“Shaving’s inevitable,” said Fred, giving a little furtive twirl to an almost imaginary moustache.
“Oh, is it?” said his father, with a more cheerful laugh. “Not for years yet; don’t flatter yourself. When do you start for your ball to-morrow? It’s fine to be an eligible young man, and sought after for all the dances. That’s a pleasant consequence of being a ‘Varsity man, and heir of Yalton, eh?”
“Well, father,” said Fred, “seeing I’ve known the Scrymgeours all my life, we needn’t put it on that ground. Whatever I was—if I was heir to nothing—it would be the same to them.”
“Let’s hope so,” said Mr. Dalyell, and he breathed a sigh, which somehow got mingled with the little wail of the wind, and echoed into Fred’s heart with a poignant suggestion. There was no reason to fear anything, and he was angry with himself. It was childish and superstitious to shiver as he did, as if the cold had caught him. There was no occasion in the world for anything of the sort. He was not a fellow to catch cold, he said to himself indignantly, nor to have presentiments, both of which things were equally absurd. There was nothing but prosperity and peace known in Yalton, and his father had the constitution of an elephant. But the night was eerie, the horizon had a sort of weird clearness upon it in the far distance, like a light showing through the openings of the clouds. The trees stood up black in billows of half-distinguishable shade, and the hills beyond them marked out their outlines wistfully against the clearness in the west. It was cold, and the air breathed of coming winter. A leaf drifting on the wind caught him on the cheek like a soft blow. Altogether the night was eerie, wild, full of possibilities. There was no ghost at Yalton; but sometimes old Janet said there was a sound in the avenue that meant trouble, like a horseman riding up to the house who never arrived. Fred involuntarily listened, as if he might have heard that horseman, which was as good as inviting trouble, but he did not think of that. However, there was no sound, nor ghost of a sound, except what was purely natural—the wild bitter wind wailing, driving a few leaves about, and bending, with a soft swish of the dark unseen foliage, the light branches of the trees.
“Come, let’s go in, Fred; I’ve finished my cigar,” said Mr. Dalyell; and then, as though a brain wave, as scientific people say, had passed from one to another—Fred’s unspoken thought of old Janet suggested her to his father’s mind. They were going up one of the sets of stone steps which led from one terrace to the other, when Mr. Dalyell suddenly put his hand on his son’s arm:
“You’ll laugh,” he said, but not himself in a laughing tone, “at what I’m going to say. But if you should be in any difficulty what to do in case of my absence, or—or anything of that sort—do you know, Fred, whom I’d advise you to consult? The last person you would think of, probably, by yourself—old Janet! You know she’s been about Yalton all her life. There’s nothing she wouldn’t do for any of us—and she’s an extraordinarily sensible old woman, full of resource, and with a head on her shoulders——”
“I’m not fond of old Janet,” said Fred sturdily.
“No, none of you are. Your mother never could be got to like her. It’s a prejudice. She’s been invaluable to me.”
“If it’s all the same to you, father,” said Fred stiffly, “I’d rather not turn to an old wife for advice, an old nurse. What can she know? Of course your good opinion goes a very long way——”
“For or against? I’m afraid, so far as your mother is concerned, it is rather against. However, we need say no more about it. But, remember! as King Charles said.”