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CHAPTER XVI
WHAT IS REST?
‘Rest, there is nothing for it but immediate rest and warm baths,’ said Lady Northmoor to Constance, who was waiting anxiously for the doctor’s verdict some hours later. ‘It is only being overdone—no, my dear, there is nothing really to fear, if we can only keep business and letters out of his way for a few weeks, my dear child.’
For Constance, who had been dreadfully frightened by the sight of the physician’s carriage, which seemed to her inexperienced eyes the omen of something terrible, fairly burst into tears of relief.
‘Oh, I am so glad!’ she said, as caresses passed—which might have been those of mother and daughter for heartfelt sympathy and affection.
‘You will miss your Saturdays and Sundays, my dear,’ continued the aunt, ‘for we shall have to go abroad, so as to be quite out of the way of everything.’
‘Never mind that, dear aunt, if only Uncle Frank is better. Will it be long?’
‘I cannot tell. He says six weeks, Dr. Smith says three months. It is to be bracing air—Switzerland, most likely.’
‘Oh, how delightful! How you will enjoy it!’
‘It has always been a dream, and it is strange now to feel so downhearted about it,’ said her aunt, smiling.
‘Uncle Frank is sure to be better there,’ said Constance. ‘Only think of the snowy mountains—
Mont Blanc is the monarch of mountains;
They crown’d him long ago
On a throne of rocks, in a robe of clouds,
With a diadem of snow.’
And the girl’s eyes brightened with an enthusiasm that the elder woman felt for a moment, nor did either of them feel the verse hackneyed.
‘Ah, I wish we could take you, my dear,’ said Lady Northmoor; then, ‘Do you know where Herbert is?’
‘No,’ said Constance. ‘Oh, aunt, I am so sorry! I don’t think he would have done it if the other boys had not teased him.’
‘Perhaps not; but, indeed, I am grieved, not only on the poor rook’s account, but that he should have the heart to vex your uncle just now. However, perhaps he did not understand how ill he has been all this week. And I am afraid that young Stanhope is not a good companion for him.’
‘I do not think he is,’ said Constance; ‘it seems to me that Stanhope leads him into that betting, and makes him think it does not signify whether he passes or not, and so he does not take pains.’
Herbert was not to be found either then or at dinner-time. It turned out that he had taken from the stables the horse he was allowed to ride, and had gone over to display his victim to Stanhope, and then on to the bird-stuffer; had got a meal, no one wished to know how, only returning in time to stump upstairs to bed.
He thus avoided an interview with his uncle over the rook, unaware that his aunt had left him the grace of confession, being in hopes that, unless he did speak of his own accord, the vexatious knowledge might be spared to one who did not need an additional annoyance just then.
Lord Northmoor was not, however, to be spared. He was much better the next day, Sunday, a good deal exhilarated by the doctor’s opinion; and, though concerned at having to break off his work, ready to enjoy what he was told was absolutely essential.
The head-keeper had no notion of sparing him. Mr. Best regarded him with a kind of patronising toleration as an unfortunate gentleman who had the ill-hap never to have acquired a taste for sport, and was unable to do justice to his preserves; but towards ‘Mr. Morton’ there was a very active dislike. The awkward introduction might have rankled even had Herbert been wise enough to follow Miss Morton’s advice; but his nature was overbearing, and his self-opinion was fostered by his mother and Ida, while he was edged on by his fellow-pupils to consider Best a mere old woman, who could only be tolerated by the ignorance of ‘a regular Stick.’
With the under-keeper Herbert fraternised enough to make him insubordinate; and the days when Lord Northmoor gave permission for shooting or for inviting his companions for a share in the sport, were days of mutual offence, when the balance of provoking sneer and angry insult would be difficult to cast, though the keeper was the most forbearing, since he never complained of personal ill-behaviour to himself, whereas Herbert’s demonstrations to his uncle of ‘that old fool’ were the louder and more numerous because they never produced the slightest effect.
However, Best felt aggrieved in the matter of the rook, which had been put under his special protection, and being, moreover, something of a naturalist, he had cherished the hope of a special Northmoor breed of pied rooks.
So while, on the way from church, Lady Adela was detaining Lady Northmoor with inquiries as to Dr. Smith, Best waylaid his master with, ‘Your lordship gave me orders about that there rook with white wings, as was not to be mislested.’
‘Has anything happened to it?’ said Frank wearily.
