Part 23 (2/2)
”Then there came the smash,” he went on, resuming his pen to add the finis.h.i.+ng touches to the story. ”You lost your money. It was gold-mines.
That is quite safe. One always loses money in gold-mines, and you were never much of a man of business, always ready to listen to any one, and so you were caught. You retired with what little you could reclaim from the wreck of your shattered fortunes--that's a fine sentence. You must get that by heart. It would convince any one that you couldn't tell a lie. You retired, broken in health and mind and fortune, to this little cottage on Dartmoor, and you have lived here ever since with Boodles, whom you have brought up to the best of your ability, although you have lacked the means to give her that education to which she is ent.i.tled by her name and birth. It is almost unnecessary to add, Abel-Cain,” he concluded, ”that you have told the child nothing about her parents lest she should become dissatisfied with her present humble position. You are keeping it all from her until she comes of age.”
It was finished. Weevil stared at the blotted ma.n.u.script, jabbered over it, and decided that it was a strong and careful piece of work which would deceive any one, even the proudest father of an only son who was much too precious to be thrown away. He was still jabbering when there were noises outside the door, and he hurried to open it, and discovered t.i.tania Katherine Mary Fitzalan-Lascelles, looking every syllable of her names; her beautiful hair coiled under her poppy-trimmed hat, the white muslin about her dainty limbs, her lips and little nostrils sweet enough to attract bees with their suggestion of honey, and about her that wonderful atmosphere of perfect freshness which is the monopoly of such pretty creatures as herself.
”You're looking quite wild, old man. What have you been doing?” she said.
”Story-writing. About the little girl who--”
”I can't stop to listen. I must hurry. I just came to say good-bye,” she said, putting up her mouth. ”Be good while I am gone. Don't fall into the fire or play with the matches. You can say if this frock suits me.”
”If I was a boy I shouldn't bother whether it suited you or not,” said Weevil, nodding at her violently.
”But as you are only an old daddy-man?” she suggested.
”It will do, Boodle-oodle. Sackcloth would look quite as well--on you.”
”I'll wear sackcloth presently; when Aubrey goes and winter comes,” she laughed.
Weevil became excited again. He wished she would not make such heedless and innocent remarks. They suggested the possibility of weak points in his amazing story. Another unpleasant idea occurred as he looked at the charming little maid. She was always walking about the moor alone. The Brute might seize her in one of his Protean forms, and she might disappear just as her fict.i.tious mother had done. Weevil had invoked his imagination, and as a result all sorts of ghostly things occurred to his mind to which it had been a stranger hitherto. There were traps lying about for girls as well as rabbits.
”Where are you going, little radiance?” he said.
”Down by the Tavy. Our walk. We have only one.”
Boodles answered from the door, and then she went. She had only one walk. On all Dartmoor there was only one. Weevil caught up his ma.n.u.script and began to jabber again. She must not have that one walk taken away from her.
For two hours he worked, like a student on the brink of an examination, trying to commit his story to memory. Each time he read the fictions they became to him more probable. He scarcely knew himself what a miserable memory he had, but he was well aware how nervous he could be in the presence of strangers, and how liable he was to be confused when any special eccentricity a.s.serted itself. As the time when his visitor might be expected approached he went and put on his best clothes, tidied himself, brushed his hair and whiskers, tried to make himself look less like a Hindoo idol, burnished his queer face with scented soap, and practised a few genteel att.i.tudes before the gla.s.s. He hoped somebody had told Mr. Bellamie he was eccentric.
Weevil was still poring over his ma.n.u.script when the visitor arrived.
With a frantic gesture the old man went to admit him. People were not announced in that household. Mr. Bellamie entered with a kindly handshake and a courteous manner; but his impressions were at once unfavourable. Well-bred men tell much by a glance. The grotesque host, the pictures, furniture, and ornaments, were alike inartistic. Mr.
Bellamie was a perfect gentleman. He had come merely as a matter of duty to make the acquaintance of the tenant of Lewside Cottage, not because it was a pleasure, but he had received Boodles at his house, and his son's attachment for the little girl was becoming serious. He could not definitely oppose himself to Aubrey's love-making until he had ascertained what manner of people the Weevils were. The pictures and ornaments told him. The cottage represented poverty, but it was hardly genteel poverty. A poor gentleman's possessions proclaim his station as clearly as those of a retired pork-butcher betray his lack of taste. A few good engravings, a shelf or two of cla.s.sical works, and a cabinet of old china, would have done more for Boodles than all the wild romances of her putative grandfather.
”You have a glorious view,” said the visitor, turning his back upon art that was degraded and rejoicing in that which was natural. ”I have been admiring it all the way up from the station. But you must get the wind in the winter time.”
”Yes, a great deal of it. But it is very fine and healthy, and we have our windows open most days. t.i.ta insists upon it.”
”t.i.ta?” questioned Mr. Bellamie, turning and looking puzzled. ”I understood that--”
”Her name is not Boodles,” said Weevil decidedly. ”That is only a pet name I gave her when she was a baby, and I have never been able to break myself of it. She is my grand-daughter, Mr. Bellamie, and her name is t.i.tania Katherine Mary Fitzalan-Lascelles,” he said, reading carefully from the ma.n.u.script. ”I think she must have inherited her love of open windows and fresh air from her father, who was the Reverend Henry--no, I mean Harold Lascelles, second son of the Reverend Henry Arthur Lascelles--the late, I should have said--sometime Director of St.
Michael's, Cornhill, and minor canon--no, honorary--honorary canon of St. Paul's Cathedral. He was rather delicate and lived in Switzerland a good deal, and died there--no, he didn't, that was t.i.ta's mother. He is in charge of a Catholic mission in British Guiana.”
Polite astonishment was upon every feature of the visitor's fragile face. He had not come there to talk about Boodles, but to see Weevil and Lewside Cottage, that he might judge for himself whether the girl could by any chance be considered a suitable subject for Aubrey's adoration; to look at the pictures, and make a few conventional remarks upon the view and the weather; then to return home and report to his wife. He had certainly not expected to find Weevil bubbling over with family history, pedigrees, and social intelligence, regarding the child whom he had been led to suppose was not related to him. Mr. Bellamie glanced at Weevil's excited face, at the pencil he held in one hand and at the sheet of paper in the other; and just then he didn't know what to think. Then he said quietly: ”I will sit down if I may. That long hill from the station was rather an ordeal. As you have mentioned your--your grand-daughter, I believe you said, you will, I hope, forgive me if I express a little surprise, as the girl--and a very pretty and charming girl she is--came to see us one day, and on that occasion she distinctly mentioned that she knew nothing of her parents.”
Mr. Bellamie would have murmured on in his gentle brook-like way, but Weevil could not suppress himself. While the visitor was speaking he made noises like a soda-water bottle which is about to eject its cork; and at the first opportunity he exploded, and his lying words and broken bits of story flew all about the room.
”Quite true, Mr. Bellamie. Boodles--I mean t.i.ta--was telling you the truth. I have never known her to do the contrary. She has been told nothing whatever of her parents, does not know that her daughter was my mother--”
”You mean that her mother was your daughter,” interposed the gentle guest.
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