“Yes, I remember,” said Mr Auriol. But he spoke absently.
“And it is all that horrid family feud. When they – at least I don’t know why I should say ‘they;’ I believe it is only Lettice – found out my connections, the difference was most marked, though before then they had been quite friendly, and I had hoped to introduce them and my sister to each other. Those sorts of things are really too bad, carrying them down to the younger generation.”
Godfrey bent his head in acquiescence, but did not speak.
“Do you,” Philip went on again after a moment’s pause, and with some little embarrassment – “do you think her as pretty as you had been told?”
“Far more so. ‘Pretty!’ – pretty is not at all the word for her. I think her distinctly beautiful,” Mr Auriol replied, with a sort of burst of enthusiasm which somehow seemed rather to disconcert Philip.
“I thought you would. That fair hair with such dark eyes is so very uncommon,” he replied quietly. And instantly it flashed upon Mr Auriol that they were speaking at cross purposes. He smiled to himself, but for reasons of his own, and being perfectly unaware of the impression his words had made upon his companion, he decided not to explain his mistake.
“Your sister, Mrs Leyland, is much better, I was glad to hear?” he said courteously, thinking it just as well to change the subject.
“Oh, much better, thank you; quite well, indeed. We shall be leaving immediately. In fact, we should have left already, but, to tell you the truth, when it became evident that Mrs Morison was sinking I persuaded Anna to stay on a little, just to see if perhaps we could be of some service to those poor children. They seemed so lonely.”
“It was very good of you,” said Godfrey warmly.
“I – I thought my uncle and aunt would have wished it, and Anna thought so too,” said Philip.
“But it was no use. I believe Lettice would rather have applied to any utter stranger than to us.”
“Really,” said Godfrey, surprised, and even a little shocked. “I had no idea they still felt so strongly. Perhaps it’s just as well you told me, for I see I shall have some rather ticklish business to manage. But forewarned is forearmed. I may call on Mrs Leyland some evening, I hope? I shall have very few here.”
“Oh, certainly,” said Philip. “She will be delighted to see you.”
Then the conversation drifted into general matters. Philip escorted Mr Auriol to one or two points of interest in the little town, and at ten o’clock precisely the latter found himself at the gate of the Villa Martine.
Chapter Three.
The Tug of War
“Your courage much more than your prudence you showed.”
Lettice received her cousin in the drawing-room. She was, of course, expecting him, but there was not a touch of nervousness in her manner as she quietly shook hands with him, and in a friendly, perhaps slightly patronising tone, as if to put him quite at his ease, hoped that he found the hotel comfortable, that he had slept well, was not too tired with his journey, and so on, to all of which Mr Auriol replied with equal composure. But he was eyeing the young lady all the time, taking measure of her much more closely than she had any idea of. He observed her, too, with a certain curiosity as to her appearance. The night before he had seen her in a subdued light – almost, indeed, in shadow, as the consciousness of her recent tears had made her avoid coming forward conspicuously, and he wondered if he should find her as lovely as she had then appeared.
“She is, and she is not,” he decided. “Her features are all that I pictured them, but the soft sweet expression is gone. Yes, this morning I can believe her to be both prejudiced and self-willed.”
And his glance rested with pleasure on the somewhat anxious but thoroughly womanly and gentle expression of Nina’s fair face, as she just then entered the room, followed by Arthur.
Mr Auriol looked round him inquiringly.
“Have you any other room at liberty,” he said, “where there is perhaps a large table? There are a number of papers I wish to show you;” and he touched a packet which he held under his arm.
“We can go into the dining-room,” said Lettice, opening a door which led into it as she spoke; “though, really, Mr Auriol, you need not give yourself so much trouble. We are perfectly satisfied that our money is in good hands. Mamma often told me that my father had given himself immense trouble to place it safely, so that at his death there should be no trouble; in short, that our trustees would have nothing to do but leave it as it was.”
Mr Auriol made no reply. But when the four were seated round the dining-table, he deliberately undid his important-looking packet, and drew from it paper after paper, all neatly labelled and arranged, which he placed beside him.
“These,” he said, touching two mysterious-looking documents, “are the statements of your capital and of your income. I have had copies made, so that I can leave these with you, in case you ever wish to refer to them, as you are all three of an age to understand such matters to a certain extent. You said just now, Miss Morison, that everything to do with your money matters had been thoroughly seen to before your father’s death. I must explain to you that all was not as satisfactory as you imagine. Your father, as he constantly said himself, was not a good man of business. I am not afraid of your misunderstanding me when I say this. You cannot but know how deeply attached to him I was, and how much gratitude I shall always feel to him for much past kindness. I simply state the fact, with no disparagement to him. When he died his affairs were exceedingly confused and involved, and I, as one of his executors – the only one – for, you remember, Colonel Brown died suddenly just when your father did – hardly knew what to do. And I tell you honestly that I never could have got things into the satisfactory state they are now in, but for help which I cannot exaggerate, and from a quarter where, all things considered, one could little have expected it.”
Mr Auriol paused and looked round him. All the three young faces expressed strong feeling. On Lettice’s there was a look of tension painful to see. Her lips moved as if she would have asked her cousin to go on, but no sound came. He understood her, however, and pitying her heartily, he continued, his eyes fixed on the paper before him.
“That help came from your father’s stepbrother, the only son of his father by his second marriage – the merchant, Mr Ingram Morison.”
There was a dead silence. The tears were in Nina’s eyes, and Arthur’s face was quivering, but Lettice’s was deadly pale and stony. And when she spoke her voice was so unlike itself that all started.
“Did my mother know this?” she said in a tone which matched the look on her face.
“Not at first,” said Mr Auriol, still avoiding to turn his eyes in her direction; “not till things were all in order would Mr Morison allow her to be told anything. He risked very large sums – of course, not so large to him as to a less wealthy man, but still actually large – to save your fortune. And, thanks to his great acuteness and experience, he succeeded most wonderfully, so that at the present time you do not actually owe him money.”
“Thank Heaven for that,” murmured Lettice.
Mr Auriol turned upon her with a sharp movement of indignation. But when he went on speaking it was as if continuing his words, and not as if addressing himself to her in particular.
“But you do owe him, what to a generous mind is never a painful burden, an immense debt of gratitude.”
“Then I recall my words,” burst out Lettice. “I wish to Heaven it were money, that I could work for it – work my fingers to the bone, till I could repay every farthing. To owe gratitude, that can not be counted in money, to that man! Oh, it is too much! How dared you do it?” she flashed out to Godfrey.