Carlyon’s part in the search was methodical and unhurried. For some time he was ably assisted by John, both brothers sitting in the bookroom, Carlyon before an antique commode whose drawers and cupboards were crammed with the accumulations of years, and John on the sofa with a battered wooden box at his feet, which one of Eustace’s keys had been found to fit. This was full of papers, old account books, ledgers, and bundles of letters, and these were all in such disorder that he was very glad to accept Elinor’s offer of assistance in sorting them out. But after half an hour’s steady work an interruption occurred. Nicky looked into the room, saying, “Look, is not this the very one, John?”
“Ay, that is it,” John replied, glancing up at the gaudy if somewhat faded kite he was being shown.
“Well, do you mean to come and try if it will fly?”
“Flying kites at my age! I should rather think not! Cannot you see that I am busy?”
“Oh, fusty work!” Nicky said, disappearing again.
John returned to his task, but happening to raise his head a few minutes later, caught sight of Nicky in the garden. His attention remained riveted, and he presently ejaculated, “One would fancy him a schoolboy! Incurable folly!”
Neither Carlyon nor Elinor returned any answer, and after a slight pause during which he continued to look out of the window he said testily, “That’s no way to go about it! Why does he not take it into the meadow? There cannot be wind enough in this hollow!”
“Here is a book of household accounts twenty years old,” said Elinor. “Shall I lay it aside to be burned?”
“Yes, certainly,” he said absently. “There! you have got it entangled in the hedge! Ned, that boy will be hurting his shoulder if he persists! I’ll go out to him!”
He left the room abruptly as he spoke, and five minutes later Elinor had an excellent view of him upon the lawn, arguing with Nicky. Both brothers then departed in the direction of the meadow, Bouncer at their heels, and were no more seen until the light began to fail and Carlyon had called for his carriage. They came in then, flushed and untidy, but full of satisfaction in having found the kite to be in famous shape, and very hot against their deceased cousin for the selfishness which had made him refuse to allow them to fly it years ago, when, as John rather unconvincingly said, they might really have enjoyed such a childish pastime. He looked a little conscious when he realized how late it was, and said that he begged pardon for having left his task. “But I thought I had best make sure Nicky did himself no injury,” he explained. “Besides, I don’t believe there is anything in this rubbish heap of a house but what had better have been burned years ago!”
“I begin to agree with you,” said Carlyon, ruefully regarding the huge pile of wastepaper on the floor. “Nevertheless, the work had to be done, and whether I find anything of value or not I must continue until it is finished. Mrs. Cheviot, I beg you will not exhaust yourself in this search! I shall return tomorrow, and there is not the least need for you to be turning out any more drawers and cupboards today.”
Both he and John took their leave of her, John saying that although he must return to London on the morrow he should try to be in Sussex to attend the funeral. As they left the house, Bouncer entered it, very much out of breath and generously plastered with mud. Miss Beccles uttered a shriek of dismay and ran at once for a cloth with which she proceeded to dry his legs and paws, scolding gently as she did so. Bouncer instantly assumed the cowed mien of a dog suffering under torture, but upon being released tore round the room three tunes at top speed, sending all the rugs flying, and ended up with a leap onto the sofa where he sat grinning and panting until turned off it by his master.
The night was uneventful. Upon the following morning, Carlyon came over at an early hour to Highnoons, and allowed himself to be lured up to the attic by Nicky, where he made a clearance which would have been even more drastic had not Miss Beccles trotted up with a plate of rout drop-cakes (for she believed that gentlemen stood in constant need of sustenance) and rescued from the pile on the floor several old-fashioned dresses whose stiff brocade, she assured Carlyon in scandalized accents, would cut up to admiration; a large pincushion; just such an earthenware bowl as Mrs. Barrow stood in crying need of; a paper full of pins, a little rusted, to be sure, but by no means useless; and a book of Household Hints which contained such valuable information as how to remove stains from linen by laying on salt of wormwood, and the infallibility of Scotch snuff as a means of destroying crickets.
While she was upstairs, Elinor went out into the garden, accompanied by Bouncer, to give some directions to the gardener, and was trying to convince him of the propriety of his devoting his time to weeding the overgrown carriage drive, when a job-chaise drove in at the gate. When it pulled up before the house a burly individual descended from it, with all the look about him of a tradesman. Elinor stepped forward to inquire his business, and was only just in time to prevent Bouncer’s seizing him by the calf of his leg. Ruffled by this reception, the visitor abandoned any attempt at civility, and thrust upon her a formidable and detailed account, which, he loudly asserted, he would have paid immediately or by distraint. Upon learning that his defaulting client lay dead, he looked greatly taken aback, but after a few seconds’ astonishment said that he was not surprised to hear it and would be paid in any event. The affronted widow recommended him to present his demand to Mr. Cheviot’s executors and when he seemed inclined to think she might well pay him a trifle on account, since he was a poor man and sadly out of pocket over the business, announced her inability any longer to control the dog. The visitor then mounted into his chaise again with more speed than dignity and Mrs. Cheviot went up to the attic to inform Carlyon, with no little relish, that just as she had always expected she was now being dunned at the door.
“Yes, I dare say this is but the first of many such encounters,” replied Carlyon. “A notice is to be inserted in the newspapers, but no doubt it will be missed by many.”
“Charming! So I must accustom myself to being abused at my own door!”
“I cannot understand why you should be answering your front doorbell,” said Carlyon. “Barrow is well able to deal with such persons.”
“But I was in the garden and naturally stepped up to the man to know what he might want!” said Elinor indignantly.
“Unwise. You will know better another time,” was all the satisfaction she obtained.
She was happily diverted by Miss Beccles’ displaying to her the glories of the brocade dresses she had rescued. “Oh, I can remember Mama in just such a dress!” she cried. “It should have a hoop, should it not, Becky? And the hair dressed high, with powder and a wreath or feathers or some such thing! I wonder how anyone can ever have borne to have worn such a garment! Only feel the weight of it! But the brocade is the very thing we need for the cushions in the parlor.” She looked round the attic, marveling at the collection of worn-out finery, furniture, and rubbish. “Good God, has everything that needed a stitch or a nail been cast into this garret?”
“Yes, indeed,” said Miss Beccles, shaking her head mournfully. “There has been a sad want of management and economy, I fear. And here is my lord refusing to let me keep back that chair from the bonfire, and all it needs is to have the seat recaned! And only look at that spit, too! I am sure it could be mended if only he would let me take it down to the kitchen.”
“You take it down, dear Becky,” said Elinor grandly. “You may save anything you like from the bonfire!”
“Oh, no, my love! If his lordship feels it were better to throw the things away, I would not think—”
“This,” said Elinor in a very lofty tone, “is my house, and you may tell his lordship that he has nothing to say in the matter!”