“There are nice doings up there at Rosham,” said Mrs. Gillingwater, eyeing her niece curiously.
Joan’s heart gave a leap.
“What’s the matter?” she asked, trying not to look too interested.
“Well, the old baronet is gone for one thing, as was expected that he must; and they say that he slipped off while he was cursing and swearing at his son, the Captain, which don’t seem a right kind of way to die, to my mind.”
“Died cursing and swearing at Captain Graves? Why?” murmured Joan faintly.
“I can’t tell you rightly. All I know about it came to me from Lucilla Smith, who is own sister to Mary Roberts, the cook up there, who, it seems, was listening at the door, or, as she puts it, waiting to be called in to say good-bye to her master, and she had it from the gardener’s boy.”
“She? Who had it, aunt?”
“Why, Lucilla Smith had, of course. Can’t you understand plain English? I tell you that old Sir Reginald sat up in bed and cursed and swore at the Captain till he was black in the face. Then he screeched out loud and died.”
“How dreadful!” said Joan. “But what was he cursing about?”
“About? Why, because the Captain wouldn’t promise to marry Miss Levinger, who’s got bonds on all the property, down to the plate in the pantry, in her pocket. That old fox of a father of hers stole them when he was agent there, I expect——” Here Mrs. Gillingwater checked herself, and added hastily, “But that’s neither here nor there; at any rate she’s got them, and can sell the Graves’s up to-morrow if she likes, which being so, it ain’t wonderful that old Sir Reginald cursed when he heard his son turn round coolly and say that he wouldn’t marry her at any price.”