CHAPTER VIII.

AUNT GLENLYNE.

Once assured that there was no blot upon Lucille’s parentage, Lucius had no longer any motive for withholding the result of his researches from her whom they most nearly concerned. He spent his evening at Cedar House, as usual, on the day of his interview with Mr. Pullman; and after tea, when Mr. Sivewright had retired, seized the opportunity to show Lucille the little packet of letters, and to relate his adventures at Rouen and in Paris. Lucille wept many tears as that story of the past was slowly unfolded to her—wept for the sorrows of the mother she vaguely remembered watching like a guardian angel beside her little bed.

‘Dear mother! and to think that in your brief life there was so much sorrow!’ she said mournfully.

Her father—as revealed to her by those letters, and by all that Lucius told her—seemed worldly and even cruel. He had suffered his young wife to fade and die in severance from all she loved. For the sake of what?—his uncle’s fortune. He had acted a lie rather than forego that worldly gain. O foolish dream of a father’s love! From first to last it had been only a delusion for Lucille. She uttered no word of reproach against the dead. But she separated her mother’s letters from the others in the little packet, and asked if she might keep them.

‘These and the miniature are the only memorials of the mother I lost so soon,’ she said. ‘They are very precious to me.’

‘Keep them, dearest, but do not cultivate sad memories. Your life has been too long clouded; but, please God, there shall be less shadow than sunshine henceforward.’

He told Lucille of his idea of taking her to Brighton in a day or two, to see Miss Glenlyne.

‘The lady with whom my mother came to England,’ she said. ‘Yes, I should very much like to see any one who knew my mother.’

‘We will go the day after to-morrow, then, dear, if grandpapa will give us permission. We can come back to town the same evening, and Janet can go with us to play propriety, if you like.’

‘I should like that very much,’ said Lucille.

Mr. Sivewright was consulted when Lucius paid his visit next morning; and, on being told the circumstances of the case fully, was tolerably complaisant. He was still ‘grandpapa’—nobody had any idea of deposing him from the sway and masterdom that went along with that title.

‘I suppose you must take her,’ he said reluctantly, ‘though the house seems miserable without her. Such a quiet little thing as she is too! I couldn’t have believed her absence would make so much difference. But if you’re going to establish her claim to a fine fortune, I suppose I shall soon lose her. Miss Glenlyne will be ashamed of the old bric-à-brac dealer.’

‘Ashamed of you, grandpapa,’ cried Lucille, ‘when you’ve taken care of me all these years, and educated me, and paid for everything I’ve ever had!’

‘Taken care!’ repeated Mr. Sivewright with a sigh. ‘I believe the care has been on the other side. You’ve brightened my home, little girl, and crept into my heart unawares, though I tried my hardest to keep it shut against you.’

Lucille rewarded this unusual burst of tenderness with a kiss, to which the cynic submitted with assumed reluctance.

They went to Brighton by an early train next day, accompanied by Janet, who had consented to stay for a few days in her brother’s unlovely abode, before going back to Flossie. That idolised damsel had been left to the care of old nurse Sally, who guarded her as the apple of her eye.

It was pleasant weather for a hasty trip to Brighton. The rush and riot of excursion-trains had ended with the ending of summer. Lucius and his two companions left London-bridge terminus comfortably and quietly in a quick train, with a carriage to themselves. The day was bright and sunny; the deepening tints of autumn beautified the peaceful landscape; the air blew fresh and strong across the downs as the train neared Brighton.

Janet sat in her corner of the carriage grave and somewhat silent, while the others talked in low confidential tones of the past and the future. Where love is firm hope is never absent, what shadow soever may obscure life’s horizon. Lucius and Lucille, happy in each other’s society, forgot all the troubles and perplexities of the last few months. But Janet had not yet recovered from the shock of that meeting in the hospital. She was still haunted by the last look of her husband’s dying eyes.

They arrived at Brighton before noon, at too early an hour for a first visit to an elderly lady like Miss Glenlyne. So they walked up and down the Parade for an hour or so, looking at the sea and talking of all manner of things. Janet brightened a good deal during this walk, and seemed pleased to discuss her brother’s future, though she studiously avoided any allusion to her own.

