Charles Longbow’s frown had deepened, but he had regained his composure.
“I think, Helen,” he said, “that mother wouldn’t like to see us quarreling like this. She believed in peace and calm.” For a moment his natural generosity seemed to assert itself. “You are so much like her that I can’t bear to have anything come between us. I’m sorry I didn’t know you wanted to write the book.”
“You did very wrong in not consulting me,” replied Helen, with angry dignity. “I was at least mother’s eldest child, and took a considerable share in her great work. You ought to see Singleton and get him to release you from your contract.”
“Perhaps Helen ought to have her own way,” remarked Margaret, wearily. “She always has.”
“I’m certainly not going to change my arrangements now,” Charles returned, with sudden stiffness. “I shall bring out a work in suitable form, something on a scale worthy of mother. What is more, her journal and all her papers are mine to do what I please with.”
“Come, Henry!” cried Mrs. Bradford. “You may like to have insults heaped upon me, but I won’t remain to hear them.”
Magnificently, explosively, she swept from the room, followed close by her husband. For a moment the brother and sister stood looking at each other like naughty children apprehended in a fault. I was forgotten. At length Margaret sank into the chair from which her sister had risen and gave a nervous laugh.
“I hope you have enjoyed the entertainment we’ve been giving you, Robert,” she said, turning her head in my direction. “This will be the end of everything. All the same, Charlie dear, I hope you’ll let me sort mother’s papers before I go away.”
“Oh, come, Charlie,”—I plucked up my courage to play the peacemaker, for I felt that this dance on a newly made grave would disturb even Mrs. Longbow’s serene and righteous soul,—“there’s no reason why Helen shouldn’t write a book as well as you. The public will stand for it. I hope you’ll tell her so.”
Charles’s solemn face cracked with a grin.