I knew I was offering him something greater than he could give me. I felt we were equals. I ceased to sob, I stood up, and looked him full in the face.
He returned my gaze with great solemnity. A queer change came over his very old face; his eyes were lit by an inward fire. It was impossible for me to tell whether he was pleased or not, but unquestionably he was moved, even agitated. After a brief pause he came up and took my hand in his.
“You are a brave girl, Rosamund Lindley,” he said. “You are like your mother, but you have more spirit than she ever had. You are very young – very, very young, or you would not offer an old man like me – an old miser, a person whose own heart is withered – such a gift as love. What can a withered heart want with love? You are very young, Rosamund, so I forgive your rash words. I will talk to you, however. Sit near me. You may open that fresh heart to me if you feel inclined.”
Cousin Geoffrey and I talked together for over an hour. At the end of that time he told me he was hungry, and that if I had no objection he would go out and bring in some lunch for us both.
He was now quite confidential and friendly. I made him laugh several times, and although he had apparently turned a deaf ear to my request, I fancied that I was getting on very well with him.
He made me chain the hall-door after him when he went out, and he promised that he would not be longer away than he could help. He brought in two mutton-chops for our lunch, which he fried himself in the most perfect manner, over a gas-jet in his sitting-room. We had bread with our chops, and some very rare wine, which was poured into tall Venetian glasses of great beauty.
“I don’t open this wine for my distant relatives,” he said, with a chuckle. “But you, Rosamund – your courage deserves the best I can do for you.”
After lunch he took me all over his large house. It was full of the most valuable and costly furniture, but all worm-eaten and going to decay from dirt and neglect.
He had some paintings of immense value in his drawing-rooms, and in his library were several rare editions of costly books.
“I refused three thousand pounds for that Paul Veronese,” he said, pointing to a picture which I was too ignorant to appreciate.
“Then you, too, love art,” I said. “Of course you will help me.”
“I love the great in art,” he answered. “But I despise the little. And of all things, what I most despise is the wild talk of the aspirant. Rosamund, you are a good girl, a plucky honest girl, but you will never be an artist. Tut, tut! There have not been more than a dozen real artists in the world, and is it likely that you will be the thirteenth? Go and darn your stockings quietly at home, Rosamund, and forget this silly little dream.”
I stamped my foot.
“If there have hitherto been only twelve artists I will make the thirteenth,” I said. “There! I am not afraid. I go and darn stockings! No, I won’t, not while you are alive, Cousin Geoffrey.”
I was angry, and I knew my eyes flashed angrily. I had often been told that my eyes could flash in a very brilliant and even alarming manner, and I was well aware that they had now bestowed a lightning glance of scorn on Cousin Geoffrey.
He was not displeased.
“Oh, what utter nonsense you talk!” he said. “But you are a brave girl, very brave. Why, you are not a bit afraid of me!”
“Afraid?” I said. “What do you mean?”
“Most of my relatives are afraid of me, child. They choose their words carefully; they always call me ‘dear Geoffrey,’ or ‘dear Cousin Geoffrey,’ and they agree with every word I say. It’s awfully monotonous being agreed with, I can tell you. A daring chit like you is a wonderful change for the better. Now, come down-stairs with me. You and I will have tea together. Rosamund, I wish you had a contented soul.”
By this time we had returned to the ugly sitting-room with the sky-light. Cousin Geoffrey had lit a fire with his own hands. He was now on his knees toasting some bread. He would not allow me to help him in the smallest particular.
“Rosamund,” he repeated, “I wish you were contented. Your ambition will undo you; your pride will have a fall.”
“Very well, Cousin Geoffrey, let it. I would rather ride my high-horse for a day, and have a fall in the evening, than never mount it at all.”
“Oh, folly, child, stuff and folly! There, the kettle boils. No, you need not help me, I don’t want young misses with grand ideas like you to touch my china. Rosamund, do you know – that I am looking out for an heir, or an heiress, to inherit my riches?”
“All right, Cousin Geoffrey, only pray don’t choose me!”
“You, you saucy chit! I want some one who’s contented, who won’t squander my gold. You! – really, Rosamund, your words are a little too bold to be always agreeable.”
“Please forgive me, Cousin Geoffrey. I just came here to-day to ask you for a little help – just a trifle out of all your wealth, and I don’t want you to think to think.”
“That you have come prying round like the other relatives? Why, child, your eyes have got tears in them. They look soft now – they were fierce enough a few moments ago. I don’t think anything bad of you, Rosamund; you are a brave girl. You shall come and see me again.”
“I will, with pleasure, when I come to London, to study art.”
“Oh – pooh! – Now drink your tea.”
After the meal was over, Cousin Geoffrey rose, and held out his hand.
“Good-bye, Rosamund,” he said. “I am glad you came to see me. You are your mother’s daughter, although you have not got her face. You may tell her so if you like, and and – But no; I won’t send any other message. Good-bye, Rosamund.”
“Cousin Geoffrey, you have not told me – Cousin Geoffrey – you won’t, oh, you won’t disappoint me?”
“Child, if I grant your request it will be against my will. As a rule, I never do anything against my will. I disapprove of your scheme. You are just a nice girl, but you are no artist, Rosamund.”
“Cousin Geoffrey, let me prove to you that I am.”
“I don’t want you to prove it to me. There, if I think twice of this matter you shall hear from me in a week.”
“And if I don’t hear?”
“Take my silence for what it means. I respect art – only true votaries must approach her shrine.”
Chapter Two
Cousin Geoffrey
I went home and waited for the week. I was excited, I even felt nervous. I was not a particularly pleasant companion for my mother during these days of waiting. I felt irritable, and the merest trifle made me speak crossly. The boys (we always called my big grown-up brothers “the boys”) twitted me on my London visit. They said my new hat had not improved my temper, and, by the way, where was my new hat?
I said, if it came home it would be in a week. I threw great mystery into my voice when I made this remark, but the boys were essentially matter-of-fact, and did not pursue the inquiry.
During this week my mother talked a great deal about Cousin Geoffrey.
At first she seemed almost afraid to ask me what had taken place during the time I spent with him, but soon she got over her reluctance, and then she was only too desirous to learn even the most remote particulars that I could give her.
She both laughed and cried over my account of my interview.
“Just like Geoffrey!” she exclaimed, when I quoted his remarks about art and artists. “Just like Geoffrey,” she said again, when I told her about the mutton-chop cooked by his own hands, and the delicate and rare wine served in the tall Venetian glasses.
My