‘You must not go and bury yourself at Stillmington again, Janet; must she, Lucille?’ Lucius said by and by. ‘The place is nice enough—much nicer than London, I daresay; but we want you to be near us.’

‘Shall I come back to London?’ asked Janet. ‘I daresay I could get some teaching in town. The publishers would recommend me. Yes, it would be nice to be near you, Lucius, to play our old concertante duets again. It would seem like the dear old days when—’ She could not finish the sentence. The thought of the father and mother whose death had perhaps been hastened by her folly was too bitter. Happily for her own peace Janet never knew how deep the wounds she had inflicted on those faithful hearts. She knew that they were lost to her—that she had not been by to ask a blessing from those dying lips. But the full measure of her guilt she knew not.

‘Yes, Janet, you must settle in London. I shall move to the West-end very soon. I feel myself strong enough to create a practice, if I cannot afford to buy one. And then we can see each other constantly.’

‘I will come, then,’ answered Janet quietly.

She seemed to have no thought of any other future than that which her own industry was to provide for her.

They left the sea soon after this, and took a light luncheon of tea and cakes at a confectioner’s in the Western-road, prior to descending upon Selbrook-place, to find the abode of Miss Glenlyne. Janet was to sit upon the Parade, or walk about and amuse herself as she liked, while Lucius and Lucille were with Miss Glenlyne, and they were to meet afterwards at a certain seat by the lawn. It was just possible, of course, that there might be some disappointment—that Miss Glenlyne, elderly and invalided though she was, might be out, or that she might refuse to see them in spite of Mr. Pullman’s letter.

‘But I don’t feel as if we were going to be disappointed,’ said Lucius; ‘I have a notion that we shall succeed.’

They left Janet to her own devices, and went arm-in-arm to Selbrook-place. It was an eminently quiet place, consisting of two rows of modern houses, stuccoed, pseudo-classical, and commonplace, with an ornamental garden between them. The garden was narrow, and the shady side of Selbrook-place was very shady. No intrusive fly or vehemently driven cart could violate the aristocratic seclusion of Selbrook-place. The houses were accessible only in the rear. They turned their backs, as it were, upon the vulgar commerce of life, and in a manner ignored it. That garden, where few flowers flourished, was common to the occupants of Selbrook-place, but shut against the outer world. The inhabitants could descend from their French windows to that sacred parterre, but to the outer world those French windows were impenetrable.

Thus it came to pass that Selbrook-place was for the most part affected by elderly ladies, maiden or widowed, without encumbrance, by spinster sisters of doubtful age, by gouty old gentlemen who over-ate themselves and over-drank themselves in the respectable seclusion of dining-rooms, unexposed to the vulgar gaze. There was much talk about eating and drinking, servants, and wills, in Selbrook-place. Every inhabitant of those six-and-twenty respectable houses knew all about his or her neighbours’ intentions as to the ultimate disposal of their property. That property question was an inexhaustible subject of conversation. Every one in Selbrook-place seemed amply provided with the goods of this world, and those who lived in the profoundest solitude and spent least money were reputed the richest. Miss Glenlyne was one of these. She never gave a dinner or a cup of tea to neighbour or friend; she wore shabby garments, and went out in a hired bath-chair, attended by a confidential maid or companion, who was just a shade shabbier than herself. The gradation was almost imperceptible, for the maid wore out the mistress’s clothes—clothes that had not been new within the memory of any one in Selbrook-place. Miss Glenlyne had brought a voluminous wardrobe to Brighton twenty years ago, and appeared to have been gradually wearing out that handsome supply of garments, so little concession did she make to the mutations of taste.

A maid-servant opened the door—a maid-servant attired with scrupulous neatness in the lavender cotton gown and frilled muslin cap which have become traditional. To this maid Lucius gave Mr. Pullman’s letter and his own card, saying that he would wait to know if Miss Glenlyne would be so good as to see him.

The maid looked embarrassed, evidently thoughtful of the spoons, which doubtless lurked somewhere in the dim religious light of a small pantry, at the end of the passage. After a moment’s hesitation she rang a call-bell, and kept her eye on Lucius and Lucille until the summons was answered.