‘Well, my lord, I sees Mr. Morton going up to the rookery with his gun, and I says to him that it weren’t time for shooting of the branchers, and the white rook weren’t to be touched by nobody, and he swears at me for a meddling old leggings, and uses other language as I’ll not repeat to your lordship, and by and by I hears his gun, and I sees him a-picking up of the rook that her ladyship set such store by, so it is due to myself, my lord, to let you know as I were not to blame.’
‘Certainly not, Best,’ was the reply. ‘I am exceedingly displeased that my nephew has behaved so ill to you, and I shall let him know it.’
‘His lordship will give it to him hot and strong, the young upstart,’ muttered Best to himself with great satisfaction, as he watched the languid pace quicken to overtake the boy, who had gone on with his sister.
Perhaps the irritability of illness had some effect upon the ordinary gentleness of Lord Northmoor’s temper, and besides, he was exceedingly annoyed at such ungrateful slaughter of what was known to be a favourite of his wife; so when he came upon Herbert, sauntering down to the stables, he accosted him sharply with, ‘What is this I hear, Herbert? I could not have believed that you would have deliberately killed the creature that you knew to be a special delight to your aunt.’
Herbert had reached the state of mind when a third, if not a fourth, reproach on the same subject on which his conscience was already uneasy, was simply exasperating, and without the poor excuse he had offered his aunt and sister, he burst out that it was very hard that such a beastly row should be made about a fellow knocking down mere trumpery vermin.
‘Speak properly, Herbert, or hold your tongue,’ said his uncle. ‘I am extremely displeased at finding that you do not know how to conduct yourself to my servants, and have presumed to act in this lawless, heartless manner, in defiance of what you knew to be your aunt’s wishes and my orders, and that you replied to Best’s remonstrance with insolence.’
‘That’s a good one! Insolent to an old fool of a keeper,’ muttered Herbert sullenly.
‘Insolence is shameful towards any man,’ returned his uncle. ‘And from a foolish headstrong boy to a faithful old servant it is particularly unbecoming. However, bad as this is, it is not all that I have to speak of.’
Then Herbert recollected with dismay how much his misdemeanour would tell against his pardon for the more important act of disobedience, and he took refuge in a sullen endeavour at indifference, while his uncle, thoroughly roused, spoke of the sins of disobedience and the dangers of betting. Perhaps the only part of the lecture that he really heard was, ‘Remember, it was these habits in those who came before us that have been so great a hindrance in life to both you and me, and made you, my poor boy, so utterly mistaken as to what becomes your position. How much have you thrown away?’
Herbert looked up and muttered the amount—twelve pounds and some shillings.
‘Very well, I will not have it owed. I shall pay it, deducting two pounds from your allowance each term till it is made up. Give me the address or addresses.’
At this Herbert writhed and remonstrated, but his uncle was inexorable.
‘The fellows will be at me,’ he said, as he gave Stanhope’s name.
‘You will see no more of Stanhope after this week. I have arranged to send you to a tutor in Hertfordshire, who I hope will make you work, and where, I trust, you will find companions who will give you a better idea of what becomes a gentleman.’
In point of fact, this had been arranged for some time past, though by the desire of Herbert’s present tutor it had not been made known to the young people, so that, coming thus, there was a sound of punishment in it to Herbert.
The interview ended there. The annoyance, enhanced in his mind by having come on a Sunday, brought on another attack of headache; but late in the evening he sent for Herbert, who always had to go very early on the Monday. It was to ask him whether he would not prefer the payment being made to Stanhope and the other pupil after he had left them. Herbert’s scowl passed off. It was a great relief. He said they were prepared to wait till he had his allowance, and the act of consideration softened him, as did also the manifest look of suffering and illness, as his uncle lay on the couch, hardly able to speak, and yet exerting himself thus to spare the lad.
‘Thank you, sir,’ actually Herbert said, and then, with a gulp, ‘I am sorry about that bird—I wish I’d never told them, but it was Stanhope who drove me to it, not believing.’
‘I thought it was not your better mind,’ said his uncle, holding out his hand. ‘I should like you to make me a promise, Herbert, not to make a bet while I am away. I should go with an easier mind.’
‘I will, uncle,’ said Herbert, heartily reflecting, perhaps, it must be owned, on the fewer opportunities in that line at Westhaven, except at the regatta, but really resolving, as the only salve to his conscience. And there was that in his face and the clasp of his hand that gave his uncle a sense of comfort and hope.
