Such was the view of life maintained by this hard-working old lady, who had never known an idle day, nor a doubt as to the value of her day’s work.
But she liked the youngest boy the best, and believed that he was the most likely to follow in her footsteps. Old people do not always regard young ones with blind admiration, and Mrs Waynflete appraised her great-nephews exactly according to her own measure. She did not know that there were other scales in the universe differently weighted.
So, as she reviewed her past life, she questioned herself whether all her payments had been fair, whether she had exacted enough, and not too much, work from her subordinates; whether she had spent enough money on improvements, or too much on buying back the last piece of unprofitable moor that had belonged to the old Waynfletes; whether, on the other hand, she had ever sacrificed honesty to gain, or failed honourably to fulfil an obligation. And in all these respects her conscience was clear.
And when she thought of the future—she took heaven for granted, as her well-earned portion; but she could picture nothing but Guy and Godfrey in her place, and herself somehow cognisant of their actions. Their young voices, through the open window, disturbed her meditations, as they came across the lawn together.
She rapped on the window, and called to them to come up, and in a minute or two, they were in the handsome, heavily furnished drawing-room, in which their white tennis-suits hardly looked at home. They were tall lads of eighteen and sixteen, like each other, and like their great-aunt; Godfrey the younger, remarkably so. He was the taller of the two, with high cheek-bones and prominent features, light flaxen hair and large grey eyes, with a certain direct honesty of expression. He was still only a big boy, while his brother was slighter, and of more finished appearance, and more delicate outlines. His eyes were also of a light grey, but they were softened by dark eyelashes set thickly on the lower lids as well as on the upper, which gave them a wistful, pleading look, quite independent of their owner’s intentions, and inconsistent with his slightly critical smile and reticent manner.
“Did you want us, Auntie Waynflete?” said Godfrey, in blunt, boyish tones, and using the old-fashioned form of address, in which he had been trained.
“Yes. I’ve an invitation for you, which I’ve a mind you shall accept.”
“Are the Rabys giving a dance?” asked Guy, who was becoming an eligible partner.
“No; this is from Constance Palmer. Her husband was your great-uncle’s cousin. She wanted to spend some months in bracing air, so I let Waynflete to her. You know the old lease of the house fell in this spring. She asks you two to come there for a visit. You shall go.”
“I should like to see Waynflete,” said Guy, with some curiosity, while Godfrey said—