Chapter One.

Unknown Cousins.

“What is your letter, my dear? You seem annoyed. No bad news, I hope,” said the master of Chedworth Manor, looking across the table to where his wife eat behind the urn, frowning over the sheet which she held in her hand. She was a handsome, well-preserved woman, with aquiline features, thin lips, and eyes of a pale, indefinite blue. She looked up as he spoke, then threw down the letter with a sigh of impatience.

“Oh, bad news, of course! When did we ever return from a holiday without finding something of the sort awaiting us? It’s from Stephen Charrington. He says he would have written before, but heard that we were abroad, and did not know where to direct. Edgar is dead. He died a fortnight ago, and the funeral was on Friday week. I never knew a man who married improvidently and had a huge family who did not die before he reached middle age. It seems a judgment on them; and here is another instance. Forty-nine his last birthday! He ought to have lived for another twenty years at least.”

Mrs Loftus spoke with an air of injury which seemed to imply that the deceased gentleman had died out of pure perversity, and her husband knitted his brows in disapproving fashion. Even after twenty-five years of married life his wife’s heartless selfishness could give him a twinge of shocked surprise when, as now, it was obtrusively displayed. He himself made no claims to philanthropy, but one expected some natural feeling from a woman; and with all his faults, Edgar Charrington had had close claim on her sympathy.

“He was your brother, my dear,” he said dryly. “I suppose the poor fellow would not have died if he could have helped it. We have not seen anything of him for a long time, but he used to be a most attractive fellow. I thought he would have made his mark. Never met a man with so many gifts—painting, music, writing; he used to take them up in turn, and do equally well in each.”

“But excel in nothing! That was the undoing of Edgar; he had not the application to keep to one thing at a time, but must always be flying off to something new. That disastrous marriage was like a millstone round his neck, and practically doomed him to failure. Oh, I know what you are going to say. There was nothing against Elma; and you admired her, of course, because she was pretty and helpless; but I shall always maintain that it was practically suicide for Edgar, with his Bohemian nature, to many a penniless girl, with no influence to help him on in the world. How they have managed to live at all I can’t imagine. He never confided in me, and I made a point of not inquiring. To tell the truth, I lived in dread of his wanting to borrow money, and one has enough to do with one’s own claims. I think he was offended because we never invited the children, for I have scarcely heard from him for the last five years. Really, it was too great an experiment I can’t imagine what they must be like, brought up in that little village, with next to no education. Social savages, I should say.”

“How many children were there? I’ve forgotten how they come after the first two. Stephen and Philippa visited us once long ago, and I remember thinking her an uncommonly handsome child, with a spirit of her own, which will probably stand her in good stead now. The boy was not so interesting. How many are there besides these two?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Dozens! There was always a baby, I remember,” returned Mrs Loftus impatiently. “Goodness knows what is to become of them now that they are left orphans, with practically no means of support. Stephen seems quite bewildered with the responsibility. He says he is anxious to see us, as his father’s nearest relations, and to consult with us as to the future. I think we had better decline all responsibility. It is a thankless task to interfere with other people’s business, and young folks are so opinionated. I shall write a letter of sympathy, and say that, as I know so little of their circumstances and surroundings, I do not feel myself competent to advise.”

“Just as you please, my dear; but you must speak for yourself alone. I shall certainly have a chat with the poor young fellow. It is the least we can do, and I am only sorry I was not back in time to attend the funeral I am afraid we behaved shabbily to poor Edgar while he was alive, and I should have liked to pay him some respect in death. This is Monday. I must attend to one or two affairs here, but I’ll run down to Leabourne towards the end of the week, and put up at the inn. Tell Stephen I’ll write later on and say when he may expect me.”

Mr Loftus pushed his chair back from the table, and tossed his serviette on a chair. He looked decidedly ruffled in temper, and injured and sorry for himself into the bargain. If there was one thing he disliked more than another, it was to have anything approaching a dissension with the members of his household. “Peace at all price” had been the motto of a character kindly enough, yet lacking the necessary strength to make a stand for the right, and already he was beginning to doubt his own wisdom, and to reflect sorrowfully how much less trouble it would have involved to have taken Gertrude’s advice. Half-way down the table he stopped short, with a sudden softening of the face, and laid his hands caressingly on the shoulders of a pale, languid-looking girl who had been a passive listener to the late conversation.

“You had better write too, and sympathise with your poor cousins, Avice. You wouldn’t like it, would you, if you were to lose your poor old father?”

The girl smiled at him affectionately enough, but made no response until the door had closed, when she turned to her mother with an expression of real anxiety upon her face.

“Shall I have to wear mourning, mother! Will it be necessary?”

“Cer-tainly not! I should not dream of such a thing. It is quite out of fashion nowadays for any but the nearest relations, and it would be a sin to put aside all those lovely French frocks until they were out-of-date. It would be different if we lived in the same place; but you are not in the least likely to come in contact with your cousins. I can’t think what has made your father take up this attitude all of a sudden; but if he insists upon going to Leabourne I shall certainly go too. He is so carried away by the impulse of the moment that there is no knowing to what mad plan he might commit himself. The best thing your cousins can do will be to stay quietly where they are and take in paying guests to make ends meet. Quite good people do that nowadays; and with so many girls they would not need much extra service in the house. From what Stephen says, I fear they have some notion of coming up to town, but that I shall strongly denounce. Most rash and improvident for them, and uncomfortable for us. They would, no doubt, expect us to take them up and introduce them to our friends, and would be offended when they discovered that we had no intention of doing anything of the kind. Much better stay where they are and work among their old friends.”

“I should like to see Philippa again. It’s an age since she was here, but I remember her quite well. She was so lively and amusing! And there is another girl just my age, with a pretty, uncommon name. Faith, is it? No; Hope. Uncle Edgar sent me a little sketch of her on my birthday years ago, and it was so pretty! I’d rather like to know my cousins, mother, if they were presentable. It’s so lonely being an only child.”

Mrs Loftus looked at her daughter, and something like a quiver passed across the hardness of her face. Avice was her darling, her idol, the only creature on earth whom she really loved; and every now and