V
Miss Lestrange called the next day upon her future sister-in-law. She took a chair with the resigned manner of a woman who will try to be as comfortable as she can, and she talked to Edith with a detached but patient cordiality.
“Bayswater is such a charming part to live in,” she began. “I felt as I came away from stuffy little Curzon Street quite as if I were on a picnic or a summer excursion. It must be so nice to live here; I wonder why nobody does?”
Edith smiled pleasantly.
“Oh, ‘nobody’ does,” she replied, pouring out tea; “and it’s only the ‘somebodies’ who don’t! You see, Miss Lestrange, you must pay the penalty of greatness.”
“Dear me--witty!” thought Miss Lestrange, and she used the word with as much disapproval as if she meant “wild.” Aloud she merely murmured something irrelevant about Kensington Gardens. It was one of Miss Lestrange’s great social gifts that she could allow an awkward silence to take place without any of the awkwardness adhering to herself. She would sit staring through a tortoiseshell lorgnette with an air which plainly said:
“This silence is nothing to me; I can break it whenever I choose--only I don’t choose.”
Unfortunately, Edith had the tea-things, which did almost as well.
“I think the Lindleys knew your aunt,” said Miss Lestrange at last. “It is so pleasant, is it not, to discover a mutual acquaintance?”
“Very,” said Edith. “It’s almost as exciting as making a new relation. Do you take sugar?”
“One lump, please. I was delighted to hear of my brother’s impending marriage,” continued Miss Lestrange; “delighted. Of course, I had been expecting it for some time. I have but little faith in inveterate bachelors, and none at all in inveterate widowers. Besides, a sensible marriage for a man of my brother’s age is very desirable. He settles down, the phase of romance is over, and the phase of domesticity sets in; and, of course, it is always a relief when one knows for certain that one’s brother won’t marry a barmaid.”
“I can’t fancy Horace marrying a barmaid at any time,” said Edith, smiling.
“When you are my age, my dear, you will no doubt live to see, as I have seen, all the things you cannot imagine taking place,” said Miss Lestrange, putting down her tea, which she had not finished, as if she did not like it.
There had been things in their conversation which had not pleased her, but this last hit had told (if you go on hitting long enough, some hit generally does). She had expected to find Miss Walton good-looking and good-humored; she had not expected to find her unembarrassed and well-armed. However, Miss Lestrange always dealt with the unexpected as if it was perfectly ordinary, so that no one ever discovered her mistakes.
“I believe you are to be introduced shortly to your step-son!” Miss Lestrange began reflectively. “I hope you will take to the poor child.”
“I always love children,” said Edith gently.
“Ah!” said Miss Lestrange, “that is a refreshing change from the modern note. Annette’s child, however--I refer to my brother’s former wife--is peculiar. Annette was highly sensitive, like a spring blossom, and her son takes after her. I shall be delighted to help you in any way I can upon the subject.”
Edith said:
“He is coming at five o’clock; I hope very much he won’t dislike me.”
“My dear, why should he?” said Miss Lestrange, rising to her feet and holding out her hand. “He is not old enough to remember his mother, fortunately--I mean, of course, there will be no soreness of comparison as there might be with an older child. We will meet again soon, shall we not? Good-bye.”
Edith suddenly found that she could say nothing more; a slow paralysis of icy cold seemed to be numbing her limbs and brain. She could find no more words; this woman--pleasant, courteous, heartless--seemed to have pelted her to death with innumerable hailstones. She stood breathless and quivering in the doorway, and there Lady Walton found her.
“My dear!” she said quickly. “What is the matter?”
Edith began to laugh.
“Horace’s sister is a very clever woman, auntie,” she said. “Now, if I were a man I would swear loud and long, and then go and take a sherry cobbler or a gin sling, or whatever is the strongest American drink, to give me fresh courage to meet my small step-son, for I believe she came just now simply to unnerve me for the ordeal, for I have a feeling as if there were worse to follow. She spoke of Horace throughout as ‘my brother,’ in a tone which gave me fully to understand that he would always be far more extensively her brother than my husband.”
