CHAPTER III

AWAY FROM HOME

ANSTICE found her cousin, as she expected, much in her usual health. She had had a bad cold, but was getting over it, and had come up to London for the purpose of shopping combined with amusement. Anstice was taken everywhere; she found opportunity of seeing her cousins in town, who had been much astonished by the secrecy and suddenness of her marriage, and very much hurt that they had not been asked to it. She shopped a little for herself, and a great deal for Lady Lucy, and it was not till a week had passed that she got any time for a quiet talk with her old cousin.

Then one wet afternoon they sat over a blazing fire together in Lady Lucy's comfortable Early Victorian drawing-room.

"I am afraid," Lady Lucy began, "that you have been having a lonely time of it shut away with those naughty children all the lovely summer months, but now in the winter it must be worse. I do not like the country in winter. I always leave Norfolk, as you know, every October, and don't go back to it till May or June. Of course now Justin is home, it will be better. My dear, you and he must entertain a little. Have you not done so? He has some rough shooting and there's good hunting, and you could have quite a nice little house-party."

"I don't think he cares for society any more than I do."

"You are greatly mistaken. Justin has a good many friends, especially men friends, and now he is married, they will expect to be offered hospitality."

"I don't know him," admitted Anstice. Then she added impulsively: "I wish you would tell me a little more about him. We are almost strangers, remember! He has only been home for a few weeks, and we each live our own lives independently of each other."

"But that will not last. It must not, my dear."

Anstice smiled, but there was a wistful look in her blue eyes.

"There is a very hard and bitter strain in him, Cousin Lucy, which cannot be touched or broken. I feel every now and then, as if I am up against a stone wall. I agree with you that he has a heart, and has nice feelings, but they are encrusted over with this bitterness."

"He is North-country. You must remember that. They're hard and dour, something like their Scotch neighbours, very slow at showing affection or liking, but staunch and true and deep when they once let themselves go. And when they meet with disillusion or injury, unforgiving and unforgetting. That is the character of the Fell people. His father—my husband's brother—was a North-country man to the core; he was a hard, stern father, with little show of affection, and yet he idolized his son. Justin fell head over ears in love with a pretty, heartless minx, and disillusionment after marriage was his portion. He always had high ideals of womanhood and of marriage. His wife smashed these ideals to bits, and he has not yet recovered from his crash."

"Tell me more about him," said Anstice as she came to a pause.

"He has had a lonely life. Since he quarrelled with his only sister, he has had no woman to give him any help or sympathy."

"His sister? You don't mean to say he had a sister living? This is the first word I have heard of it."

"I wonder you have not come across her. Mrs. Wykeham knows her. She lives up there not so very far away. In the neighbourhood of Windermere. It's another instance of the North-country pride and rankling resentment. She was mistress of the Manor till he married. Brother and sister lived together, and she stupidly tried to stay on after the wife came. You can imagine the result. And before long, she was so rude and insulting to the bride that Justin literally turned her out of the house. She has never spoken to him since. I believe in justice. I must say that he has tried to make it up, but she is adamant. I fancy the bride was more to blame than Justin thought at the time. These family quarrels are very sad. It all accounts for the bitterness you complain of in Justin."

"I don't believe the children know that they have an aunt," said Anstice slowly. "This is all astonishing news to me."

"I rather think they have heard her name, but imagine she is dead. Of course their father would never mention her to them."

"No, I suppose not. It seems dreadful to me. I almost wish you had not told me."

"You are bound to know sooner or later. You might even come across her at some friend's house. I am not a Holme, I am glad to say. I can't understand bearing anyone a lifelong grudge. I only saw her once, a very handsome woman, pride and power in every line of her face."

"I have seen a portrait of her with him as a little girl. I always thought she must have died in infancy."

"Well, that's that, and now to talk of yourselves. You must soften him, Anstice, win him! He must be made of stone to withstand you!"

"We are very good friends," said Anstice with dignity; "he told me I could tell you that. I want nothing more at present. And when the weather gets warmer and finer, he will be off again yachting."

"I wish his yacht was at the bottom of the ocean," said Lady Lucy with warmth, "and I hope your absence now will make him see what a treasure he is despising."

