrong. I had made up my mind to nothing beforehand—but I am very anxious. I know there must be difficulties. What are your negotiations with Mr. Longstaffe? Is it about settlements?—is it—”
“Longstaffe is an old fool, mother: that is about what it is.”
“No, my dear. I am sure he is a kind friend, who has your interests at heart.”
“Whose interests?” he said, with a harsh laugh. “You must remember there are two sides to the question. I should say that the interests of a husband and wife were identical, but that is not the view taken by those wretched little pettifogging country lawyers.”
“Dear Theo, it is never, I believe, the view taken by the law. They have to provide against the possibility of everything that is bad—they must suppose that it is possible for every man to turn out a domestic tyrant.”
“Every man!” he said, with a smile of scorn: “do you think I should be careful about that? They may bind me down as much as they please. I have held out my hands to them ready for the fetters. What I do grudge,” he went on, as if, the floodgates once opened, the stream could not be restrained, “is all that they are trying to impose upon her, giving her the appearance of feelings entirely contrary to her nature—making her out to be under the sway of—That’s what I can’t tolerate. If I knew her less, I might imagine—but thank God, I am sure on that point,” he added, with
