He spoke as though to a fractious child.
We all trooped into the dining-room. It seemed incredible that less than twenty-four hours had passed since I last sat at that table.
Afterwards, Mrs. Ackroyd took me aside and sat down with me on a sofa.
“I can’t help feeling a little hurt,” she murmured, producing a handkerchief of the kind obviously not meant to be cried into. “Hurt, I mean, by Roger’s lack of confidence in me. That twenty thousand pounds ought to have been left to me—not to Flora. A mother could be trusted to safeguard the interests of her child. A lack of trust, I call it.”
“You forget, Mrs. Ackroyd,” I said, “Flora was Ackroyd’s own niece, a blood relation. It would have been different had you been his sister instead of his sister-in-law.”
“As poor Cecil’s widow, I think my feelings ought to have been considered,” said the lady, touching her eye-lashes gingerly with the handkerchief. “But Roger was always most peculiar—not to say mean—about money matters. It has been a most difficult position for both Flora and myself. He did not even give the poor child an allowance. He would pay her bills, you know, and even that with a good deal of reluctance and asking what she wanted all those fal-lals for—so like a man—but—now I’ve forgotten what it was I was going to say! Oh, yes, not a penny we could call our own, you know. Flora resented it—yes, I must say she resented it—very strongly. Though devoted to her uncle, of course. But any girl would have resented it. Yes, I must say Roger had very strange ideas about money. He wouldn’t even buy new face towels, though I told him the old ones were in holes. And then,” proceeded Mrs. Ackroyd, with a sudden leap highly characteristic of her conversation, “to leave all that money—a thousand pounds—fancy, a thousand pounds!—to that woman.”
“What woman?”
“That Russell woman. Something very queer about her, and so I’ve always said. But Roger wouldn’t hear a word against her. Said she was a woman of great force of character, and that he admired and respected her. He was always going on about her rectitude and independence and moral worth. I think there’s something fishy about her. She was certainly doing her best to marry Roger. But I soon put a stop to that. She’s always hated me. Naturally. I saw through her.”
I began to wonder if there was any chance of stemming Mrs. Ackroyd’s eloquence, and getting away.
Mr. Hammond provided the necessary diversion by coming up to say good-by. I seized my chance and rose also.