“Oh!” The young lady hung her head a little and blushed and laughed. “Well! there’s Archie and Aunty first of all; and then there’s Archie’s Debating Boys, as we call them; and the Philosophers—fine philosophers to be so minding what a lassie says!” She laughed again consciously. “I am sure I never say a word to them but nonsense,” she cried.
Mr. Rowland drew a long sigh out of the bottom of his heart. He had not thought much of the young ladies at the Station, the General’s daughters and the others; but Marion, as she stood with her head down and that foolish laugh, conscious of her effect upon the Philosophers, and proud of it, was still another species less honourable to womankind. What Evelyn would say! flashed across his brain like an arrow. But it was not her fault, poor thing; and he could not mend it. It was his duty, at least, as her father, to bear with her, to find no fault. For, after all, this was the natural outlet for a girl who had no other interests in her life.
“You must have,” he said, “a little sense to talk to me now and then, for I am past the time for nonsense. There is nobody,” he added with a little hesitation, “who will teach you that better than my wife.”
“Oh!” said Marion; then she raised her eyes quickly, “she will be awfully clever, and know everything—for wasn’t she a governess when you were married to her, papa?”
“No, she was not a governess,” he said quickly. “That is a delusion which you seem to have got into your minds. Let me hear no more of it. She was a Miss Ferrars, of Langley Ferrars, one of the oldest families in England—as different from me in origin as she is superior to me in every quality. If you were in the very least like her, I should hope one day to be proud of you, Marion. But you will have to get rid of a great many defects first.”
Marion made a little moue which was not unnatural. It was of course a very unwise speech on her father’s part—but it is difficult under such exasperation to be always wise. She felt it, however, more prudent to take no notice, but to do her best to find out what were his intentions; which was a matter of the utmost importance to all.
“If you please, papa, are we going to live on here with Aunty?” she asked.
The question gave him a startling sensation of relief: was it possible that this might be done? Would it not be kinder to leave them in the life to which they were accustomed? Poor Jane would probably break her heart if her children were taken away. They were more her children than his, he reflected; and money was no object. He could arrange their income so as to give Archie the freedom of a young man, without obliging the poor boy to qualify himself suddenly for the rarified atmosphere of Rosmore. This calculation passed through Rowland’s mind with the speed of light. What a happy untying of the knot would it be! He would not require to saddle himself with the discomfort and disappointment which probably would result from any attempt to prepare them for Rosmore. And they would not like Rosmore. It would be dull for them. No debating societies or philosophers’ clubs to enliven their evenings. And the arrangements of the house would be so different. Oh, if he could but solve the question that was before him in that easy way!
But then there occurred to him—the person who would suffer most, the one and only person who would oppose any such compromise with his duty—Evelyn! He dared not appear before her with the information that he had left his children behind because it was their original sphere, because they would be no credit, an impracticable pair. He could imagine the look with which she would listen, the astonishment in her face. As likely as not she would get her bonnet at once, and, before he could stop, set out to fetch them home. That was the sort of thing she would do. She would have no evasion, not even that about breaking their aunt’s heart. In that case, she was capable of suggesting that the aunt should be brought to Rosmore, but not that the responsibility of the children should be shuffled off. What a world of thoughts can be disposed of in a minute or two! This whole course of argument, question and reply, ran through his mind while Marion’s short question was being put, and before he could make up his mind what to say in reply. He played with it for a moment, still keeping that blissful possibility before him—“What would you like best?” he asked.
The girl and the boy looked at each other—they too had a multitudinous flood running through their minds, rushing like a mill race. They had an agreeable life enough so far as their instincts went: nothing to do—which, being on the very edge of the world that has to work hard for its living, and does not like it, was delightful to them, just as work is delightful to those whom nature provides with nothing to do. But then they were tired of this life all the same, as most people are, if the possibility of a fundamental change is put before them. And though they were rather afraid of their father, and what he might require from them, the excitement of the change to a great house, horses and carriages, and all the splendour they had dreamt of was a strong counterbalance. They did not take Aunty Jane’s heart much into consideration: and it would certainly be a terrible break-down from the vague future of glory before them, which all their friends believed in, did they step back into the monotony of Sauchiehall Road and the guardianship of Aunty Jane. They consulted each other with their eyes, and then Marion replied, “We would rather be with you, papa.”