It was answered quickly by an elderly person in a black silk gown, in which time had developed a mellow green tinge and to which friction had given a fine gloss. This person, who wore a bugled black lace cap, rather on one side, was Miss Spilling, once Miss Glenlyne’s maid, now elevated to a middle station, half servant, half companion—servant to be ordered about, companion to sympathise.

‘I have a letter of introduction to Miss Glenlyne, from Mr. Pullman of Lincoln’s-inn,’ said Lucius.

‘Dear me!’ exclaimed Miss Spilling; ‘Mr. Pullman ought to know that Miss Glenlyne objects to receive any one, above all a stranger. She is a great invalid. Mr. Pullman ought to know better than to give letters of introduction without Miss Glenlyne’s permission.’

‘The matter is one of importance,’ said Lucius, ‘or I should not have troubled Miss Glenlyne.’

Miss Spilling surveyed him doubtfully from head to foot. He wore good clothes certainly, and looked like a gentleman. But then appearances are deceptive. He might be a genteel beggar after all. There are so many vicarious beggars, people who beg for other people, for new churches, and missions, and schools; people who seem to beg for the sake of begging. And Miss Glenlyne, though she subscribed handsomely to a certain number of orthodox old-established charities, hated to be pestered on behalf of novel schemes for the benefit of her fellow creatures.

‘If it’s anything connected with ritualism,’ said Miss Spilling, ‘it isn’t the least use for me to take your letter up to Miss Glenlyne. Her principles are strictly evangelical.’

‘My business has nothing to do with ritualism. Pray let Miss Glenlyne read the letter.’

Miss Spilling sighed doubtfully, looked at the maid as much as to say, ‘Keep your eye on these people,’ and went up-stairs with the letter, leaving Lucius and Lucille standing in the hall.

She returned in about ten minutes with a surprised air, and requested them to walk up to the drawing-room.

They followed her to the first floor, where she ushered them into a room crowded with much unnecessary furniture, darkened by voluminous curtains, and heated like the palm-house in Kew Gardens. Lucius felt a sense of oppression directly he entered the apartment. The windows were all shut, a bright fire burned in a shining steel grate, which reflected its glow, and a curious Indian perfume filled the room. In a capacious chair by the fire reclined a little old lady, wrapped in an Indian shawl of dingy hues, a little old lady whose elaborate blonde cap was almost as big as all the rest of her person. Her slender hands, on whose waxen skin the blue veins stood out prominently, were embellished with valuable old diamond rings in silver setting, and an ancient diamond brooch in the shape of a feather clasped the shawl across her shrunken shoulders.

This old lady was Miss Glenlyne. She raised her eye-glass with tremulous fingers, and surveyed her visitors with a somewhat parrot-like scrutiny. The contour of her aristocratic features was altogether of the parrot order.

‘Come here,’ she said, addressing Lucille, with kindly command,—‘come here, and sit by my side; and you, sir, pray what is the meaning of this curious story which Mr. Pullman tells me? Spilling, you can go, my dear.’

Miss Spilling had lingered, anxious to know all about these strangers. Every day made Miss Spilling more and more solicitous upon the all-important question of Miss Glenlyne’s will. She had reason to suppose that her interests were cared for in that document. But advancing age did not increase Miss Glenlyne’s wisdom. Some base intruder, arriving late upon the scene, might undo the slow work of years, and thrust himself between Miss Glenlyne’s legitimate heirs and their heritage. Just as a horse which has been kept well in hand in the early part of a race comes in with a rush as winner at the finish. In the presence of these unknown intruders Miss Spilling scented danger.

She ignored her mistress’s behest, and came over to the easy-chair, moved a little table near it, picked up a fallen newspaper, and hovered over Miss Glenlyne with tenderest solicitude.

‘It’s just upon the time for your chicken broth,’ she said.

‘My chicken broth can wait until I require it,’ replied Miss Glenlyne curtly. ‘You can go, my dear; I want a little private talk with this lady and gentleman.’