Lady Walton looked at her carefully.
“Go and take a cup of tea,” she said; “your nerves are shaken, but depend upon it, child, you didn’t collapse when she was there. I should have received her with you, only I did not like her to think that you needed to call up your reserves. Let us hope the men of the family are less alpine. I shall be out till dinner.”
Lady Walton kissed her niece; she was very fond of her, rather sorry for her, and extremely proud of her. On the whole she considered Edith over-sensitive; she would have dearly enjoyed a tussle with Miss Lestrange herself, but Edith was too tender-hearted for prolonged warfare. She could take the defensive, but she couldn’t hit back. Lady Walton knew this, and it annoyed her; in her heart of hearts she was rather cruel, and she despised people who could not be a little cruel too. Still, Edith was undeniably plucky, so she patted her cheek and went out cheerfully for a drive.
Half an hour later, with eager palpitating heart Edith gazed out of the window at a pair of figures coming up the steps. Horace was leading a small curly-headed boy, to whom he was talking nervously in that tone of eager and would-be cheerfulness in which parents seek to ingratiate themselves in order to overcome the inflexible judgment of a child. Leslie said nothing; he was using enormous self-control, but it did not reach to speech. That morning his beloved tutor had been spirited away--a whim of this new invisible monster. Who knew how soon his Aunt Etta, or even his father himself, would follow, and he (Leslie) would be left without protection or assistance, face to face with the unendurable? His father’s words fell upon his ears like the well-meaning patter of a nursery rhyme. Talking made no difference; it could not cover up the fact that they were going to see Her, and that she lived--this crushing monster of iniquity--in this very house whose stiff and odious steps they were now climbing. There were flower-boxes in the windows full of pink geraniums. Leslie was very fond of flower-boxes. He was an imaginative little boy, and he said fiercely to himself:
“They are not really flower-boxes, they are pretend boxes, put there like wicked witches pretend to put things in fairy tales to take you in.”
Horace cleared his throat.
“You will try to be nice to her, won’t you, my boy, for your old father’s sake?” he asked as he rang the bell. This was a mistake; he should have let Leslie ring the bell. Aunt Etta always did. Leslie said so in a tone of ruffled uneasiness. His father apologized but repeated his question.
“Oh, yes, I shall be polite!” said Leslie. “Aunt Etta said Lestranges are always polite.”
“Well, I hope you’ll be kind too,” said his father. Leslie said nothing; he had not been told that Lestranges are always kind--besides, he was examining the carpet. It was nice and thick, and he thought there were birds on it, but they were not going slowly enough to make sure. A door opened, and in a bower of late spring flowers stood a woman--a tall, dark woman with lips that laughed and eyes that swam in tears, and outstretched hands and a low, sweet voice like music--saying his name very quickly and paying no attention to his father at all.
Leslie stopped perfectly still and looked at her. There was no doubt about it, she was worse than a witch--she was an enchantress! He knew no spell to change her back into a snake or a pig. He could only stand and look at her with grave and disapproving eyes, and then hold out his little slender hand with the stately politeness of a well-mannered child--the severest rebuke in Nature.
“How do you do?” he said gravely; then he looked round for his father. His father was gone. For a moment he had a wild thought of darting after him, of screaming for help and flying down those soft, broad covered passages. Horror shook his quivering nerves, but pride restrained him. His father had deserted him. Perhaps she had the power to make his father invisible. At any rate, she should not make a Lestrange a coward, so he sat down politely and looked at her.
“I hope you will like these little cakes I have got for your tea,” said Edith, and her hand shook a little. “They are all in the shape of fishes. I have a very nice cook, and she made them for me, and we put eyes in--and everything.”
“It was very kind of you,” said Leslie, “but I would rather not eat them.”
“But you will have some tea, won’t you?” she pleaded; “and all these buns have got hundreds and thousands on them, and they are buttered.”
There was no doubt about it, she knew how to put things, this enchantress; the hundreds and thousands were a distinct point.
“Thank you, I had my tea before I came,” said Leslie. “I won’t take anything to eat--at least I’d rather not.”
