“Do you hear Aunty,” said the girl, “rummaging about to get herself dressed, as if you would ever notice what kind of a gown she had on! I always put on a nice frock in the morning, and then I am fit to be seen all the rest of the day.”
“But perhaps,” said Mr. Rowland, “you have had more advantages than your aunt has had. You have been at school, and learnt a number of things.”
“Oh, yes, I’ve been at school,” said the girl. “I was at Miss Gibb’s in St. Vincent Square. It’s rather a grand place; but I have my doubts about what we learnt there. Aunty sent me because it was so grand—the parents coming in their carriages—Mr. MacColl’s daughters, that has the splendid shop in Buchanan Street, and people like that. Miss Gibbs only took me because she was told about papa being so rich. The MacColls have a pony trap of their own, and a boy in livery to drive about with them,” said Marion, with a discontented face. “If my papa is really so rich, I don’t see why I shouldn’t have a pony trap too.”
“When he comes home——” Rowland began.
“Oh, when he comes home! I once thought I would like that, though both Archie and me would have liked it better if he had sent for us out to Ingia. But maybe you don’t know what has happened? Papa has married again! He’s married a governess, or something of that kind, that has just caught him for his money. Aunty says there are no fools like old fools. And what will we be now? We might just as well be anybody’s children as belong to a man that has got a new wife. She is just sure to put him against us, to get all the money for herself——”
It was all Rowland could do not to spring up and silence with an angry hand this little pert voice, with its ignoble complaint. He was very angry, but he subdued himself. “I should like to see your brother,” he said curtly, for just then the door had been heard to open by a latch-key, and some one had come in.
“Archie,” said Miss Marion, elevating her voice, but without any other movement. “Come in here. Here’s a gentleman that knows papa.”
The door of the room was ajar. It was pushed open, more gently than might have been expected, by a tall lad, his face highly coloured by the still unsubdued flush of violent exercise. His countenance was of a milder, perhaps feebler, type than that of his sister, and his dress and manner were something between those of an assistant gentleman in a shop and a young clerk. His clothes were good enough, but not very well made or carefully kept. Rowland’s heart gave a leap, however, when this head looked in, for the boy had his mother’s eyes—kind, honest, well-meaning eyes, devoid of guile. They looked in with an inquiry in them, and then brightened up. The door opened wide, and the young man came in and went up to Rowland, holding out his hand: “If he’s from papa,” he said, a little broadly—(papaw would be nearer the sound, yet not so much as that), “he’s very welcome.” In the delightful revulsion the father felt unspeakably grateful, though there was little to call forth that sentiment.
“I’ve been telling him,” said Marion, holding up her arm again in order that her bangles might drop back with a tinkle, which evidently was agreeable to her, “that we’re very disappointed that papa didn’t send for us to Ingia, and then we would have taken care of him and stopped this awful marriage, which will just be our destruction. And it would have been awful fun out there.”
“You will think we’ve no business to speak of his marriage in that way. And neither we have,” said the youth. “He’s old enough to judge for himself.”