“I wish it did not hurt you, Cousin Mary,” said Geoff, interposing, “for I should like to speak of it, to have it all gone into. I am sure there is wrong somewhere. You said yourself about that young Musgrave—— ”
“Oh hush, hush, Geoff!” she said under her breath.
“He cannot be young now,” said the elder lady. “I am very sorry for him too, my dear. It is not given to us to see into men’s hearts, but I never believed that John Musgrave—— I beg your pardon, Mary, for naming him before you, of course it must be painful. And to me too. But it is such a long time ago, and I think if it were all to do over again—— ”
“It would have been done over again and the whole case sifted if John Musgrave had not behaved like a fool, or a guilty man,” said Sir Henry. “It is not a pleasant subject for discussion, is it? I was an idiot to bring up the fellow’s name. I forgot what good memories you ladies have,” he said, getting up and breaking up the party. And there was still a frown upon his face as he looked at his wife.
“What is the matter with papa?” cried the girls in a breath. “You have been upsetting him. You have worried him somehow!” exclaimed Lydia, turning upon her stepmother. “And everything was going so well, and he was in such a good humour. But it is always the way just when we want a little peace and comfort. I never saw such a house as ours! And he is not very unreasonable, not when you know how to manage him—papa.”
As for Mary, she broke down and cried, but smiled again, trying to keep up appearances. “It is nothing,” she said; “your father is not angry. It will all be right in a moment. I suppose I am very silly. Run, little ones, and bring me some eau-de-cologne, quick! You must not think Sir Henry was really annoyed,” she said, turning to Lady Stanton. “He is just a little impatient; you know he has all his old Indian ways; and I am so silly.”
“I don’t think you are silly,” said Lady Stanton, who herself was flushed and excited. “It was natural you should be disturbed, and I too. Sir Henry need not have been so impatient; but we don’t know his motives,” she added hastily, with the habitual apology she made for everybody who was or seemed in the wrong.
“Oh, how tiresome it all is,” cried Lydia, stamping her foot, “when people will make scenes! Come along, Geoff; come with us and let us see what is to be done. Everything has to be done still. I meant to ask papa to give the orders; but when he is put out, it is all over. Do come; there are the hoops to put up, and everything to do. Laura, never mind your tiresome presents. Come along! or the people will be here, and nothing will be done.”
“That is how they always go on,” said Laura, following her sister with her lap full of her treasures, “Come, Geoff. It is so easy to put papa out; and when he is put out he is no good for anything. Do come. I do not think this time, Lydia, it was her fault.”
“Oh, it is always her fault,” said the harsher sister: “and sending these two tiresome children for the eau-de-cologne! She always sends them for the eau-de-cologne. As if that could do any good! like putting out a fire with rose-water. There now, Laura, put your rubbish away, and I will begin settling everything with Geoff.”