"I am sure he does not despise me," said Anstice, laughing, and then she switched the conversation off to other topics.

But she thought a great deal of Justin, now that she was away from him, and wondered if she would ever be able to make him a really happy man.

One day she asked if she might have Louise over from Hampstead to tea. Lady Lucy suggested Sunday afternoon.

"I have nobody coming and you can have your protégée to yourself. I am old enough now to like to retire to my room, and have a thorough good sleep between lunch and tea."

So Louise came over. She was bright and animated, and overjoyed to see Anstice again.

"I never can thank you enough for getting me out of that hole. I think I should have gone melancholy mad had I stayed there much longer."

"I thought you might have come back to your uncle at Christmas time," said Anstice; "did you get holidays?"

"Oh yes, but winter in the Fells—at Ramdale! It is so awful! I went down to Bournemouth with my friend and thoroughly enjoyed it. How is my uncle? Do you know?"

"I wondered if you ever thought about him," said Anstice. "He is one of the pleasant surprises in the Fells. An unselfish old man who gives up his young niece for her good, and exchanges her bright society for a sad, weary, elderly person not his equal in birth, and therefore hardly a companion for him."

"I was never bright," said Louise with a shamed face; "I grumbled and glowered all the time. But I will go back at Easter, and in the summer, if he will have me; and I will try to be nice to him. Then I shall see you again, I hope."

She chatted on then about her work, and Anstice listened and sympathized. Lady Lucy appeared for tea, and then Anstice carried off Louise to evening church, to hear a noted preacher near there.

She had rather a nice little talk with her on the way home; Louise told her that she went to a very nice church at Hampstead.

"The Vicar there really makes me think, as you say your parson at Butterdale does you. I have never forgotten what you said to me and the verse you quoted, about not knowing Christ though He had been with us all our lives. And the principal of the school, Miss Jarrett, is what would be called a real earnest Christian, so you see I am being pulled towards heaven in several different ways."

Anstice talked to her in her happy natural way, and felt really thankful to find her not swallowed up in her work, or in the amusement of town life, to the exclusion of better things.

When the ten days were over, Anstice received a letter from Justin.

"MY DEAR ANSTICE,—

"Let us know if you arrive by the five o'clock train or the later one, and the day you come. We are all well. The small people are very fairly good—Josie had a lapse yesterday, but I must not tell tales. You will be glad to hear that we spent our Sunday in the orthodox fashion. Three of us went to church in the morning. In the afternoon, Ruffie took command, and ordered me in your chair with the Sunday Book. I was not to read it, but to tell the story as it came. I was a hopeless failure, so after struggling through a chapter of Christian's misadventures, I shut it up and told them some of my own adventures in the South Seas. I had so much domesticity on Sunday, that on Monday, I took my mare out in the morning and never came home till dusk.

"Hunting is beginning, for the frost has gone, and I shall go out to-morrow. Old Tommy Nixon is making good, he will soon be on his feet again, and Ellen is sitting up and thanking her God for leaving her on the earth a little longer. I was over there yesterday. Now, is there anything else you want to know? Don't you let my aunt make you discontented with the Fells. They suit you down to the ground. You might bring the youngsters a table game from Gamages. Isn't there parlour croquet or some such game, which requires hands and no feet? I don't want anything in which the boy cannot join. He has now sent down the enclosed for your perusal. I am sure it will interest you more than this, so no more.

"Yours, "JUSTIN."

This was Ruffie's letter:

"MY DEAR STEPPIE,—

"Come back this week. You have gone for two long, and Dad goes out and forgets us at six, so we pray you come the very day the posman givs you this letter. Josie is a beest so is Georgie, they would not dare be onceevil if I had legs to katsh them. I made them look under my chare for the new kiten wich never went ther, and then I priked ther legs with my sharpest pensil wich serve them wright, and this is telling tales wich is not a gentilman's duty, but we have all been wicket and loanley till you come back. I draw your face all over my new book, but I can not remember your exack smile. I want it badly, and I luv you next to Dad who does not tell stories like you, and the ake in my head is becorse you are not here.

"Your loving, "RUFFIE."

Anstice replied to both these by return of post.