CHAPTER XVII
ON THE SURFACE
Lady Adela, though small and pale, was one of the healthy women who seem unable to believe in any ailments short of a raging fever; and when she heard of neuralgia, decided that it was all a matter of imagination, and a sort of excuse for breaking off the numerous occupations in which she felt his value, but only as she would have acknowledged that of a good schoolmaster. Their friendly intercourse had never ripened into intimacy, and was still punctiliously courteous; each tacitly dreaded the influence of the other on the Vicar-in-Church matters, and every visit of the Westhaven family confirmed Lady Adela’s belief that it was undesirable to go below the surface.
Bertha, who came down for a day or two to assist at the breaking-up demonstration of the High School at Colbeam, was as ever much more cordial. The chief drawbacks with her were that cynical tone, which made it always doubtful whether she were making game of her hearers, and the philanthropy, not greatly tinged with religion, so as to confuse old-fashioned minds. She used to bring down strange accounts of her startling adventures in the slums, and relate them in a rattling style, interluded with slang, being evidently delighted to shock and puzzle her hearers; but still she was always good-natured in deed if not in word, and Lord Northmoor was very grateful for her offer of hospitality to Herbert, who was coming to London for his preliminary examination.
She had come up to call, determined to be of use to them, and she had experience enough of travelling to be very helpful. Finding that they shuddered at the notion of fashionable German ‘baden,’ she exclaimed—
‘I’ll hit you off! There’s that place in the Austrian Tyrol that Lettice Bury frequents—a regular primitive place with a name—Oh, what is it, Addie, like rats and mice?’
‘Ratzes,’ said Adela.
‘Yes. The tourists have not molested it yet, and only natives bathe there, so she goes every year to renovate herself and sketch, and comes back furbished up like an old snake, with lots of drawings of impossible peaks, like Titian’s backgrounds. We’ll write and tell her to make ready for the head of her house!’
‘Oh, but—’ began Frank, looking to his wife.
‘Would it not be intruding?’ said Mary.
‘She will be enchanted! She always likes to have anything to do for anybody, and she says the scenery is just a marvel. You care for that! You are so deliciously fresh, beauties aren’t a bore to you.’
‘We are glad of the excuse,’ said Frank gravely.
‘You look ill enough to be an excuse for anything, and Mary too! How about a maid? Is Harte going?’
‘No,’ said Mary; ‘she says that foreign food made her so ill once before that she cannot attempt going again. I meant to do without.’
‘That would never do!’ cried Bertha. ‘You have quite enough on your hands with Northmoor, and the luggage and the languages.’
‘Is not an English maid apt to be another trouble?’ said Mary. ‘I do not suppose my French is good, but I have had to talk it constantly; and I know some German, if that will serve in the Tyrol.’
‘I’ll reconcile it to your consciences,’ said Bertha triumphantly. ‘It will be a real charity. There’s a bonny little Swiss girl whom some reckless people brought home and then turned adrift. It will be a real kindness to help her home, and you shall pick her up when you come up to me on your way, and see my child! Oh, didn’t I tell you? We had a housemaid once who was demented enough to marry a scamp of a stoker on one of the Thames steamers. He deserted her, and I found her living, or rather dying, in an awful place at Rotherhithe, surrounded by tipsy women, raging in opposite corners. I got her into a decent room, but too late to save her life—and a good thing too; so I solaced her last moments with a promise to look after her child, such a jolly little mortal, in spite of her name—Boadicea Ethelind Davidina Jones. She is two years old, and quite delicious—the darling of all the house!’
‘I hope you will have no trouble with the father,’ said Frank.
‘I trust he has gone to his own locker, or, if not, he is only too glad to be rid of her. I can tackle him,’ said Bertha confidently. ‘The child is really a little duck!’
She spoke as if the little one filled an empty space in her heart; and, even though there might be trouble in store, it was impossible not to be glad of her present gladness, and her invitation was willingly accepted. Moreover, her recommendations were generally trustworthy, and Mary only hesitated because, she said—
‘I thought, if I could do without a maid, we might take Constance. She is doing so very well, and likely to pass so well in her examinations, that it would be very nice to give her this pleasure.’
‘Good little girl! So it would. I should like nothing better; but I am afraid that if you took her without a maid, Emma would misunderstand it, and say you wanted to save the expense.’
‘Would it make much difference?’
‘Not more than we could bear now that we are in for it, but I fear it would excite jealousies.’