Miss Spilling retired meekly, but troubled of heart. There is nothing easier than to alter a will. Yet Miss Spilling felt it was wisest to obey. Surely the patient service of years was not to be set at naught for some new fancy. But age is apt to be capricious, fickle even; and Miss Spilling was not blind to the fact that there were seasons when Miss Glenlyne considered her a bore.

‘You are not so amusing as you were fifteen years ago, Spilling,’ Miss Glenlyne would sometimes remark candidly; and Miss Spilling could but admit that fifteen years of a solitude scarcely less profound than the loneliness of a Carthusian monastery had not tended to enliven her spirits. She had come to Miss Glenlyne charged with all the gossip picked up in a half a dozen previous situations, and little by little she had exhausted her fund of frivolity and slander, and told her servants’-hall stories till they were threadbare.

Who could be sure that Miss Glenlyne would not be beguiled by some new favourite, even at the very end of her career? Sedulously had Miss Spilling striven to guard against this ever-present peril by keeping poor relations, old friends, and strangers alike at bay. But to-day she felt herself worsted, and retired to her own apartment depressed and apprehensive. If the folding-doors had been closed she might have gone into the back drawing-room and listened; but the folding-doors were open. Miss Glenlyne liked a palm-house atmosphere, but she liked space for an occasional constitutional promenade, so the back drawing-room was never shut off. Miss Spilling lingered a little by the landing door, but heard only indistinct murmurs, and feared to loiter long, lest she should be caught in the act by the parlourmaid Susan, who was fleet of foot.

‘This is a very curious story,’ said Miss Glenlyne, when the door had closed upon her companion; ‘I hardly know how to believe it. A marriage between my nephew Henry and Félicie Dumarques! It seems hardly credible.’

‘The record in the parish register proves it to be a fact nevertheless,’ said Lucius quietly.

‘So Mr. Pullman tells me. Félicie left me to go to Rouen, she said, summoned home by illness in her family. And now it seems she stole away to marry my nephew. She must have been an artful treacherous girl.’

Lucille rose hastily from her seat near Miss Glenlyne. ‘You forget, Miss Glenlyne, that she was my mother,’ she said firmly; ‘I cannot stay to hear her condemned.’

‘Nonsense, child,’ cried the old lady, not unkindly; ‘sit down. The truth must be told even if she was your mother. She treated me very badly. I was so fond of that girl. She was the only person I ever had about me who suited me thoroughly. She would have been amply provided for after my death if she had stayed and been faithful to me. I never treated her as a servant, or thought of her as a servant; indeed it would have been difficult for any one to do so, for she had the manners and instincts of a lady. Yet she deceived me, and left me with a lie.’

‘Love is a powerful influence,’ said Lucille softly; ‘she was persuaded to that wrong act by one she fondly loved, one for whom she willingly sacrificed her own happiness, and who rewarded her at the last by desertion.’

‘My nephew was always selfish,’ said Miss Glenlyne; ‘he was brought up by a foolish mother, who taught him to count upon inheriting his uncle’s money, and never taught him any higher duty than to seek his own pleasure, so far as he could gratify himself without offending his uncle. She taught him to flatter and tell lies before he could speak plain. He was not altogether bad, and might have been a much better man if he had been differently trained. Well, well, I daresay he was most to blame throughout the business. I’ll say no more against poor Félicie; only it was not kind of her to leave an invalid mistress who had shown her a good deal of affection.’

‘Whatever error she committed she suffered deeply for it,’ said Lucille. ‘The sin was chiefly another’s, but the sorrow was all hers.’

‘Ah, my dear, that’s the usual distribution between a man and a woman,’ replied Miss Glenlyne, considerably softened by this time.

She turned and scrutinised Lucille’s candid countenance—took the pale interesting face between her hands and held it near her.

‘Yes,’ she said at last, ‘you have Félicie’s eyes and Félicie’s mouth. I can readily believe that you are her daughter. And pray, Mr. Davoren, what is your interest in this young lady?’

‘We are engaged to be married,’ answered Lucius.

