The Eldest Son

by Archibald Marshall

Now she had begun to feel that she must come to a decision, and the guidance, in a dim sort of way, seemed to be making itself felt. She had never had any particular favourite amongst her nephew's children. Cicely would have been the favourite if she had not been a girl, for she had been much with her aunts before her marriage, and there had been more community of interest with her than with the rest. But it was impossible to put a girl Clinton before a boy Clinton, and her claim bulked no larger than those of Dick, Humphrey, Walter, or Frank. And hitherto, except in the case of Dick, there had seemed to be no reason for preferring one of the boys before the other.

But lately Aunt Laura had become considerably attached to Humphrey, whom, in the past, she had perhaps liked least of all the boys, although she would not have admitted as much to herself. He had been much away from Kencote, and had seemed so "grand" in his ways and ideas that she had been a little nervous of him on the rare occasions on which he had visited her. But lately, she thought, he had "softened." He must have felt, she told herself with a tremulous gratification, that she was the last of all his great-aunts left, that she would not be much longer with them, and that attention to her, although it could not bring him anything, would be deeply appreciated, as indeed it had been. He had been so very kind, cheering up her rather lonely days with constant visits, whenever he had been at home, making her those little presents which, because they showed real appreciation of what would give her pleasure, had meant so much to her, and latterly taking her into his confidence and telling her things about himself of a sort which no man, young or old, amongst her relatives, or indeed outside of them, had ever confided to her before.

It was this which had caused her such intense gratification. Throughout the whole of their lives she and her sisters had had to fight against the feeling that, although they were kindly treated, and even deferred to, by the members of their little world, they were of no real account. Slights, which had not been intended for slights, had sometimes distressed them, and they had had on occasions to assure each other that nothing could have been further from the intention of those who had wounded them than to do so. To ask their advice, to prove that they were not unimportant members of a family to which they had given a life-long allegiance—this was the straight way to their hearts, and it had seldom been taken. All the kindnesses that could be heaped on them would have been outweighed by one cry for succour or sympathy.

That cry had never come—perhaps there had been nothing in the even lives of their relations to bring it; but of all the talks she had ever had with any of her great-nieces and nephews Aunt Laura had most enjoyed those which she had lately had with Humphrey, for they had come nearest to it.

He had, indeed, shared a secret with her. He was in love, and nobody in the family knew it but she. And he was in love with that dear nice girl who had come once or twice to see her, had shown her more than friendliness, almost affection, and made for herself a warm little corner in a warm heart. Susan Clinton also had confided in her a little. At any rate she had permitted her to see that Humphrey's feelings for her were returned. And when she had bid her farewell she had kissed her and said, "I have loved these talks with you, Aunt Laura"—yes, she had called her that, although, of course, the relationship was a very distant one—"it is so nice to feel that one has a friend at Kencote."

But falling in love is one thing and getting married—the natural result of falling in love—is another; and Humphrey had confided to her that there were obstacles in the way of his getting married.

Of course, although Susan Clinton did not belong to the elder branch of the family, facts must be looked squarely in the face, and the daughter of an earl, even of an earl of no great wealth, had a right to expect something more elaborate in the setting up of married life than a girl of lesser lineage. Humphrey very sensibly saw that. "I can't very well ask for her, you see, Aunt Laura," he had said, "unless I know that I can give her the sort of thing, more or less, that she has been accustomed to."

Aunt Laura had quite seen it, and he had put it still more clinchingly when he had said on another occasion, "You see, it wouldn't do for them to think she was taking a step downward in marrying me."

Good gracious, no! A Clinton of Kencote was good enough to marry anybody, short of royalty. Rich enough too—or ought to be—even a younger son, if the marriage was a desirable one, as this undoubtedly seemed to be. "I think your dear father would be pleased," she had said. "He would wish that all of you should marry in your own rank in life, and he would be well aware that that cannot be done, in these days when married life seems so much more expensive than it used to be, without an adequate income. I think, dear Humphrey, that I should tell him if I were you, and throw yourself on his generosity, which I have no reason whatever for thinking would fail you."

Yes, Humphrey had supposed that he would do that sooner or later; in fact, he would have to, because his profession was not one out of which a satisfactory income could be made, at any rate in its early stages. Of course, if the worst came to the worst he could give up his profession, and take to something else out of which money could be made.