‘Is that worse than leaving the poor child to Westhaven society all the holidays?’
‘Perhaps not; and Conny is old enough now to be more injured by it than when she was younger.’
‘You know I have always hoped to make her like a child of our own when her school education is finished.’
Frank smiled, for he was likewise very fond of little Constance.
There was a public distribution of prizes, at which all the grandees of the neighbourhood were expected to assist, and it was some consolation to the Northmoors, for the dowager duchess being absent, that the pleasure of taking the prize from her uncle would be all the greater—if—
The whole party went—Lady Adela, Miss Morton, and all—and were installed in chairs of state on the platform, with the bright array of books before them—the head-mistress telling Lady Northmoor beforehand that her niece would have her full share of honours. No one could be a better or more diligent girl.
It quite nerved Lord Northmoor when he looked forth upon the sea of waving tresses of all shades of brown, while his wife watched in nervousness, both as to how he would acquit himself and how the exertion would affect him; and Bertha, as usual, was anxious for the credit of the name.
He did what was needed. Nobody wanted anything but the sensible commonplace, kindly spoken, about the advantages of good opportunities, the conscientiousness of doing one’s best. And after all, the inferiority of mere attainments in themselves to the discipline and dutifulness of responding to training,—it was slowly but not stammeringly spoken, and Bertha did not feel critical or ashamed, but squeezed Mary’s hand, and said, ‘Just the right thing.’
One by one the girls were summoned for their prizes, the little ones first. Lord Northmoor had not the gift of inventing a pretty speech for each, he could do no more than smile as he presented the book, and read its name; but the smile was a very decided one when, in the class next to the highest, three out of the seven prizes were awarded to Constance Elizabeth Morton, and it might be a question which had the redder cheeks, the uncle or the niece, as he handed them to her. It was one of the few happinesses that he had derived from his brother’s family!
After such achievements on Constance’s part, it was impossible to withhold—as they drove back to Northmoor—the proposal to take her with them, and the effect was magical. Constance opened her eyes, bounded up, as if she were going to fly out of the carriage, and then launched herself, first on her uncle, then on her aunt, for an ecstatic kiss.
‘Take care, take care, we shall have the servants thinking you a little lunatic!’
‘I am almost! Oh, I am so glad! To be with you and Aunt Mary all the holidays! That would be enough! But to go and see all the places,’ she added, somehow perceiving that the desire to escape from home was, at least ought not to be approved of, and yet there was some exultation, when she hazarded a supposition that there was no time to go home.
CHAPTER XVIII
DESDICHADO
Home—that is to say, Westhaven—was in some commotion when Herbert came back and grimly growled out his intelligence as to his own personal affairs. Mrs. Morton had been already apprized, in one of Lord Northmoor’s well-considered letters, of his intentions of removing his nephew to a tutor more calculated to prepare for the army, and she had accepted this as promotion such as was his due. However, when the pride of her heart, the tall gentlemanly son, made his appearance in a savage mood, her feelings were all on the other side, and those of Ida exaggerated hers.
‘So I’m to go to some disgusting hole where they grind the fellows no end,’ was Herbert’s account of the matter.
‘But surely with your connection there’s no need for grinding?’ said his mother.
Herbert laughed, ‘Much you know about it! Nobody cares a rap for connections nowadays, even if old Frank were a connection to do a man any good.’
‘But you’ll not go and study hard and hurt yourself, my dear,’ said his mother, though Herbert’s looks by no means suggested any such danger, while Ida added, ‘It is not as if he had nothing else to look to, you know. He can’t keep you out of the peerage.’
‘Can’t he then? Why, he can and will too, for thirty or forty years more at least.’
‘I thought his health was failing,’ said Ida, putting into words a hope her mother had a little too much sense of propriety to utter.
‘Bosh, it’s only neuralgia, just because he is such a stick he can’t take things easy, and lark about and do every one’s work—he hasn’t the least notion what a gentleman ought to do.’
‘It is bred in the bone,’ said his mother; ‘he always was a shabby poor creature! I always said he would not know how to spend his money.’
‘He is a regular screw!’ responded Herbert. ‘What do you think now! He was in no end of a rage with me just because I went with some of the other fellows to the Colbeam races; and one can’t help a bet or two, you know. So I lost twelve pound or so, and what must he do but stop it out of my allowance two pound at a time!’
