“Can it be,” she thought, “that, after all, he does care for Madeleine? They say that such things often begin by a kind of antagonism. And in many ways, au fond, they would be so well suited.”
Madeleine’s unspoken reflections ran in a very different direction.
“I wonder,” she said to herself, “if it has possibly struck him that he should know something of those poor relations of his. He is not the sort of man to shirk a duty, or even a piece of kindness, once he recognises it; but he has got into a curiously indifferent sort of way of looking at things. Lives and circumstances are oddly arranged. He is just the type of man who would have been quite happy and content, and probably more useful in his generation, had he had moderate means and been able to devote himself to study—as, indeed, I suppose he does; but then comes the question, Has he a right to do so, considering that he is a large landed proprietor, with so many, in a sense, dependent upon him?”
She looked at him, as the thoughts, as they had often done before, passed through her mind. He felt conscious of her involuntary scrutinising expression, and again he grew slightly irritated.
“That girl lives upon criticising other people,” he said to himself. “I wonder what she is inwardly arraigning me for now.”
To some extent he did her injustice; to a greater extent she was guilty of the same offence towards him. But there are people who, in obeying the command of concealing from the one hand the good deeds of the other, lose sight of the equally authoritative warning against hiding our light, humble as we may and should esteem it, “under a bushel.” And such people must often be misjudged.
“When do you think of going down?” Mr Morion went on. “I believe Horace mentioned a date, but I have forgotten it.”
“The end of next week probably,” replied Mrs Littlewood promptly, for she still kept the reins of family plans and arrangements well in her own grasp, her daughter being often in ignorance of them till the eve of their accomplishment. “Horace does not come south again—or at least only part of the way. He has an invitation to the Scoresbys for the next few days; then he will return to Craig-Morion and be there to welcome us—some of the servants go on Monday.”
“And how do you propose to employ—nowadays one is frightened to say ‘amuse’ to young women—yourself in my eyrie (I rather like the name), as you call it, Madeleine?” inquired their visitor. “Horace has his shooting, and a little hunting for a change if he thinks it worth a short journey for, and your mother quiet, and, I trust, the consciousness of invigoration. But what are you going to do?”
“Oh,” said she, “I have given no very special thought to it as yet. Of course we shall have books, as usual—by-the-by, have you a library there? And driving—we are taking down a little cart on purpose for me, and Horace is looking out for a stout pony, not afraid of hills. And—walking—I have a great idea that exploring a new country is better done on foot than any other way, and I love exploring. I expect I shall be able to make a guide-book for you of your unknown part of the country before we leave it.”