Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net THE GREAT MISS DRIVER BY ANTHONY HOPE AUTHOR OF TRISTRAM OF BLENT, DOUBLE HARNESS, HELENA'S PATH, LOVE'S LOGIC NEW YORK THE McCLURE COMPANY MCMVIII Copyright, 1908, by The McClure Company Copyright, 1908, by Anthony Hope Hawkins [Illustration: "_By Heaven, the girl on the mantelpiece at Hatcham Ford!_"] CONTENTS I. WHAT IS SHE LIKE? II. MAKING AMENDS III. ON THE USE OF SCRAPES IV. AN UNPOPULAR MAN V. RAPIER AND CLUB VI. TAKING TO OPEN SEA VII. THE FLICK OF A WHIP VIII. A SECRET TREATY IX. THE INSTITUTE CLERK X. A FRIENDLY GLASS XI. THE SIGNAL AT "DANGER" XII. SAVING A WEEK XIII. THE BOY WITH THE RED CAP XIV. THE EIGHT-FIFTEEN TRAIN XV. IN THE DOCK XVI. NOT PROVEN XVII. ONE OF TWO LEGACIES XVIII. THE NEW CAMPAIGN XIX. A CASE OF CONSCIENCE XX. LIVING PIECES XXI. NATHAN AND DAVID XXII. THE ALTERNATIVE XXIII. ON ALL GROUNDS--RIDICULOUS! XXIV. A CHANCE FOR THE ROMANTIC XXV. A FRESH COAT OF PAINT XXVI. PEDIGREE AND BIOGRAPHY XXVII. A MAN OF BUSINESS LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS "By Heaven, the girl on the mantelpiece at Hatcham Ford!" "He might have given me a chance!" Jenny was crouching on the floor beside Powers "A fresh coat of paint wanted!" THE GREAT MISS DRIVER CHAPTER I WHAT IS SHE LIKE? "Perhaps you won't believe me," said I, "but till yesterday I never so much as heard of her existence." "I've not the least difficulty in believing you. That was old Nick's way. It wasn't your business--was it?--so he didn't talk to you about it. On the other hand, when a thing was your business--that's to say, when he wanted your services--he told you all about it. But I believe I'm the only person he did tell. I'm sure he didn't tell a soul down in Catsford. Finely put about they'll be!" Mr. Cartmell, of Fisher, Son, & Cartmell (he was the only surviving representative of the firm), broke off to hide a portion of his round red face in a silver tankard; Loft, the butler, had brought it to him on his arrival without express orders given; I had often seen the same vessel going into Mr. Driver's study on the occasion of the lawyer's calls. He set the tankard--much lightened it must have been--on the mantelpiece and walked to the window, taking a pull at his cigar. We were in my room--my "office" it was generally called in the household. He stood looking out, talking to me half over his shoulder. "A man's mind turns back at times like these. I remember him hard on forty years ago. I was a lad then, just gone into the business. Mr. Fisher was alive--not the one you remember--not poor Nat--but the old gentleman. Nat was the junior, and I was in the last year of my articles. Well, Nick Driver came to the old gentleman one morning and asked him to act for him--said he thought he was big enough by now. The old gentleman didn't want to, but poor Nat had an eye for a man and saw that Driver meant to get on. So they took him, and we've acted for him ever since. It wasn't many years before he--" Cartmell paused a moment, laying the finger-tips of his right hand against the finger-tips of his left, and straightening his arms from the elbow like a swimmer--"before he began to drive his wedge into the county." The good man was fairly launched on his subject; much of it was new to me, in detail if not in broad outline, and I listened with interest. Besides, there was nothing else to do until the time came to start. But the story will bear a little summarizing, like a great many other stories; Cartmell was too fond of anecdotes. Thus summarized then: Nicholas Driver began life as a tanner in Catsford. He was thrifty and saved money. With the money he bought land and built some villas; with the rent of the villas--more land. He had faith in the development of Catsford. He got early news of the coming of the railway; he pledged every house and every inch of land--and bought more land. So the process went on--detailed by Mr. Cartmell, indicated here. Nicholas Driver became moderately rich--and, by the way, his Catsford property had never ceased to rise in value and was rising still. Then, as it seemed (even Mr. Cartmell spoke conjecturally), an era of speculation followed--first in England, then in America. "That," Cartmell interjected, "was when