Mrs Loftus looked at her daughter, and something like a quiver passed across the hardness of her face. Avice was her darling, her idol, the only creature on earth whom she really loved; and every now and again a spasm of alarm gripped her heart as she noted the languid speech and movement, the fragile form, and pallid complexion which distinguished the girl from her companions. Everything within the power of love and money had been done to make her strong and happy, yet she continued listless and ailing, seeming to regard the very amusements provided for her as so many penalties to be endured with resignation. Something must be wrong—and very wrong—to make a girl of twenty-one assume so unnatural an attitude. The mother checked a sigh half-way, and said caressingly:
“There is no reason for you to be dull, dearest. I am always ready to invite any one you may fancy. Surely, with all your friends, you need not be alone. What about Truda Bennett! If you like liveliness you could hardly improve upon her; and The Knoll is a nice house for you to visit in return. Shall I write and ask her to come next week!”
“No, thank you, dear, I’d rather not Truda is very nice, but she tires me out. She dislikes being quiet, and cares only for rushing about all day long. She doesn’t amuse me; I have to amuse her. The nice thing about relations would be that one would not have to be on ceremony with them all the time. Couldn’t I go down with you to Leabourne next week, mother, and see what the girls were like, and if I should care to invite one of them here.”
“You could, of course; but I strongly advise you to do nothing of the sort. Your uncle Edgar has been dead only a fortnight, remember, and though I don’t think he was an especially devoted father, the children will naturally be upset and distressed. It would be very dull for you with the girls weeping, and your father and Stephen discussing money matters, and ten to one a dreary, uncomfortable inn. Better stay at home, and let me bring back a report. In any case you won’t care to invite one of them here until the first few months are over and she is able to go about and make herself agreeable. It would be depressing to have her about in her first deep black.”
“Oh dear, yes! I couldn’t stand that. I’d rather be alone than have any one in low spirits,” agreed Avice fervently, the idea that she herself might possibly help to cheer and console never dawning on her self-engrossed brain. “You say that the girls must be savages, mother, but I should think they can hardly help being interesting. Aunt Elma was a beauty, and Uncle Edgar was a genius—and some of them, at least, must have inherited his gifts. Why do you say he was not a devoted father? From my vague recollection he seemed very proud of the children.”
“Oh yes, he was proud enough; but they worried him when they were young, and as they grew older I think he felt that they criticised him and realised how he had wasted his opportunities. He was devoted to Elma, for she worshipped him meekly all her life, and was convinced that no such genius had ever existed. Your father is right. I never knew a more brilliant young man than Edgar was at twenty-one; but what is there to show for it now? A few songs, two or three novels and volumes of poetry, and a number of pictures and sketches which he was ashamed even to sign! He was always growing discouraged, turning from one thing to another, and lowering his standard to meet the taste of the market. His songs became more and more clap-trap and commonplace, his stories more sensational, his pictures of the cheaply-pretty order which sell at provincial exhibitions. I believe at the bottom of his heart he realised his downfall, and when Elma died, and he had not her adoring admiration to keep up his faith in himself, he fretted himself ill. The last time I saw him he was a wreck—mentally and physically—and I fancy those girls must have had a trying time of it before the end.”