“They do say,” he whispered, “that she’s almost given it to him. You must know. Now do be frank, Ronnie.”
“Frankness does not necessitate the discussion of other people’s affairs. Ask Roxhall’s wife; she is at Cowes; or go in and ask Miss Massarene; you know her.”
He disengaged himself with some difficulty from the clinging hold of Gwyllian’s white wrinkled fingers, and went onward to the station to go to Southampton, where his yawl was awaiting him. Daddy looked at the gate of the villa. Should he ring? No, he thought not. She was an unpleasant woman to tackle, hedgehoggy and impenetrable; she would be capable of saying to him, as Hurstmanceaux had done, that Roxhall’s affairs were no business of his. She was one of those unnatural and offensive persons who, having no curiosity themselves, regard curiosity in others without sympathy, and even with disapproval. Daddy, feeling ill-used and aggrieved, turned down a lane bordered by rhododendrons and eucalyptus, and went to lunch with his sick friend, to whom he imparted sotto voce the fact that he thought Ronald would come round and marry Miss Massarene.
“He’s always been such a crank,” added Daddy. “But he’s begun to sell. That looks like coming to his senses—doing like other people.”
“It is certainly doing like many other people,” said his sick friend with a sad smile, for he had seen his own collections go to the hammer. When Gwyllian, a few hours later, went comfortably back over the water in a steam-launch to East Cowes, he reflected as he glided along on what he had heard. Being a sagacious person, he connected the sale of the Faldon pictures with the visit to Katherine Massarene. “He’s either paying some debt of his sister’s or he’s helping Roxhall to buy back the place. He’s such a confounded fool, he’d give his head away; and I dare say the young woman is sharp about money; wouldn’t be her father’s daughter if she wasn’t.” So he came very nearly to the truth in his own mind as he sat in the launch, whilst it wound in and out among the craft in the roads.
It was no business of his, but Daddy Gwyllian had always found that guessing what hands other people held was the most amusing way of playing the rubber of life; at least, when you are old, and only a looker-on at the tables.
“They do say she’s almost given it to him.” The words rang in Ronald’s ears as he went on board his old yawl, the Dianthus, and crossed to the island. Roxhall had not spoken to him of the matter; he only knew what was, by that time, table-talk, that Vale Royal was to return to its original owner so soon as the law permitted Katherine Massarene to dispose of any portion of her inheritance. Meantime, the house was closed. Roxhall had not sought him on the subject, and he felt that if they discussed it, they would probably quarrel, their views would be so different. It was very bitter to him that any member of his family should again be indebted to the Massarene fortune. It seemed as if the very stars in their courses fought against his will. Why had not Roxhall simply replied to her overtures, as he himself would have replied, that the sale of the estates, once having been made, could not be annulled?
As it was, all the world was talking of her generosity. It was intolerable! She had meant well, no doubt, but Roxhall should have taught her, as he had taught her, that men who respect themselves cannot receive that kind of favors.
“Why did you let him accept the return of the property, Elsie?” he said to Lady Roxhall, whom he saw on the club terrace at Cowes as soon as he landed there.
Lady Roxhall colored a little.