"DEAR JUSTIN,—

"I have been having a hectic time, but will keep my promise and return on the tenth day, which will be next Tuesday. Cousin Lucy is well, and we have long talks now just as we are thinking of going to bed, which is a fashion with most women, I believe.

"I shall turn my face homewards with gladness. I have always known that I own a country soul, a soul that would soon get parched and wearied in the bustle and crush of London life. And sometimes now with the distant sound of traffic—for I'm thankful we're in a quiet square—I shut my eyes for a moment and see purple Fells against a lemon sky, and that delicious stretch of calm, cool water below them. So you see, I shall return with no laggard steps—I hope to arrive by that five o'clock train—and am bringing parcels of joy for the chicks. I am so thankful you have been over to the old Nixons. I hope you told them that, directly the weather improves, I shall be coming to see them. You will be interested to hear that I ran across Colonel Malcolm Dermot the other day, and I lunched with him and his wife at Claridges'. Now I must close—au revoir.

"Yours, "ANSTICE."

"MY LITTLE DARLING,—

"What a long letter, and how tired the poor fingers must have been with holding the pen, and what a business it must have been to think of the spelling, and choose the right words, and guide the tiresome pen to put them down in proper order and without any blots!

"I'm coming back, Ruffie, as fast as the train will take me, on Tuesday next, and I hope to arrive before bedtime. I will try to have my 'exack' smile to greet you. I am sorry there have been ructions of sorts between you young people, and that you have been both wicked and lonely, but I'll tell you a secret! I have felt lonely here, without any little head leaning against my shoulder, and eager voices shouting in my ear, 'Tell us more.' And as for wickedness, our hearts are much alike, and I'm afraid I know what it is to be wicked sometimes! We must all pray hard, and fight hard, mustn't we? How sorry I am that the little head still aches. But you have Dad with you; ask him to stroke the pain away as I try to do.

"And now good-bye, my sweet. And give Josie and Georgie my love. I shall soon be with my dear little people again.

"Your loving, "STEPPIE."

When Tuesday came, Anstice said good-bye to her old cousin with a light heart. Lady Lucy was not satisfied with her short visit.

"It is no time at all. Justin ought to be made to feel your absence. I hope he has been thoroughly miserable without you, but I'm afraid you left him too comfortable for that."

Anstice could not help laughing.

"Justin and I are very happy together," she said.

"I will write and tell you if he has missed me much, but I expect he has been too busy to give me a thought."

As she journeyed up North, her thoughts naturally went back to her marriage day, and to the mingled feelings of doubt and dread with which she travelled then to an unknown country and an unknown life. How different was it now! She was assured a loving welcome from the children who had tried to drive her from them; and as to her husband, she had an instinctive conviction that he was no longer indifferent to her. Whether he merely liked her because of the comfort and ease which she had brought to his home and because of her easy companionship and friendliness, remained to be seen.

When she arrived at Penrith, Justin was on the platform; he led her out to a beautiful car.

"I've just bought it," he said. "It only arrived from London yesterday. It was one I had seen with a view to purchase before I went abroad. You'll be able to use it when I am away."

"And when may that be?" Anstice asked lightly.

And he responded as lightly:

"When the fit takes me."

"All the small fry wanted to come and meet you," he went on; "but I refused to bring them. They're too much about one in the house. I like to be free of them when I can."

"Your house would be very dull without the children," said Anstice, a sparkle in her eyes.

"To you; I think I could dispense with them—perhaps not the boy."

"How is he?"

"Fairly well. His spirit never flags."

Then, as he neared the house, he put his hand on Anstice's shoulder.

"We're glad to have you back," he said. "I suppose I need hardly tell you this."

"Oh, I like to hear it," said Anstice with her soft laugh. "It's a nice welcome."

She got a very warm one from the two little girls, who dashed out on to the terrace as the car drove up.

Ruffie was in his wheeled chair by the hall fire, for it was a cold, windy evening. His tiny arms were flung round her neck.

"Have mercy, sweetest, you're throttling me," she cried, but quick tears had sprung to her eyes as she returned his eager kisses. It was nice to be loved like this, she thought.

