Part 30 (1/2)

”And this is our boy--grown out of knowledge, eh?”

Mary stepped swiftly aside to let Robert come forward, and there was no mistaking the sentiments held in common by the parents with regard to their son. Their two faces were mirrors for each other, suffused with the same tender pride.

”Perhaps the child has reconciled her to the rest of it,” Deb hazarded a hope. ”She may be happy.”

For Mary smiled and moved alertly about the room. She accepted her husband's ostentatious hand and chair, and when he resumed the conversation, or rather restarted it, on the subject of Robert's achievements at school, she followed where he led, so long as he did not seem leading towards Deb's pocket, backing him up in the most wifely manner. ”Can it be possible?” Deb kept asking herself, glad at heart to see such signs, which yet lessened her pity for and interest in her sister. But Mary, with all the pride of the Pennycuicks in her, was not, one to ”let on”. Her skeleton was locked tight in the cupboard it belonged to when visitors were about--especially such a visitor as this--and also when they were not about, so far as she could have it so.

So that a sort of air of entertaining ”company” pervaded the room. Deb felt a constraint with her sister, and that she was making no way with her mission. But Robert stepped into the breach. With Mary's son the impulsive lady of Redford was unexpectedly pleased. There was not a trace of Pennycuick to be discerned in him; nevertheless, he was a good-looking, intelligent and interesting boy. He sat by her on the sacred brocaded sofa while she brightly questioned him, brightly answering her with aptness and good sense; his parents beaming on the pair, even the father content to play second fiddle to give the son his chance. Here, at any rate, thought Deb, was material to hand for the work she had come to do.

”I love boys,” she remarked--and so she did, as some people love dogs--”and Robert and I are going to be great friends; aren't we, Robert?”

”It is very good of you to say so, aunt,” Robert replied, with characteristic propriety.

”But, do you know, I don't think I shall call you Robert,” she went on.

”It has a prim sound”--but it was the primness of himself that she wanted to break down--”and it doesn't suit a boy of your tender years.

I think I'll call you Bob, if you don't mind.”

”I wish you would,” he adroitly answered her.

”What is your bent towards, in the way of a career, Bob?”

He said he thought the law--to be a judge some day.

”You don't care for station life?”

”Oh, he does,” his father eagerly interposed. ”He loves it. But he has had so few chances--”

”Which is your school, Bob?”

A seminary of no repute was named, and the father again intervened to regret that it was not one of the public schools. ”But they, unfortunately, have been beyond our means--”

Here Mary broke in with praises of the seminary. It had such an excellent headmaster, was so conveniently situated--really better in many ways than one of the great schools--

And then Robert broke in.

”My dear mother!” he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed, in a compa.s.sionate and forbearing way.

”Ah, Bob knows it is not better,” laughed Deb. ”And it isn't, Mary; you are no authority, my dear. Which of the public schools do you fancy, Bob?”

He mentioned his choice, and the University scholars.h.i.+ps that were to be had there.

”Debbie!” implored Mrs Goldsworthy, under her breath.

”Hush-s.h.!.+” hissed her husband.

”You be quiet, Molly,” Deb playfully adjured her. ”This has nothing to do with you, or with anybody except Bob and me. You come and spend your next vacation with me at Redford, Bob, and then we can talk it all over together.”

She nodded to him meaningly. He smiled with perfect comprehension.

”How can we thank you,” Mr Goldsworthy murmured emotionally, for he also understood. ”It is too, too--”