“Then I may come, next week?” he inquired eagerly. “You will be there, of course, won’t you? Promise you will!” and went away with a mother-of-pearl fish tightly clasped in his hand, Petronilla beholding the departure of her cherished heirloom with well-bred serenity. It was not until he was four miles home that he remembered it, together with the facts that his new adoration was old Steenie Stone’s daughter and barely a ten months’ widow—and didn’t care.
Deb’s hired brougham was waiting too, but there was no sign of the Crump car, and Christian, remembering that it had been running badly all day, was for setting out in search. Mrs. Slinker demanded goloshes, declaring that she would walk home, whereupon Savaury at once offered his own carriage; but Deb, thinking of his warm horses and autocrat of a coachman, was suddenly stricken in conscience.
“Won’t you come with me?” she asked, rather shyly, looking full at Mrs. Slinker for the first time. “I can just as easily go round by Crump, you know, and you really must not think of walking. We may meet the car on the road.”
So thus the incredible thing happened—Slinker’s wife and Deborah Lyndesay driving Crump lanes in peace and amity, with a very much astonished Christian sitting opposite. His trust had not been misplaced—Nettie Stone was omnipotent, after all! Again he gave her full meed of admiration; and then again felt the thrill of claiming pride towards his shadowy kinswoman in the other corner.
“Aren’t they old dears?” Mrs. Slinker laughed affectionately, as they left Tasser behind them. “Petronilla and Co., I mean. Not that they are really old, of course, but you feel they must have been rooted there for centuries. They just fit, don’t they? You want to thank them for being so beautifully in the picture, and you hope they’ll go on Pope-Joaning for at least another hundred years.”
“Wait till you see Whyterigg!” Christian said, his voice faintly quizzical as he mentioned Rishwald’s place. “It’s a lot older than Tasser, and has a priest’s room and a ghost, and suits of armour running up against you in every passage. You’ve been there many a time, Deborah, of course?”
“Not I!” Deb answered. “Never once. Wild horses wouldn’t drag Father into Whyterigg! You’ll remember it was Crump property, once upon a time, and the Rishwalds got it by some rather curious hanky-panky. Crump and Whyterigg have never been friendly, you know,” she added, and both her hearers felt suddenly outsiders.
“Of course. I’d forgotten for the moment,” Christian replied, almost apologetically. “I’m not half as well up in the family history as I ought to be. You know much more about Crump than I do.”
“It was my great—three times great—grandfather that was done over Whyterigg—we were stewards of Crump even then. You might forget that sort of thing, but we couldn’t. We were responsible, you see.”
“Kleptomania seems to run in the family!” Mrs. Slinker said quaintly, and they all laughed, thinking of Petronilla’s fish. “I suppose he’ll have to come to lunch, Christian, but you’d better keep an eye on the spoons!”