He found her in a terrible Early Victorian drawing-room, a tall girl, grave and self-contained, surrounded by thin-lipped, censorious women, whose eyes inspected him with freezing curiosity as he entered. Her own were steadily fixed on the floor, and the thick lashes hid their expression; but her mouth was set hard. He endured half an hour of small-talk, listening for the rare sound of Molly's voice. She uttered only the barest commonplaces, and few enough of them, leaving the conversation as much as possible to the ladies of the house; but when she spoke the sound of her deep, resonant contralto, the lingering inflections of her sweet West-country speech, seemed to him, amid these arid wastes of shabby-genteel cockneydom, like a spring of water in a thirsty land. She wore a tuft of Cornish heather at her throat.
When he rose to go, she turned to the hostess.
"Mrs. Pepning, I will walk through the park with my brother; I shall be back in time for supper."
Mrs. Penning bit her lip. The Vicar, when entrusting his niece to her care, had warned
her that the brother, who lived in London and would be likely to call, was "not a suitable companion for a young girl." She had no intention of letting Molly walk alone with this black sheep of the family; and to send out a duenna this afternoon would interfere with arrangements already made. Really, it was very thoughtless of the girl.
"I am afraid I cannot leave the house today, my dear," she said; "but if you are particularly anxious to go out I am sure Mildred will not mind accompanying you. You must be back in half an hour, though, as she is going to evening service."
"Thank you," Molly answered; "but I need not trouble Mildred."
"My dear! I could not possibly let you walk home alone. It is not suitable for a young girl, especially a stranger to London like you."
Molly raised her eyes and looked at Jack. He interposed at once.
"I will see my sister home."
"Yes, of course," said Mrs. Penning nervously; "but I think... Molly had better not go out while she is under my care, except with an older lady. Mr. Raymond is very particular, you know; and I am sure he would not like her to be seen in the park alone with a gentleman..."
"Even with her brother?"
Molly turned suddenly, with shining, dangerous eyes.
"No, especially with her brother. You are very kind, Mrs. Penning; but my brother and I have some family matters to discuss, and we would rather be alone. Shall we go, Jack?"
They went out in silence, while Mrs. Penning stood amazed. On the doorstep Molly turned to her brother, her nostrils quivering.
"Those women are spies," she said.
He accepted the statement in grave silence, acquiescing, and they walked on without further speech.
"Do you know what I came to London for?" she began at last, without turning her head.
"I know nothing, Molly; not even what sort of sister I have."
"I came to see you."
He turned, without comment, and looked at her. Her face was hard and resentful.
"I don't know what sort of brother I have, either, and I thought it was time to find out. I have more curiosity than you, it seems."
His mouth set in a sudden line, and the girl, watching him from under level brows, saw that she had stung him. He paused an instant before answering.
"I am glad you came," he said.
Molly flashed another look at him. The quick, passionate dilation of the nostrils transformed her face again.
"Are you? I'm not sure I am. It depends on..."
She broke off; then plunged on recklessly:
"Such as you are, whatever you are, you're the only near relative I've got. Don't you think we might as well know something about each other at first hand, now we're both grown up, instead of taking things for granted through other people? Or do you think blood relationships are all rubbish?"
"No, I don't think that; and, Molly, I have taken nothing for granted."
"Nothing? Not when you refused an invitation to come and see me after — how long was it? Seven — eight years?"
"It was an invitation to uncle's house. As for seeing you, I had waited so long for that that I could have patience a little longer till you could come to me, rather than..."
After a little pause he added slowly:
"I couldn't go into his house. If ever we get to know each other well, you'll understand why; but I can't explain."
"Jack!" she burst out suddenly; "what was it between you and uncle? No, don't tell me if you don't want to. I had no right to ask; it's not my business. But one hears bits and scraps of things... all sorts of things..."
"You have every right to ask," he answered gravely. "But I don't think I have any right to tell you."
"Do you think that's fair to me?"
"No, but then it's not a fair position all round. I think while you are accepting anything from uncle he has a right to ask that his enemies should not tell you things against him. Don't you?"
"Does that mean that you are his enemy? In the real sense of the word? Have you nothing to tell me but things against him?"
"Nothing."
"And nothing about Aunt Sarah? Are you her enemy too?"
He paused a moment.
"I have nothing to say about her, one way or the other."
"Jack, whatever the thing was that happened, it's more than ten years ago; and she lies awake at night and cries about you still. Last winter, when she had pleurisy, and we thought she was going to die, she clung to me and kept on repeating that she had 'done her best' for you. What wrong has she done you? I don't believe Aunt Sarah ever harmed a fly in her life. Granted, you may have something against uncle; but why should you hate her?"
He put the subject aside.
"I don't hate her."
"You despise her then," the girl broke in quickly.
"That I can't help. She's lukewarm, like the angel of Laodicea; I would she were hot or cold."
Passionate tears glittered in Molly's eyes.
"You will make me hate you!" she said, in her suppressed, vehement way. "An old woman, as broken down and feeble as she is; and you will let her go on worrying and fretting over some dead-and-gone quarrel of your schoolboy days... She asked me the other day to forgive her if she'd made mistakes in bringing me up. To forgive her, the only person in the world that ever cared for me! She's got it into her head that you were made what she calls 'wicked' by being unhappy at home, and that it was somehow her fault. Were you so unhappy, Jack?"
"Unhappy!" He repeated the word with a quick throb in his voice that made the girl start and look round at him. "Look here, Molly," he went on with evident effort, "what's the use of raking up all this? I've nothing against Aunt Sarah, except that she was a coward and passed by on the other side. Anyhow, if she's been kind to you, I'm grateful to her for that, and she needn't worry about the rest. As for uncle, I haven't anything to say except what's better unsaid. If you want to know why I couldn't come to the house — well, I tried to kill him once, and that's reason enough."
"I asked him about it one day, and he told me you..."
"Don't!" he interrupted. "I don't want to hear anything from you, or to tell you anything. Don't get your impressions of him from me — they wouldn't be just. And judge of me by what you see yourself, not by what any one has told you; if I'm a bad lot you'll soon find it out without any telling."