RS. ESTCOURT, Mr. Vivyan’s only sister, was a widow lady living by herself. Her home was in the neighbourhood of a large town, and here, in a comfortable, moderately-sized house, she had lived for many years. She had no children of her own, and when her husband had died she had seemed to wish to avoid much intercourse with any one, so that Arthur knew very little of his aunt. Once or twice he had seen her when she had paid very short visits at Ashton Grange. He remembered a very sad-looking lady, with a sweet face, who had held his hand as he stood by her chair, and that he had half liked it, and felt half awkward as she spoke to him. He remembered that as he had stood there, he had felt afraid to move or fidget in the least bit, and that every now and then, as he had stolen a glance at her, he had seen that her large dark eyes had been fixed upon him. He had been very glad when the nursery dinner-bell rang and he was obliged to go, without seeming to wish to run away.
“Nurse,” said Arthur that day at dinner, “there’s a black lady down stairs.”
“A black lady!” said nurse; “there’s a way to speak of your aunt, Master Arthur. Mrs. Estcourt is your papa’s own sister.”
“Well, she looked all black, I know,” said Arthur. “I think I won’t go down stairs much while she is there.”
Nurse remarked that if he were going to stay she hoped he would be quiet and well-behaved; but as he had to keep all his quiet behaviour for the drawing-room, it is to be feared nurse’s temper was tried a little during the few days that Mrs. Estcourt passed at Ashton Grange. Consequently Arthur’s memories of his aunt were not such as to make him very happy at the prospect of living with her always.
“Mother,” said Arthur, on the evening of the day after he had heard about these strange things that were going to happen, “is the aunt that I am going to live with, that one that came here once?”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Vivyan; “She is very kind, Arthur, and I know she will love you very much, if——”
“Yes, if I am good, I know,” said Arthur; “and that’s just the difference. You know, mamma, you always love me, whatever I am.”
“Of course,” said his mother, smiling; “but you could not expect any one to love you in the way your mother does. You would not like her to be your mother, would you?”
“No, of course not. Now, mother, tell me something about what her place is like, and where it is, and what sort of things I shall do when I am there. I have loads of questions to ask, only I forget them now.”