Miss Driver, who had read in a low but level and composed voice, paused here for a moment – perhaps in doubt whether to read more. Then she went on: "'With that much excuse – for I have none other – I must now, my daughter, say good-by, for I am dying. Though of my own choice I have not seen you since your infancy. I have not been without thought for you. I hesitated long before throwing on your shoulders all the burden which I have created for my own and carried on them. But in the end nature has seemed to say to me – and to speak more strongly as I grow weaker – that you are the person to whom it should belong and that, if things go wrong, it will be nature's fault, not mine. Don't spend more than two-thirds of your income – the other third should go back to work and bring in more. Give handsomely when you give, but don't be always dribbling out small sums; they mount up against you without aiding the recipients. Go to church unless you really dislike it. Be independent, but not eccentric. You have a great position; make it greater. Be a power in your world. About love and marriage, remember always that being sensible in general matters is no guarantee that you will act sensibly there. So be doubly on your guard. Suspect and fear marriage, even while you seek the best alliance you can find. Be you man or woman, by marriage you give another a power over you. Suspect it – suspect your lover – suspect yourself. You need fear no man except the man to whom you have given yourself. With earnest wishes for your welfare, I remain your affectionate father – Nicholas Driver.'"
During the reading Cartmell's face had been disturbed and sad; once or twice he fidgeted restively in his chair. I had listened intently, seeming again to hear the measured full voice, the hard clean-cut counsels, to which I had listened almost daily for the last four years. Fine sense! And a heart somewhere? I was inclined to answer yes – but how deep it lay, and what a lot of digging to get there! He had never given his daughter one chance of so much as putting her hand to the spade.
She tucked the letter away in her little bag; she was smiling again by now. I had smiled myself – my memories being so acutely touched; but she must have smiled for discernment, not for memory.
"Now I think I should like to go and see him."
Cartmell excused himself, as I knew he would.
"I've never seen him, that I can remember, you know," she said.
The meeting of the Catsford Corporation (the town had become a borough ten years before – largely owing to Mr. Driver's efforts) could not wait. But Cartmell had one thing to say before he went; it was not on business, nor arising out of the letter; he was to have a full business discussion with her on the morrow. He took her hand in both of his and pressed it – forgetful apparently of her sharp rebuke.
"You can't live in this great house all alone," he said. "I wonder your father said nothing about that!"
"Oh, that's all right. Chat's coming in a week. She'd have come with me, but Mrs. Simpson wouldn't let her go till a new governess could be got. Four girls, you see, and Mrs. Simpson thinks she's an invalid. Besides, Chat wouldn't come without a new black silk dress. So I had to give her most of that money – and she'll be here in a week – and I haven't got a new dress."
I noticed that her black dress was far from new. It was, in fact, rather rusty. Her black straw hat, however, appeared to be new. It was a large spreading sort of hat.
"Yes, Mr. Austin, the hat's new," she remarked.
The girl seemed to have a knack of noticing where one's eyes happened to be.
"I can give you lots of money," Cartmell assured her. "And – er – 'Chat' was governess at the Simpsons', was she?"
"Yes, she's been there for years, but she's very fond of me, and agreed to come and be my companion. She taught me all I know. I'm sure you'll like Chat."
"You can only try her," said he, rather doubtfully. I think that he would have preferred, Miss Driver, to cut loose from the old days altogether. "But, you know, we can't call her just 'Chat.' It must be short for something?"
"Short for Chatters – Miss Chatters. And she says Chatters is really – or was really – Charteris. That's pronounced Charters, isn't it?" She addressed the last question to me, and I said that I believed she was right. "I shall get on very well by myself till she comes." She questioned me again. "Do you live in the house?"
"No, I live down at the Old Priory. But I have my office in the house."
"Oh, yes. Now, if Mr. Cartmell must go, will you take me up?"
She stopped a moment, though, to look at the pictures – old Mr. Driver had bought some good ones – and so gave me one word with Cartmell.
"Depend upon it," he whispered. "Chat's a fool. People who keep telling you their names ought to be spelt like better names, when they aren't, are always fools. Why don't they spell 'em that way, or else let it alone?"
There seemed to be a good deal in that.
Cartmell gone, we went together up the broad staircase which sprang from the center of the hall. As we passed a chair, she took off her hat and flung it down. The rich masses old brown hair, coiled about her head, caught the sun of a bright spring afternoon; she ran swiftly and lightly up the stairs. "Nice, soft, thick, carpet!" she remarked. I began to perceive that she would enjoy the incidental luxuries of her new position – and that she did enjoy the one great luxury – life. I fancied that she enjoyed it enormously.
We trod another "nice, soft, thick, carpet" for the length of a long passage and came to his door. I opened it, let her pass in, and was about to close it after her. But as we reached his room, a sudden shadow of trouble or of fear had fallen upon her – grief it could hardly be.
"No," she said. "Come in, too. Remember – he's a stranger."
To be in the room with the dead seems to be itself a partaking of death; it is at least, for a moment, a suspension of life. Yet the still welcome is not unfriendly.
She walked toward the bed alone, but in an instant beckoned to me to follow her. She bent down and moved the covering. His broad strong face looked resolute and brave as ever. It looked – to speak truth – as hard as ever also.
Her eyes were set on him; suddenly she caught hold of my hand; "Don't go." I pressed her hand, for I heard her breathing quickly. I just caught her next words: "He might have given me a chance!"
"I believe he was sorry about that at the end." She shook her head. "He's given you a big chance now."
She nodded, but absently. "How strange to – to be his doing – and he there! And then – all this!" She let go my hand, took a step forward, bent and kissed his brow quickly. "How cold!" she murmured and grasped my hand tightly again. To my fancy she seemed surprised – and relieved – that the sleeper did not stir.
We were – as I say – out of the world; we were just two creatures, living for a little while, by the side of a third who lived no more.
"You shouldn't kiss him unless you forgive," I said.
She kissed him again and drew the sheet over his face.
"He must have been a fine man. I forgive. Come, let's go."
Outside, the world was with us – and I wondering whether that was what I had really said.
At least she seemed to bear me no ill-will. "Are you free to come for a walk?" she asked. "I should like some fresh air."
"Would you like to see the gardens?"
"No – that means pottering. Take me for a good spin."
By a happy thought I remembered Tor Hill and took her there. The hill lies at the extremity of the Priory park, looking down on the road which separates our dominions from the Fillingford country; beyond the road the Manor itself can be seen by glimpses through the woods which surround it. Catsford lies in the valley to the left; away to the right, but not in sight, lay Oxley Lodge, and Overington Grange, the seat of Sir John Aspenick. Here she could take a bird's-eye view of her position and that of her nearest neighbors.
"I'm