“It is just this,” said Charlie. “Sir Harry and his only son were always extravagant, one as bad as the other—weren’t they, Julius? Phil Bowater told me all about it, and how Tom Vivian lost fifteen thousand pounds one Derby Day, and was found dead in his chambers the next morning, they said from an over-dose of chloroform for neuralgia. Then the estate was so dipped that Sir Harry had to give up the estate to his creditors, and live on an allowance abroad or at watering-places till now, when he has managed to come home. That is to say, the house is really leased to Lady Tyrrell, and he is in a measure her guest—very queer it must be for him in his own house.”
“Is Lady Tyrrell that woman?” asked Rosamond.
“I conclude so,” said Charlie. “She was the eldest daughter, and married Lord Tyrrell, who died about two years ago. She has no children, so she has taken the family in charge, patches up Sir Harry’s affairs with her jointure, and chaperons her sister.”
“What is she like?”
“Ask Frank,” said Charlie, slyly.
“No!” said Frank, with dignity. “I shall say no more, I only excite prejudice.”
“You are right, Frank,” said Julius, who had evidently recovered from the shock. “It is not fair to judge people now from what they were eleven years ago. They have had some terrible lessons, and may be much changed.”
“Ay,” said Frank; “and they have been living in an atmosphere congenial to you, at Rockpier, and are hand and glove with all the St. Chrysostom folk there. What do you say to that, Julius? I can tell you they are enchanted with your curate!”
“They are not in this parish.”
“No, but they turn up here—the ladies, at least—at all the services at odd times that Bindon has begun with.”