he picked up this girl's mother, not that she was American, but he met her about that time." He must have speculated largely and successfully, or he could not have made all that money--so stood the case. The money made, the process of "driving his wedge into the county" began. "The county" must, here and henceforward, be carefully distinguished from "the town." Geographical contiguity does not bridge a social chasm. First he bought Hatcham Ford, a small but beautiful Jacobean house lying on the banks of the river, some mile and a half out of Catsford at that time, now caught in the lengthening fringe of the town. While in residence there, he spread his territory to the north and west, acquiring all the outlying farms which the Lord Fillingford of the day was free to sell; then, too, he made his first audacious bid for Fillingford Manor itself--the first of many, it appeared. Though the later no longer seemed audacious, all had been fruitless; Lord Fillingford could not sell without his son's consent, and that was withheld. The family struggled on in perpetual financial straits, hating Nicholas Driver, but envying him his money, never coming to an open rupture with him for fear of his power or apprehension of its own necessities; never sparing a sneer or a secret thrust when either was safe. For his part, baffled in that quarter, he turned to the east and approached Mr. Dormer of Breysgate Priory. It was a beautiful place. Down by the lake lay the old Cistercian monastery; the original building was in ruins, but a small house had been built on in the days of Elizabeth, and this was still habitable. High on the hill stood the big, solidly handsome, Georgian mansion, erected by the Dormer of the day when the estate came into the hands of the family. From the hilltop the park rolled out and out in undulating curves of rich grass-land and spreading woods. To Nicholas Driver's joy and surprise--he had anticipated another struggle and feared another rebuff--Mr. Dormer was ready to sell--for a price. He was elderly, his wife middle-aged, his only heir a cousin toward whom he was indifferent and who, though heir of entail to the property, would be unable to keep it up, unless his predecessor left him money for the purpose. In these circumstances matters were soon arranged. The cousin was bought off, his consent given, and the Dormers retired to a smaller place, properly the dower house--Hingston Hall, situated fifteen miles from Catsford. Behold Nicholas Driver a country gentleman on a distinctly large scale! "And with how much ready money to his name besides you'll get some idea about when the will is proved," Mr. Cartmell ended impressively. His impressiveness impressed me; I do not know why I should be ashamed to confess it. A great deal of anything impresses ordinary people; a great deal of hill is a mountain, a great deal of water is an ocean, a great deal of brain is a genius; and so on. Similarly, a great deal of money has its grandeur--for ordinary people. "It might be a million and a half--a million and a half sovereigns, Austin!--and it's growing every night while you sleep! And now--he's dead!" "You do die just the same--that's the worst of it." "And not an old man either!" "Sixty-three!" "Tut--I shall be that myself in three years--and you can't tire me yet!" "Perhaps making millions and driving wedges is--rather exhausting, Cartmell. You split the tree; don't you blunt the wedge in time, too?" "The end came easy, did it?" "Oh, yes, in his sleep. So the nurse tells me. I wasn't there myself." "I'm glad it was easy. After all, he was a very old friend of mine--and a very valuable client. Let's see, how long have you been with him?" "Four years." "Going to stay?" I rose and began to brush my hat. "If you come to that," said I, "are you going to stay either, Cartmell? I gather that she can do as she pleases about that?" "Every rod of ground and every farthing of money--bating decent charities! It's a great position." "It's a very unexplored one so far as we're concerned," I made bold to remark. "Have you seen him since--since the end, Austin?" "Yes. Would you like to?" "No, I shouldn't," he answered bluntly. "Perhaps it's brutal. I know it's cowardly. But I don't like death." "Nonsense! You