There was a regular outcry at this, and Mrs. Morton declared her poor dear boy should not suffer, but she would make it up to him, and Herbert added that ‘it had been unlucky, half of it was that they were riled with him, first because he had shot a ridiculous rook with white wings that my lady made no end of a fuss about.’
‘Ah, then it is her spite,’ said Ida. ‘She’s a sly cat, with all her meek ways.’
Herbert was not displeased with this evening’s sympathy, as he lay outspread on the sofa, with the admiring and pitying eyes of his mother and sister upon him; but he soon began to feel—when he had had his grumble out, and could take his swing at home—that there could be too much of it.
It was all very well to ease his own mind by complaining, but when he heard of Ida announcing that he had been shamefully treated, all out of spite for killing a white rook, his sense of justice made him declare that the notion was nothing but girl’s folly, such as no person with a grain of sense could believe.
The more his mother and her friends persisted in treating him as an ill-used individual, the victim of his uncle’s avarice and his aunt’s spite, the more his better nature revolted and acknowledged inwardly and sometimes outwardly the kindness and justice he had met with. It was really provoking that any attempt to defend them, or explain the facts, were only treated as proofs of his own generous feeling. Ida’s partisanship really did him more good than half a dozen lectures would have done, and he steadily adhered to his promise not to bet, though on the regatta day Ida and her friend Sibyl derided him for not choosing to risk even a pair of gloves; and while one pitied him, the other declared that he was growing a skinflint like his uncle.
He talked and laughed noisily enough to Ida’s friends, but he had seen enough at Northmoor to feel the difference, and he told his sister that there was not a lady amongst the whole kit of them, except Rose Rollstone, who was coming down for her holiday.
‘Rose!’ cried Ida, tossing her head. ‘A servant’s daughter and a hand at a shop! What will you say next, I wonder?’
‘Lady is as lady acts,’ said Herbert, making a new proverb, whereat his mother and sister in chorus rebuked him, and demanded to know whether Ida were not a perfect lady.
At which he laughed with a sound of scoffing, and being tired of the discussion sauntered out of the house to that inexhaustible occupation of watching the boats come in, and smoking with old acquaintances, who were still congenial to him, and declared that he had not become stuck-up, though he was turned into an awful swell! Perhaps they were less bad for him than Stanhope, for they inspired no spirit of imitation.
When he came back a later post had arrived, bringing the news of Constance’s successes and of the invitation to her to share the expedition of her uncle and aunt. There was no question about letting her go, but the feeling was scarcely of congratulation.
‘Well, little Conny knows how to play her cards!’
‘Stuff—child wouldn’t know what it meant,’ said Herbert glumly.
‘Well,’ said his sister, ‘she always was the favourite, and I call it a shame.’
‘What, because you’ve been such a good girl, and got such honours and prizes?’ demanded Herbert.
‘Nonsense, Herbert,’ said his mother. ‘Ida’s education was finished, you know.’
‘Oh, she wasn’t a bit older than Conny is now.’
‘And I don’t hold with all that study, science and logic, and what d’ye call it; that’s no use to any one,’ continued his mother. ‘It’s not as if your sisters had to be governesses. Give me a girl who can play a tune on the piano and make herself agreeable. Your uncle may do as he pleases, but he’ll have Constance on his hands. The men don’t fancy a girl that is always after books and lectures.’
‘Not of your sort, perhaps,’ said Herbert, ‘but I don’t care what I bet that Conny gets a better husband than Ida.’
‘It stands to reason,’ Ida said, almost crying, ‘when uncle takes her about to all these fine places and sets her up to be the favourite—just the youngest. It’s not fair.’
‘As if she wasn’t by a long chalk the better of the two,’ said Herbert.
‘Now, Bertie,’ interposed his mother, ‘I’ll not have you teasing and running down your sister, though I do say it is a shame and a slight to pick out the youngest, when poor Ida is so delicate, and both of you two have ever so much better a right to favours.’
‘That’s a good one!’ muttered Herbert, while Ida exclaimed—
‘Of course, you know, aunt has always been nasty to me, ever since I said ma said I was not strong enough to be bothered with that horrid school; and as to poor Herbert, they have spited him because he shot that—’
‘Shut up, Ida,’ shouted Herbert. ‘I wouldn’t go with them if they went down on their knees to me! What should I do, loafing about among a lot of disputing frog-eaters, without a word of a Christian language, and old Frank with his nose in a guide-book wanting me to look at beastly pictures and rum old cathedrals. You would be a fish out of water, too, Ida. Now Conny will take to it like a house afire, and what’s more, she deserves it!’
