“I never saw your mother,” said Mrs. Paget-Taylor, now looking at the fire with an immovable face. “She was seldom in England. Your father’s regiment was quartered in the Mediterranean, but I have always heard that she was most attractive, well born, and an orphan. Your father met her on board ship, coming home from Egypt. She had a moderate fortune—which luckily was settled on the children.”
“But why do you say luckily?” I inquired eagerly.
“Because, my dear girl, your father was hopeless in that respect. He had no conscience where money was concerned. He was a confirmed gambler. I am sorry to say it is in the Lingard blood—and just let me give you one little friendly hint: do not ask questions or talk about him at the Park?”
“But why not?” I asked.
Mrs. Paget-Taylor made no reply, but again turned away her face and stared steadily at the fire.
“He is dead, is he not?” I persisted.
“Yes,” she answered slowly, “dead, this many years, but I would rather not say any more except this: he is the family skeleton in the cupboard—best leave him there.”
For a moment, indeed for much longer, I sat beside my hostess in stunned silence, then with a great effort I began to put on my gloves, and prepared to take my departure.
Mrs. Paget-Taylor noticed my emotion, and instantly became motherly and sympathetic.
“I know exactly how you feel, my dear,” putting her hand on my shoulder, and looking into my face, “completely unhinged, of course; what I have told you must be a most painful shock, but it was better—yes, and kinder—to put you on your guard. It is all such an old story now; thank goodness, most people have short memories. It is said that nothing which is in the blood dies. The Torringtons have always been afraid that the family curse might reappear in you or Ronnie—especially Ronnie, but he is as steady as Old Time—such a relief! My dear, whenever you feel inclined, I shall be too glad if you will come down to see me, and I do hope you will find yourself very happy at the Park.”