“I will answer for my grandson,” said Grace.
“But I cannot answer for mine; probably he will be a headstrong, hot-headed fellow. No, it must be settled now. Mr Furnival wants to know what evidence you have, one way or another; if you have anything that throws light on the subject: any clue to the past or information about the family or name? You may trust everything to his hands.”
“But I told you we had no information whatever—none. I never heard the name before. My brother is called Leonard, that is the only thing; and there are one or two memoranda of papa’s.”
“These will be of the utmost value.”
“I don’t think you will find them of any value at all. One is in his little diary that he kept during the voyage. I do not like to give it into any stranger’s hands. No, there is nothing private in it; but only the little things that—that are more hard to look at than great ones,” said Grace. “Little, little things that we did every day—that we never shall do any more.”
There was a pause, and then he said, insisting gently, “You must not think me troublesome and pertinacious; but you may be sure it will be handled with reverence, and given back to you without delay.”
“You can’t think how little it is, it is nothing,” she said; but finally she consented to bring all the scraps together and place them in Geoff’s hands. They were not much when they were put together. First, the entry in the diary: “Same name in directory at old address. To go first thing and enquire.” Then the still more hieroglyphical notes written on the same paper which contained the address, “Left July ’45. U.A. died ’55. Due with interest for twenty years—but forgiven;” and the repeated 3 Grove Road, written over his blotting-book, and repeated on at least two pieces of paper. Geoff folded them carefully up, and sealed them into a packet. His mind was heavy, but his heart was light. He saw moral confirmation indisputable in these scraps of writing. It seemed to him that in no way could his mother retain her fortune against a claim so certain; but he saw at the same time that there could be no legal proof, and that his aunt would be triumphant and retain hers. Was not this the best solution of the matter that could be? He did not see his way yet about his own work and ability to make up to his mother for what she must lose; therefore his mind was troubled and in difficulty still; but to know that when he came home at night he should find Milly shyly smiling at Mrs Underwood’s side, taking her place as if in her own home, beguiled the young man out of all his cares. Whatever happened, nothing could take from him this sweet evening, and other sweet evenings like it.
A week of close domestic intercourse, long evenings spent together, how rapidly acquaintance grows under such circumstances! They made the most delightful family party, moving from one room to another in the long delicious evenings, cheerful, though still subdued by the recent grief which was so ready to revive in the girls’ eyes at any chance allusion. This made a tenderness in their intercourse which nothing else could have done. Even Miss Anna was tender of the young mourners, and it was she who most steadily exerted her powers to cheer them, and win from them smiles, and even laughter, and a hundred little returns towards amusement, towards the brighter impulses of life. But perhaps what they enjoyed most was to stand behind the half-drawn curtain in the evenings, and gaze out on London, and talk, with tears which no one rebuked, which Geoff, their only companion, if any reliance could be placed upon his voice, was often very near sharing. They told him about their father, about the household at home, about their first glorious morning in London, when they had gone to Westminster and feared no evil; and Geoff listened with sympathy, with tender curiosity, with all the youthful freemasonry which understands almost without a word. While these talks were going on, Mrs Underwood, stranded as it were outside, would sit fidgeting in her chair, longing to interfere, thinking within herself of the old lady left alone, and scarcely able to restrain her trembling anxiety, lest things should go too far, and her doom be sealed. Miss Anna, on the contrary, watched over the young people, going and coming with that little pat of her stick upon the floor, and restraining her sister. “You simpleton,” she would say in a whisper, “don’t you see everything is going to a wish? What could you desire more? They are getting acquainted; they are getting on as fast as possible.” “Oh, but Anna!” poor Mrs Underwood would say, getting up and sitting down again. “My boy, my boy!” “Oh, hold your tongue, you silly woman! Your boy is happier than he ever was in his life,” said the imperious sister, sitting down to keep watch over Geoff’s tranquillity. Mrs Underwood dared not stir, with Miss Anna guarding her like this; but she moaned within herself and shook her head. It was all a conspiracy to take her son from her. She liked the little one well enough—nay, very much, as she sat on the low chair, and talked a little now and then, and was always ready with the scissors. Mrs Underwood had a way of losing hers, and she had never had a daughter to find them for her, to know by instinct when she wanted them for her work as Milly did. That was all very pleasant. And it might be good as a family arrangement; Anna thought so, and Anna knew best; but to tell her that her boy had never been so happy—though she had devoted herself to him all her life—this was indeed too much to bear.
[CHAPTER XV]
A WEEK after their settlement at Grove Road, while the girls were expecting every day to receive at least by telegraph some news from their mother, Geoffrey made his appearance in the middle of the day, and with a face of much serious meaning. He asked his mother and her guests to come with him to Miss Anna’s room; and then having gathered them all around him, he took out some papers and made a little speech to them with great seriousness. “I thought it was of the utmost importance that we should all know exactly how we stood,” he said, “and I put the whole case into Mr Furnival’s hands. We all trust him who know him, and Grace and Milly were willing to take him on my word. He has had all the facts before him for some days; with such scraps of evidence as you could furnish us with,” he added, turning to Grace: “and he took counsel’s opinion. I informed him that it would be in any case an amicable suit to settle our respective rights. I have brought you their opinions now.”