“From Maria Ansell—they are all coming tomorrow.”
“Ah—that’s good,” Amherst rejoined. “I should have been sorry if Cicely had not been here.”
“Mr. Langhope is coming too,” his mother continued. “I’m glad of that, John.”
“Yes,” Amherst again assented.
The morrow was to be a great day at Westmore. The Emergency Hospital, planned in the first months of his marriage, and abandoned in the general reduction of expenditure at the mills, had now been completed on a larger and more elaborate scale, as a memorial to Bessy. The strict retrenchment of all personal expenses, and the leasing of Lynbrook and the town house, had enabled Amherst, in eighteen months, to lay by enough income to carry out this plan, which he was impatient to see executed as a visible commemoration of his wife’s generosity to Westmore. For Amherst persisted in regarding the gift of her fortune as a gift not to himself but to the mills: he looked on himself merely as the agent of her beneficent intentions. He was anxious that Westmore and Hanaford should take the same view; and the opening of the Westmore Memorial Hospital was therefore to be performed with an unwonted degree of ceremony.
“I am glad Mr. Langhope is coming,” Mrs. Amherst repeated, as they rose from the table. “It shows, dear—doesn’t it?—that he’s really gratified—that he appreciates your motive….”
She raised a proud glance to her tall son, whose head seemed to tower higher than ever above her small proportions. Renewed self-confidence, and the habit of command, had in fact restored the erectness to Amherst’s shoulders and the clearness to his eyes. The cleft between the brows was gone, and his veiled inward gaze had given place to a glance almost as outward-looking and unspeculative as his mother’s.
“It shows—well, yes—what you say!” he rejoined with a slight laugh, and a tap on her shoulder as she passed.
He was under no illusions as to his father-in-law’s attitude: he knew that Mr. Langhope would willingly have broken the will which deprived his grand-daughter of half her inheritance, and that his subsequent show of friendliness was merely a concession to expediency. But in his present mood Amherst almost believed that time and closer relations might turn such sentiments into honest liking. He was very fond of his little stepdaughter, and deeply sensible of his obligations toward her; and he hoped that, as Mr. Langhope came to recognize this, it might bring about a better understanding between them.
His mother detained him. “You’re going back to the mills at once? I wanted to consult you about the rooms. Miss Brent had better be next to Cicely?”
“I suppose so—yes. I’ll see you before I go.” He nodded affectionately and passed on, his hands full of papers, into the Oriental smoking-room, now dedicated to the unexpected uses of an office and study.
Mrs. Amherst, as she turned away, found the parlour-maid in the act of opening the front door to the highly-tinted and well-dressed figure of Mrs. Harry Dressel.
“I’m so delighted to hear that you’re expecting Justine,” began Mrs. Dressel as the two ladies passed into the drawing-room.
“Ah, you’ve heard too?” Mrs. Amherst rejoined, enthroning her visitor in one of the monumental plush armchairs beneath the threatening weight of the Bay of Naples.
“I hadn’t till this moment; in fact I flew in to ask for news, and on the doorstep there was such a striking-looking young man enquiring for her, and I heard the parlour-maid say she was arriving tomorrow.”
“A young man? Some one you didn’t know?” Striking apparitions of the male sex were of infrequent occurrence at Hanaford, and Mrs. Amherst’s unabated interest in the movement of life caused her to dwell on this statement.
“Oh, no—I’m sure he was a stranger. Extremely slight and pale, with remarkable eyes. He was so disappointed—he seemed sure of finding her.”
“Well, no doubt he’ll come back tomorrow.—You know we’re expecting the whole party,” added Mrs. Amherst, to whom the imparting of good news was always an irresistible temptation.
Mrs. Dressel’s interest deepened at once. “Really? Mr. Langhope too?”
“Yes. It’s a great pleasure to my son.”
“It must be! I’m so glad. I suppose in a way it will be rather sad for Mr. Langhope—seeing everything here so unchanged–-“
Mrs. Amherst straightened herself a little. “I think he will prefer to find it so,” she said, with a barely perceptible change of tone.
“Oh, I don’t know. They were never very fond of this house.”
There was an added note of authority in Mrs. Dressel’s accent. In the last few months she had been to Europe and had had nervous prostration, and these incontestable evidences of growing prosperity could not always be kept out of her voice and bearing. At any rate, they justified her in thinking that her opinion on almost any subject within the range of human experience was a valuable addition to the sum-total of wisdom; and unabashed by the silence with which her comment was received, she continued her critical survey of the drawing-room.
“Dear Mrs. Amherst—you know I can’t help saying what I think—and I’ve so often wondered why you don’t do this room over. With these high ceilings you could do something lovely in Louis Seize.”
A faint pink rose to Mrs. Amherst’s cheeks. “I don’t think my son would ever care to make any changes here,” she said.
“Oh, I understand his feeling; but when he begins to entertain—and you know poor Bessy always hated this furniture.”
Mrs. Amherst smiled slightly. “Perhaps if he marries again—” she said, seizing at random on a pretext for changing the subject.
Mrs. Dressel dropped the hands with which she was absent-mindedly assuring herself of the continuance of unbroken relations between her hat and her hair.
“Marries again? Why—you don’t mean—? He doesn’t think of it?”
“Not in the least—I spoke figuratively,” her hostess rejoined with a laugh.
“Oh, of course—I see. He really couldn’t marry, could he? I mean, it would be so wrong to Cicely—under the circumstances.”
Mrs. Amherst’s black eyebrows gathered in a slight frown. She had already noticed, on the part of the Hanaford clan, a disposition to regard Amherst as imprisoned in the conditions of his trust, and committed to the obligation of handing on unimpaired to Cicely the fortune his wife’s caprice had bestowed on him; and this open expression of the family view was singularly displeasing to her.
“I had not thought of it in that light—but it’s really of no consequence how one looks at a thing that is not going to happen,” she said carelessly.
“No—naturally; I see you were only joking. He’s so devoted to Cicely, isn’t he?” Mrs. Dressel rejoined, with her bright obtuseness.
A step on the threshold announced Amherst’s approach.
“I’m afraid I must be off, mother—” he began, halting in the doorway with the instinctive masculine recoil from the afternoon caller.
“Oh, Mr. Amherst, how d’you do? I suppose you’re very busy about tomorrow? I just flew in to find out if Justine was really coming,” Mrs. Dressel explained, a little fluttered by the effort of recalling what she had been saying when he entered.
“I believe my mother expects the whole party,” Amherst replied, shaking hands with the false bonhomie of the man entrapped.
“How delightful! And it’s so nice to think that Mr. Langhope’s arrangement with Justine still works so well,” Mrs. Dressel hastened on, nervously hoping that her volubility would smother any recollection of what he had chanced to overhear.
“Mr. Langhope is lucky in having persuaded Miss Brent to take charge of Cicely,” Mrs. Amherst quietly interposed.
“Yes—and it was so lucky for Justine too! When she came back from Europe with us last autumn, I could see she simply hated the idea of taking up her nursing again.”