‘Indeed! Not in an underhand way, I hope, like Félicie and my nephew, who must have been making love by some secret code before my very face, when I hadn’t a suspicion of any such thing.’

‘We are engaged with the full consent of Lucille’s adopted father—her only friend,’ answered Lucius.

‘I am glad of that. And what put it into your head to come to me?’

‘Because I thought you might be able to assist Lucille in establishing her claim to any heritage to which she may be entitled.’

‘If she is the legitimate and only child of Henry Glenlyne, she is entitled to a very fine estate, which is now enjoyed by a man my brother never intended to benefit by it. He was doatingly fond of his brother’s son Henry; and although the young man disappointed him in many things, that love was never seriously diminished. He left Henry the bulk of his fortune, with reversion to any child or children that might be born to him. He knew that I had an income more than enough for my wants, so he left almost all to his nephew. Spalding Glenlyne’s name was put in at the suggestion of Mr. Pullman, but it was never supposed that he would inherit the estate.’

Once set going, Miss Glenlyne was quite willing to relate all she could remember about her brother Reginald, her nephew Henry, and Félicie Dumarques. She spoke of the Spalding Glenlynes with rancour, and declared her readiness to assist Lucille, so far as lay in her power, in the assertion of her claim to the Glenlyne estate, which consisted of various lands and tenements in Norfolk, and though yielding the usual low rate of interest, produced between three and four thousand a year.

Before taking her chicken-broth, Miss Glenlyne ordered an impromptu dinner of mutton-chops to be prepared for her visitors, and, when Lucius mentioned his sister Janet as a reason for declining this proffered hospitality, insisted that he should go instantly and fetch that young lady. Lucius dutifully obeyed, and while he was gone Miss Glenlyne opened her heart more and more to Lucille, moved by the recollection of that gentle girl who had ministered to her frivolous and innumerable wants with such unwearying solicitude.

‘It makes me feel twenty years younger to have you with me,’ said the old lady. ‘I like young faces and pretty looks and gentle manners. Spilling, my maid, whom you saw just now, is good and devoted, but she is elderly and uncultivated and not pleasant to look at. She knows I like quiet, of course, at my age and with my weak health. I have had bad health all my life, my dear; quiet is essential. But Spilling is over-anxious on this point, and keeps every one away from me. I am shut up in this drawing-room like a jewel that is kept in cotton-wool and never taken out to be worn. Spilling is extremely attentive—never lets my fire get low, or forgets the correct time for my beef-tea and chicken-broth. But I feel the solitude depressing sometimes. A little youthful society, a little music, would be quite cheering. You play and sing now, I daresay?’

‘Very little, though I am fond of music,’ answered Lucille; ‘but Janet, Mr. Davoren’s sister, sings beautifully.’

‘I should like to hear her. Félicie used to sing to me of an evening, while I sat in the dusk to save my poor eyes, such pretty simple French _chansons_. How I wish you could come here and stay, with me!’

‘You are very kind to think of it, Miss Glenlyne,’ answered Lucille, thinking what a curious life it would be with this old lady, who seemed half a century older than the energetic unconquerable Homer Sivewright, ‘but I’m afraid I couldn’t leave my grandfather.’

‘Your grandfather?’

‘He is not really my grandfather, though I believed that he was till very lately; but he has been good to me and brought me up. I owe him everything.’

Miss Glenlyne questioned Lucille a good deal about her past life, its early years and so on, and seemed warmly interested. She was not an old lady who poured out her spare affections upon more or less deserving members of the animal kingdom, and she had been of late years almost cut off from communion with humanity. Her heart opened unawares to receive Lucille.

‘If you are my nephew’s daughter, it stands to reason that I am your great-aunt,’ she said; ‘and I shall expect you to pay me some duty. You must come to stay with me as soon as this adopted grandfather is well enough to do without you.’

‘Dear Miss Glenlyne, I shall be most happy to come. I am more glad than I can tell you to find some one who is really related to me.’

‘Don’t call me Miss Glenlyne, then, but Aunt Glenlyne,’ said the old lady authoritatively.