Brenda came forward smiling to take her wraps, but Josie insisted upon accompanying her to her room, and when she got there, shut her door in Brenda's face.

"I want to speak to Steppie. You'll have to wait."

"What is it, darling?" asked Anstice, sitting down by her bedroom fire and putting her arm round the child as she drew her near to her.

Josie clasped her hands nervously.

"Has Dad told you? It was Georgie's fault. I was late one morning. I went to the aviary and was teaching Damon to say 'good morning,' and then when I went into the dining-room, there was that sneak of a Georgie sitting in my place and pouring out Dad's coffee! I told her to get out, and Dad said, 'Oh, let her stay, you were late.' So then I knocked her off her chair. I was furious, and she hit her head against the leg of the table and it bled, and Dad was furious then, and he said he would have his breakfast alone in the future and have neither of us. I told him I hated him, and so I did. But we made it up the next day, only for punishment I've never had breakfast with him again. Don't you think he's a very hard kind of father? You wouldn't have punished me like that. I was only wicked for a minute or two. I felt I would like to have kicked Georgie, but we were all right the next day, only the punishment went on for days. That isn't fair."

"Josie dear, whatever your father does is right. You don't remember that men don't like children fussing round them at breakfast time. And when you fight with Georgie, and nearly kill her—for a blow like that might have killed her—I think the punishment must be hard enough and long enough to make you remember it for the rest of your life. I am sorry for you, and sorry for Georgie, and still more sorry for your father. I hoped he would have found his eldest daughter a success whilst I was away."

Josie gulped down a sob.

"Now you'll be against me!"

"Never, never!" said Anstice, kissing her warmly. "I love you for telling me about it yourself, instead of letting me hear it from someone else. You will be more gentle and self-controlled next time anything annoys you, I am sure. We'll put it from us and forget all about it. Now, after I've had a cup of tea we'll open some parcels. That will be fun, won't it?"

Tea was in the hall, an innovation that Justin had started since Anstice had been away.

"We always used to have it here in my parents' time," he said, "and I like it. You haven't to get into different togs and drawing-room shoes."

"I think it's a very good idea," said Anstice.

The children had had their tea, but were allowed to undo the presents which Anstice had brought them from town. A beautiful paint-box for Ruffie, a set of Dickens' books for Georgie, and a Japanese papier-mâché writing-case fitted up with stationery for Josie. Their father's present was a set of parlour croquet. These gave universal delight, and it was the greatest difficulty to get them to bed at their proper time.

Later that evening, Anstice and Justin sat over the drawing-room fire chatting together.

"I think we must have the Dermots here," said Justin. "Now you have got a good staff of servants, we might entertain."

"I am quite willing, but at this time of year there are not many people in the neighbourhood. The Wykehams are abroad."

"I'm not very keen on the locals. I know some men in town I would like to ask for the shooting, and if you have any friends of your own, we might have them. Not over a dozen—in all. I hate a crowd."

So it was settled that they should have a small house-party. Anstice asked two of her young cousins from town. The Dermots; a Colonel Armour; a Mr. Carstairs, a barrister; a naval captain, by name John Hawk; two yachting friends, Tom Brett and Frank Agnew, with their wives—these made thirteen guests in the house. In addition, they asked Colonel and Mrs. McInnes, with their two daughters, and the Vicar, and a niece who was staying with him, for the first dinner-party.

"We have two men more than women," said Anstice, "but that can't be helped. I don't think we had better try more than twenty."

She was very busy arranging for her guests, as soon as the invitations had been sent out and accepted.

Justin left everything to her. He was hunting now two days a week, and was out a good deal when it was fine—Anstice found the car most useful to take her to Penrith, for necessary shopping. The little girls sometimes accompanied her. They were much excited at the idea of some guests arriving and the empty bedrooms being used.

"We've never had visitors here before, never!" said Josie. "What will they do? Will they dance?"

"They'll be out shooting and hunting most of the time," said Anstice. "They will amuse each other, I hope; and if not, I will see what I can do."

"You can always tell stories," said Josie.

Anstice laughed. If she had any qualms about her power as a hostess, she kept them to herself. And Justin was pleasantly conscious that she would not only be a capable and gracious hostess, but a most fascinating one.