Mrs. Saltren’s acquaintances called to say farewell, and before them her boasting was so ridiculous that it covered her son with shame. He knew what the circumstances of James Welsh were, and what the position was that he occupied in town.
Young Saltren hesitated for some days how to act towards Lady Lamerton. Should he call and bid her farewell, or should he forbear? To both a meeting must be painful. If he considered his natural shrinking from an unpleasant scene, he would desist from paying her his respects; but his conscience told him that to depart without an apology and a word of explanation would be ungenerous. Accordingly, on his last day at Chillacot, he walked over to the Park, and asked to see her ladyship. Lady Lamerton was engaged at the moment with some ladies who had called to pay their condolence, so at his request he was shown into the library; and the butler undertook to inform her ladyship that he was there, as soon as she was free from her visitors.
As he sat in the familiar room, he mused on what he had to say. The situation was peculiar, as it was difficult. Lady Lamerton knew nothing, he supposed, and need know nothing, about the mistake he had made concerning his parentage. He could not tell her the story which he and Arminell had believed, and on which they had acted, yet without this key to their conduct it was hardly possible to explain it—to justify it even with the key was impossible.
As Jingles sat in the study meditating, the door opened slightly, and little Giles’s face appeared at it. The moment he saw his old tutor he uttered an exclamation of delight, and ran to him. “Mr. Saltren, why have you left me?” he asked: “my dear papa is dead, and I am so unhappy. Why do you not come back to us? and Arminell is dead also. I have no one here but mamma. I love mamma, but I want you also.”
Jingles took the little boy on his knee. The child had a delicate, intelligent face.
“Did you hear that I had arrived?” asked Saltren.
“No; I looked into the library because—I really can hardly say why. Since I have lost papa, I go all about the house; I know I cannot find him, but I cannot help running into one room and then another seeking him. I heard the study door open, and that was papa’s room, and I thought—that is—I didn’t think—I wondered who could be in papa’s room. I was fond of coming here and sitting on his lap and hearing about his rides and his spills when foxhunting. Whenever I hear a door open or a step on the stairs, I think papa is coming, and then next moment I know it cannot be so. Why do you not come back? I am doing no lessons now, and am tired of holiday.”
“You are going to school shortly, Giles.”
“Yes, I know, but not till the term begins. Nurse says that I am my lord now, and that mamma will call me Lamerton instead of Giles. But I don’t like it. I don’t wish to take anything that was papa’s. I always persuade myself he will come back. Did they tell you that I saw a black coach come to the door and carry away papa? The black coach never came for Arminell. When I saw that, papa would not let me tell mamma lest it should frighten her. Why was not Arminell buried in the vault?”
“Have you had any of your bad dreams lately?”