Miss Spilling felt as if she could have fallen to the ground in a swoon when she came into the drawing-room five minutes afterwards and heard the strange young person call her mistress ‘Aunt Glenlyne.’

‘How you stare, Spilling!’ cried the old lady. ‘This young lady is my grandniece, Miss Lucille Glenlyne.’

After this Spilling stared with almost apoplectic intensity of gaze.

‘Lor, Miss Glenlyne, that must be one of your jokes,’ she exclaimed. ‘You wouldn’t call one of the Spalding Glenlynes your niece, and I know you’ve no other.’

‘I never make jokes,’ answered her mistress with dignity; ‘and I beg that you will show Miss Lucille Glenlyne all possible respect, now, and on every other occasion. I have ordered a hurried dinner to be prepared for Miss Lucille and her friends, who, I am sorry to say, have to return to London this evening. They will dine in the back drawing-room, so that I may take my own simple meal with them.’

Miss Spilling felt as if the universe had suddenly begun to crumble around her. Her hold upon that sense of identity which sustains mankind amidst the mysteries of an unexplainable world seemed to waver. Dinner ordered and without prior consultation with her—a new era of waste and rioting set in while her back was turned! She fumbled in an ancient beaded reticule, produced a green glass bottle of weak salts, and sniffed vehemently.

‘Sit down, and be quiet, Spilling,’ said Miss Glenlyne. ‘I daresay you and my niece will get on very well together. And her arrival won’t make any difference in what I intended to do for you.’

‘What I intended to do,’ sounded vague. Miss Spilling had hoped the intention was long ago set down in black and white—made as much a fact as it could be before Miss Glenlyne’s decease. She gave another sniff at her salts-bottle, and sat down, meek but not hopeful. This liking for youthful faces was one of her employer’s weaknesses, against which she had brought to bear all the art she knew. For fifteen years she had contrived to keep pleasant people and youthful faces for the most part outside any house occupied by Miss Glenlyne. That lady had descended the vale of years in company with pilgrims almost as travel-worn and as near the end of the journey as herself: no reflected light from the countenances of younger travellers had been permitted to shine upon her. Kensal-green and Doctors’-commons—all images that symbolise approaching death—had been kept rigorously before her. Youth had been represented to her as the period of deceit and ingratitude. If any young person, by some fortuitous means, did ever penetrate her seclusion, Miss Spilling immediately discovered that young person to be a viper in disguise—a reptile which would warm itself at Miss Glenlyne’s hearth, only to sting its benefactress. And Miss Glenlyne, always uncomfortably conscious that she had money to bequeath, and that humanity is sometimes mercenary, had discarded one acquaintance after another, at the counsel of Miss Spilling, until she found herself in extreme old age with no companionship save the somewhat doleful society of her counsellor.

It was wonderful how brisk and light the old lady became in her niece’s company. She made Lucille sit next her, and patted the girl’s hand with her withered fingers, on which the rings rattled loosely, and asked her all manner of questions about her childhood and her schooldays, her accomplishments, her vague memory of mother and father.

‘I’ve a portrait of your father in the dining-room,’ she said; ‘you shall go down and look at it by and by.’

Lucius returned with Janet, whom Miss Glenlyne welcomed with much cordiality, evidently struck by the beauty of that noble face which had beguiled Geoffrey Hossack into that not-uncommon folly called love at first sight. The little dinner in the back drawing-room was a most cheerful banquet, in spite of Miss Spilling, who presided grimly over the dish of chops, and looked the daggers which she dared not use. Miss Glenlyne even called for a bottle of champagne, whereupon Miss Spilling reluctantly withdrew to fetch that wine from the cellaret in the dining-room. Unwelcome as was the task, she was glad of the opportunity to retire, that she might vent her grief and indignation in a series of sniffs, groans, and snorts, which seemed to afford her burdened spirit some relief.

After dinner Miss Glenlyne asked Janet to sing, and they all sat in the firelight listening to those old Italian airs which seem so full of the memory of youth; and warmed by these familiar melodies—rich and strong as old wine—Miss Glenlyne discoursed of her girlhood and the singers she had heard at His Majesty’s Theatre.