“Oh, I don’t want you to do anything you’d rather not!” cried Edith quickly. “I want you to be happy; don’t you think--don’t you think, Leslie, we might be friends?”
Leslie eyed her fixedly. She had not laughed at him, nor asked how old he was, nor offered to kiss him; she had done nothing really wrong, and there was something quite friendly and shining in her eyes--probably magic--but certainly shining.
“I don’t think it’s possible,” said Leslie slowly. Then he added politely:
“Shall we talk of something else?”
Edith went to the window. Her eyes did not shine so much when she came back--perhaps his courage and self-command were overcoming the magic. It seemed like it, for her voice was not so gay. To begin with, it had sounded very gay, as if she would like to dance and play games. This was probably what she had done with father. She had bewitched him completely. Mr. Flinders had said so.
“Your father told me, Leslie,” said Edith when she returned from the window, “that you were very fond of soldiers. I, too, am very fond of soldiers, so I thought perhaps you would like to see some I bought this morning--they are two cavalry regiments; both the generals have cocked hats and swords.”
“Are there guns?” asked Leslie with forgetful rapture.
“Yes, there are guns and gun-carriages. Shall I clear this table? There, you know how to fasten them on perhaps! Will you show me how?”
Leslie regained his knowledge of the situation.
“They are very easy to put on,” he said. “You run them along like this. Are they imitation, or can they go off?”
“They can go off with peas,” said Edith kindly.
Leslie’s face flushed--real guns that could go off with peas were excellent and sane amusements even for an enchantress. By-and-by he forgot her profession, and began to order her about. They played contentedly for an hour, then the clock struck six. Leslie counted it. “Shortly after six, my poor dear boy, they will let you come home,” his Aunt Etta had said. He put down the general and pushed the table away; his lips quivered.
“You’re--you’re almost nice,” he said. “I wonder you can break up a home.”
“Oh, my dear, my dear!” cried Edith, but she did not offer to touch him; she only turned shining and appealing eyes to him. Her eyes were too much; they should not have been so kind when she was so wicked.
“I shall never see the soldiers again,” he said mournfully.
“But, Leslie, they are yours; I bought them for you,” she pleaded “Indeed, indeed, I bought them for you this morning.”
“Lestranges don’t take bribes,” said Leslie coldly; still he looked at the general and the best gun--it was a very good gun.
“But it isn’t a bribe,” explained the enchantress. “Won’t you even take the general and the gun--”
Leslie’s chest heaved. He looked across the table at her.
“Will you give up my father?” he asked. “If you’ll give him up I’ll take--I’ll take both the general and the gun.”
“Oh, but, Leslie, I couldn’t--he’d be so unhappy--”
“No, he wouldn’t,” said Leslie firmly. “He’d get used to it in time; there are lots of things he has--me and Aunt Etta, and a new cuckoo clock I gave him for his last birthday. Oh, give him up--give him up--!”
The tears came suddenly now; all the controlled terrors, the pent-up agony, the puzzled situation, the fearful prospects, rushed to the top of the child’s mind: it was like the over-filling of a cup. He flung himself face downwards on the sofa, dragging the tablecloth after him and covering the carpet with defeated soldiers. Edith knelt beside him trying to soothe and comfort him, but his little clenched hands pushed her away. The general with his cocked hat and the best gun lay on her lap, and bitter tears fell on them--bitter, unavailing tears; and so Horace found them shortly after six.
He carried his sobbing little boy away, and Edith sat and wept over the soldiers alone and uncomforted.
“I wonder how she can have managed to upset him so,” said Etta; “but I thought this afternoon that she hardly looked as if she could manage a delicate highly-strung child. She has sent him into a really dangerous fit of crying.”
As for Horace, he went to his study and smoked a strong cigar. He was puzzled and disappointed. Edith had been so certain she could win the little chap over, and the boy hadn’t cried while he was there. Edith must have done something stupid; she had been upset enough herself, poor girl; but he did not go back and comfort her--she must have done something stupid.