“I don’t know, sir,” she replied, careful not to go beyond her own sphere.
Sheila came back from the window. She had taken a long time to read and ponder over that letter, though it was not a lengthy one. This was what Frank Lavender had written to his aunt:
“My Dear Aunt Lavender—I suppose when you read this you will think I am in a bad temper because of what you said to me. It is not so. But I am leaving London, and I wish to hand over to you, before I go, the charge of my house, and to ask you take possession of everything in it that does not belong to Sheila. These things are yours, as you know, and I have to thank you very much for the loan of them. I have to thank you for the far too liberal allowance you have made me for many years back. Will you think I have gone mad if I ask you to stop that now? The fact is, I am going to have a try at earning something, for the fun of the thing; and to make the experiment satisfactory, I start to-morrow morning for a district in the West Highlands, where the most ingenious fellow I know couldn’t get a penny loaf on credit. You have been very good to me, Aunt Lavender: I wish I had made better use of your kindness. So good-bye just now, and if ever I come back to London again, I shall call on you and thank you in person.
“I am your affectionate nephew,
“Frank Lavender.”
So far the letter was almost business-like. There was no reference to the causes which were sending him away from London, and which had already driven him to this extraordinary resolution about the money he had got from his aunt. But at the end of the letter there was a brief postscript, apparently written at the last moment, the words of which were these: “Be kind to Sheila. Be as kind to her as I have been cruel to her. In going away from her I feel as though I were exiled by man and forsaken by God.”
She came back from the window, the letter in her hand.
“I think you may read it, too, papa,” she said, for she was anxious that her father should know that Lavender had voluntarily surrendered this money before he was deprived of it. Then she went back to the window.
The slow rain fell from the dismal skies on the pavement, and the railings and the now almost leafless trees. The atmosphere was filled with a thin, white mist, and the people going by were hidden under umbrellas. It was a dreary picture enough; and yet Sheila was thinking of how much drearier such a day would be on some lonely coast in the North, with the hills obscured behind the rain, and the sea beating hopelessly on the sand. She thought of some small and damp Highland cottage, with narrow windows, a smell of wet wood about, and the monotonous drip from over the door. And it seemed to her that a stranger there would be very lonely, not knowing the ways or the speech of the simple folk, careless, perhaps, of his own comfort, and only listening to the plashing of the sea and the incessant rain on the bushes and on the pebbles of the beach. Was there any picture of desolation, she thought, like that of a sea under rain, with a slight fog obscuring the air, and with no wind to stir the pulse with the noise of waves? And if Frank Lavender had only gone as far as the Western Highlands, and was living in some house on the coast, how sad and still the Atlantic must have been all this wet forenoon, with the islands of Colonsay and Oronsay lying remote and gray and misty in the far and desolate plain of the sea!
“It will take a great deal of responsibility from me, sir,” Mrs. Patterson said to old Mackenzie, who was absently thinking of all the strange possibilities now opening out before him, “if you will tell me what is to be done. Mrs. Lavender had no relatives in London except her nephew.”
“Oh, yes,” said Mackenzie, waking up—“oh, yes, we will see what is to be done. There will be the boat wanted for the funeral—.” He recalled himself with an impatient gesture. “Bless me!” he said, “what was I saying? You must ask some one else—you must ask Mr. Ingram. Hef you not sent for Mr. Ingram?”