"At your age, I should have thought the young ladies would bear anything from you without retorting, and that they would be unhappy if they did not see you often."
"No fear of that," was the earnest response. "They will not lose an hour's rest owing to anxiety on my account. And to be frank with you, I think it is very good of them to come at all. The journey costs something, and takes time. They count the hours whilst they are here, and long for the last to come. They know they have nothing to gain, for, lest they should forget, I remind them every time that they have had their fortunes; also, that I have nothing to leave, and if I had, they would not get a penny of it. Frankness promotes a good understanding. I take care to prevent false hopes."
The rector, Dr. Darley, was going to reply, but one of Lady Longridge's peculiarities was a liking for saying her own say at great length, and then calmly ending an interview.
"I will say good-bye now," she added, extending two fingers, though her visitor had shown no intention of rising to leave. "When I write to my daughters, I will not fail to mention that you alluded to them as 'young ladies.' I like to please people when I can, and it costs nothing to do it."
Lady Longridge was quite the most impracticable of the kind old rector's parishioners. He knew her too well to suppose that she would listen to him, so he quietly took his leave.
Sir Philip was the youngest of the family, but at length he brought home the wife whose possible coming had been the one thing his mother feared. He was thirty-nine when this happened, and he had been absent a full year, when he returned accompanied by a beautiful girl less than half his age—in fact, barely eighteen.
"Mother," he said, "this is my wife. Make her welcome for my sake, to begin with. You will do so for her own when you know her better."
The expression of his mother's face as he made this announcement was something never to be forgotten. She had risen at her son's approach and stood erect, her head on a level with Sir Philip's, for she was very tall, and at sixty-five had not lost a hair's-breadth of her height. At the slight fair girl whom he was putting forward with his left arm, whilst he extended his right to greet his mother, Lady Longridge did not deign to glance. She looked past her and straight into the face of her son, whilst she locked her mittened hands one within the other, without appearing to see the one he extended.
"It is a pity that when you decided to bring a wife to Northbrook, you forgot the fact of your mother's existence. Had you written, I should have arranged for her and your fitting reception. We would have had a rustic fête, a gathering of tenants, the carriage unhorsed, and a team of enthusiastic cottagers to draw you and your bride home in triumph; perhaps even a triumphal arch at the entrance of the park. Why, Philip! The forgetting your mother has made your homecoming of no more account than that of old Jakes' son, who was married the other day."
Sir Philip moved uneasily, and his eyes fell before the half-angry, half-sarcastic look of his mother, whilst his wife shrank back within the encircling arm that had gently urged her towards Lady Longridge.