‘Well, ma,’ put in the provoked Ida, ‘I wonder you let Conny go, when it would do me so much good, and it is so unfair.’
‘My dear, you don’t understand a mother’s feelings. I feel the slight for you, but your uncle must be allowed to have his way. He is at all the expense, and to refuse for Conny would do you no good.’
‘Except that she will be more set up than ever,’ murmured Ida.
‘Oh, come now! I wonder which looks more like the set-up one,’ said Herbert, whose wider range had resulted in making him much alive to Ida’s shortcomings, and who looked on at her noisy style of flirtation with the eye of a grave censor. Whatever he might be himself, he knew what a young lady ought to be.
He triumphed a little when, during the few days spent in London, Constance wrote of a delightful evening when, while her uncle and aunt and Miss Morton had gone to an entertainment for Bertha’s match-box makers, she had been permitted to have Rose Rollstone to spend the time with her, the carriage, by their kind contrivance, fetching the girl both in going and coming.
The two young things had been thoroughly happy together. Rose had gone on improving herself; her companions in the art embroidery line were girls of a good class, with a few ladies among them, and their tone was good and refined. It was the fashion among them to attend the classes, Bible and secular, put in their way, and their employers conscientiously attended to their welfare, so that Rose was by no means an unfitting companion for the High School maiden, and they most happily compared notes over their very different lives, when they were not engaged in playing with little Cea, as the unwieldy name of Miss Morton’s protégée had been softened. She was a very pretty little creature, with big blue eyes and hair that could be called golden, and very full of life and drollery, so that she was a treat to both; and when the housemaid, whose charge she was, insisted on her coming to bed, they begged to superintend her evening toilet, and would have played antics with her in her crib half the night if they had not been inexorably chased away.
Then they sat down on low stools in the balcony, among the flowers, in convenient proximity for the caresses they had not yet outgrown, and had what they called ‘a sweet talk.’
Constance had been much impressed with the beauty of the embroidery, and thought it must be delightful to do such things.
‘Yes, for the forewoman,’ said Rose, ‘but there’s plenty of dull work; the same over and over again, and one little stitch ever so small gone amiss throws all wrong. Miss Grey told us to recollect it was just like our lives!’
‘That’s nice!’ said Constance. ‘And it is for the Church and Almighty God’s service?’
‘Some of it,’ said Rose, ‘but there’s a good deal only for dresses, and furniture, and screens.’
‘Don’t you feel like Sunday when you are doing altar-cloths and stools?’ asked Constance reverently.
‘I wish I did,’ said Rose; ‘but I don’t do much of that kind yet, and one can’t keep up the being serious over it always, you know. Indeed, Miss Grey does not wish us to be dull; she reads to us when there is time, and explains the symbols that have to be done; but part of the time it is an amusing book, and she says she does not mind cheerful talk, only she trusts us not to have gossip she would not like to hear.’
‘I wonder,’ said Constance, ‘whether I should have come with you if all this had not happened? It must be very nice.’
‘But your school is nice?’
‘Oh yes. I do love study, and those Saturdays and Sundays at Northmoor, they are delicious! Uncle Frank reads with me about religion, you know.’
‘Like our dear Bible class?’
‘Yes; I never understood or felt anything before; he puts it so as it comes home,’ said Constance, striving to express herself. ‘Then I have a dear little class at the Sunday school.’
‘I am to have one, by and by.’
‘Mine are sweet little things, and I work for them on Saturdays, while Aunt Mary reads to me. I do like teaching—and, do you know, Rose, I think I shall be a High School teacher!’
‘Oh, Conny, I thought you were all so rich and grand!’
‘No, we are not,’ said Constance lazily; ‘we have nothing but what Uncle Frank gives us, and I can’t bear the way mamma and Ida are always trying to get more out of him, when I know he can’t always do what he likes, and nasty people think him shabby. I am sure I ought to work for myself.’
‘But if Herbert is a lord?’
‘I hope he won’t be for a long long time,’ cried Constance. ‘Besides, I am sure he would want all his money for himself! And as to being a teacher, Aunt Mary was, and Miss Arden, who is so wise and good, is one. If I was like them I think it would be doing real work for God and good—wouldn’t it, Rose? Oh dear, oh dear, there’s the carriage stopping for you!’
