“Yes, yes—of course! Young things are always eager for change, and are ready to promise anything in advance. But suppose they don’t make their way? Suppose your scheme is a failure? The money is left to you and to Philippa to spend as you think wise for the good of the family, so that legally there would be no claim upon you for what was gone. But you might find yourself in a most unpleasant position, all the same. If you spend it all within the next few years, Barnard may think himself ill-used when he grows up and feels the need of a few hundred pounds. The girls may want a trifle to buy a trousseau, or help in other ways, and may blame you for influencing them when they were too young to know their own minds. Do you ever think, my dears, of what would happen if your scheme were to fail?”
Did she ever think! Poor Philippa! How many scores—nay, hundreds—of times had the nightmare seized her in its grip! How often had she lain awake shuddering with dread, seeing the workhouse loom large in the foreground, and the reproachful faces of brothers and sisters turned mutely upon her! She shivered even now, and clasped her hands beneath the tablecloth; but she showed a brave face to the enemy, and refused to be cast down in his presence.
“It is no use beginning a fight with the expectation of being beaten, uncle. I should have no courage left if I did that. I have enough faith in my brothers and sisters to believe that they will not reproach us, whatever happens; and at the worst we could come back and try your plan in the country. We are strong and capable, and could always earn enough to live on, even if we had to separate and go out as cooks and housemaids. I am not in the least afraid of starving. We shall manage to keep ourselves without either asking or expecting help from outsiders.”
“Come, come, my dear! there is such a thing as being too independent. What is the use of relations if they can’t help each other at a pinch? If you are really determined to try this scheme we must help you all we can. You must come to see us when we are in town, and we may be able to give you useful introductions. Avice will be pleased to make your acquaintance, and so shall we all.—We must do what we can for Edgar’s children, mustn’t we, mamma?”
“I cannot promise anything which would be an encouragement to what appears to me a piece of preposterous folly,” said Mrs Loftus coldly. “It is flying in the face of Providence to leave a comfortable home and deliberately court danger in this fashion. With your inexperience you will be ruined before a year is over, and who is to pay your debts I don’t know. You can’t expect any help from us if you act in defiance of our wishes. If you had already made up your minds, as appears to be the case, I must say it was very inconsiderate to inflict this long journey upon your uncle and myself for the mere farce of asking our opinion.—We had better get back to the hotel now, Edward. I am tired, and shall be glad of a rest.”
Mr Loftus rose obediently and followed his wife’s lead to the door, but on his way he managed to whisper a few conciliatory words into Philippa’s burning ear.
“Take no notice, my dear—no notice! Your aunt is hasty, but she will come round. I will see you again this evening when she has gone to bed, and to-morrow we will both come up again before we leave. Can’t approve, you know—can’t approve; but you are a brave girl. You mean well. Wish you good luck!”
Philippa’s eyes swept over him with an expression of magnanimous superiority.
“Poor little down-trodden, trembling worm!” she was saying to herself. “Afraid to assert yourself and be your natural self for fear of what a woman might say! Oh, if I were a man! Oh, if I were your husband, my dear! I’d keep you in order; I’d tell you straight out what I thought of you.” Then aloud: “Good-afternoon, Aunt Gertrude! Mind the door-step. So awkward! Hope you will not be too tired. Good-bye!”