‘I have heard Pasta, my dear, and Catalani, and I remember Malibran’s _début_. Ah, those were grand days for opera! You have no such singers nowadays,’ said Miss Glenlyne, with the placid conviction which is sustained by ignorance.

‘You ought to hear some of our modern singers, Miss Glenlyne,’ replied Lucius; ‘all the great people come to Brighton to sing nowadays.’

‘I never go out except for an hour in my bath-chair, and I am sure you have no one like Pasta. Your sister has a lovely voice, Mr. Davoren, and a charming style, quite the old school. She reminds me of Kitty Stephens. But as to your having any opera-singer like those I heard in my youth, I can’t believe it.’

When the time drew near for her guests to depart, Miss Glenlyne grew quite melancholy.

‘You have cheered me up so, my dear,’ she said to Lucille. ‘I can’t bear to lose you so quickly. I never took such a fancy to any one—since I lost your mother,’ she added in a whisper.

‘Lor, Miss Glenlyne,’ exclaimed Miss Spilling, unable to command her indignation, ‘you’re always taking fancies to people.’

‘And you’re always trying to set me against them,’ answered her mistress; ‘but this young lady is my own flesh and blood—I’m not going to be turned against her.’

‘I’m sure I’ve always spoken from a sense of duty, Miss Glenlyne.’

‘I suppose you have. But it is your duty to respect my niece. I am an old woman, Mr. Davoren, and I don’t often ask favours,’ continued Miss Glenlyne, appealing to Lucius. ‘I think you ought to indulge my fancy, if you can possibly do so without injury to any one else.’

‘What is your fancy, Miss Glenlyne?’

‘I want Lucille to stay with me a little while—till we have learnt to know each other quite well. I am the only near relation she has, and my time cannot be very long now. If she doesn’t gratify her old aunt on this occasion, she may never have the opportunity again. Who can tell how soon I may be called away?’

This from one who was between seventy and eighty was a forcible appeal. Lucius looked at Lucille with an interrogative glance.

‘I should like very much to stay,’ said Lucille, answering the mute question, ‘if you think grandpapa would not be offended or inconvenienced.’

‘I think I could explain everything to Mr. Sivewright, and that he could hardly object to your stopping here for a few days,’ replied Lucius.

‘Then she shall stay!’ exclaimed Miss Glenlyne, delighted. ‘Spilling, tell Mary to get a room ready for Miss Lucille—the room opening out of mine.’

Spilling, with a visage gloomy as Cassandra’s, retired to obey. It was nearly the time for Janet and Lucius to depart, in order to catch a convenient train for their return. Lucille wrote a little note to Mrs. Milderson, asking for a small portmanteau of necessaries to be sent to her; and then with a tender hand-pressure, and a kiss on the landing outside the drawing-room, the lovers parted for a little while, and Lucille was left alone with her great-aunt. It was a strangely sudden business, yet there was something in the old lady’s clinging affectionateness that attached the girl to her already. She seemed like some one who had long pined for some creature to love, and who had found her desire in Lucille.

Miss Spilling retired to the housekeeper’s room—a snug little apartment in the basement—and sat with her feet on the fender, consuming buttered toast and strong tea, and talking over this new state of affairs with the cook, while Lucille and Miss Glenlyne had the drawing-room all to themselves.

‘Do you really believe as how she is missus’s niece?’ asked the cook, when she had heard Miss Spilling’s recital.

‘No more than you are, Martha,’ answered the indignant Spilling. ‘Only she’s more artful than the common run of impostors, and she’s backed up by that letter of Mr. Pullman’s. We all know what lawyers are, and that _they’ll_ swear to anything.’

‘But what would Mr. Pullman gain by it, miss?’

‘Who knows? That’s his secret. There’s some plot hatching between ’em all, and Mr. Pullman lends himself to it, and wants Miss Glenlyne to leave her money to this young woman—and he’s to get half of it, I daresay.’

‘Ah,’ said cook sententiously, ‘it’s a wicked world!’

And then Miss Spilling and the cook began to talk of Miss Glenlyne’s will—a subject which they had worn threadbare long ago, but to which they always returned with equal avidity.