Chapter Eleven.
The Head of the Family arrived next day. He was a very stolid and bucolic-looking person, a breeder of prize oxen and fat sheep. He commiserated with poor Isobel in a heavy fashion.
“Strange thing going off like that,” he commented. “We are a very long-lived family. But your father was always a little bit different from the rest of us when he was a boy.”
Isobel said nothing in reply. She had seen several members of her father’s family at rare intervals, and she had not been greatly impressed by them. The only one she had really liked was Mrs Farquhar, the mother of her Cousin Maurice. She was a sweet, charming woman, the favourite sister of her dead father.
Mr Clandon fingered his moustache a little nervously. “I suppose you know all about his affairs, my dear? He has left you comfortably off, eh? He came into quite a tidy little bit when my father died.”
Isobel smiled faintly. Mr Clandon wanted to be assured that he was not going to have a penniless niece thrust upon his hands. She knew all about her father’s affairs. Had not the dear old General spent hours in instructing her as to the careful management of her small patrimony, when anything happened to him?
“Quite comfortably off, uncle, thanks to his loving care. With my simple wants, I shall be rich.”
“Very relieved to hear it,” said the bucolic Mr Clandon. “And, of course, you are going to marry a rich man. Lord Saxham, I understand, is one of the wealthiest peers in England.”
“Reported to be,” corrected Isobel gently. “The estates are very heavily encumbered, and there are living three dowagers, and other pensioners who draw their portions.”