make half your income out of it. I say, I suppose we might as well start?" "Yes," he assented absently. "I wonder how she's turned out!" I looked at him with quickened interest. "Turned out? That sounds almost as if you'd seen her." "I have seen her. Come along. I'll tell you about it as we drive down." We traversed the long corridor which leads from my office to the hall. Loft was waiting for us, with an attendant footman. Loft addressed me in a muffled voice; his demeanor might always be relied on for perfection--he would not once unmuffle his voice till his master was buried. "The landau is waiting, sir. The omnibus for Miss Driver's maid and the luggage has gone on." Wonderful man! He spoke of "Miss Driver" as if she had lived for years in the house. Cartmell gave him a queer look and emitted a low chuckle as we got into the landau, behind the big grays. Mr. Driver always drove grays, and he liked them big, so that he could rattle up the hill to his house. "Maid! Luggage!" muttered Cartmell. "The bus'll hold 'em, I think, with a bit to spare! By his orders I sent her twenty pounds on Tuesday; that's all she's had as yet. I only had time to telegraph about--the rest." "Interesting wire to get! But about your seeing her, Cartmell?" In honor of the occasion Cartmell, like myself, had put on a black frock coat and a silk hat, properly equipped with a mourning band of respectful width. But he wore the coat with a jaunty air, and the hat slightly but effectively cocked on one side, so that the quiet yet ingrained horsiness of his aspect suffered little from the unwonted attire. The confidential wink with which he now turned his plump rubicund face toward me preserved his general harmony. With the mournful atmosphere of Breysgate Priory, however, I could not help feeling that my own lank jaws and more precisely poised head-gear consorted better. "You can hold your tongue, Austin?" "A very shrewd man has paid me four hundred a year for four years past on that understanding." "Then what happened at the Smalls, at Cheltenham?" "Isn't that beginning the story at the wrong end?" I asked. "That was where she was"--he searched for a word--"where she was planted. She lived at three or four different places altogether, you know." "And the mother?" "Mother died--vanished anyhow--early in the proceedings. Well, word came of trouble at Cheltenham. Small, though of my own profession, was an ass. He wrote a bleating letter--yes, he was more like a sheep, really--to old Nick. Nick told me I must go and put it to rights. So I went." "Why didn't he go himself?" "I think," said Cartmell cautiously, "that he had some kind of a feeling against seeing the girl. Really that's the only thing that accounts for his behavior all through." "Did he never see her?" "Never--since she was quite a child. So he told me. But let me finish the story--if you want to hear it. Being ordered, I went. They lived in a beastly villa and were, to speak generally, a disgrace to humanity by their utter flabbiness. But there was a flashy sort of a gentleman, by the name of Powers." He stopped and looked at me for a minute. "A married flashy gentleman named Nelson Powers. She was sixteen--and she wrote to Powers. A good many letters she'd written to Powers. Small was such a fool that Powers guessed there was money in it. And she, of course, had never thought of a Mrs. Powers. How should she? Sixteen and----" "Hopelessly innocent?" "I really think so," he answered with an air, rather odd, of advancing a paradox. "She let him worm out of her all that she knew about her father--which was that he paid the bills for her and that Small had told her that he was rich. She didn't know where he lived, but Powers got that out of Small without much trouble, and then it was blackmail on Mr. Driver, of course." "Did you get at Powers? Had to pay him something, I suppose?" "I got at Mrs. Powers--and paid her. Much better! We had the letters in twenty-four hours. Powers really repented that time, I think! But I had orders to take her away from the Smalls. The same man never failed Nick Driver twice! I sent her under escort to Dawlish--at least near there--to a clergyman's family, where she's been ever since. But it can't be denied that she left Cheltenham rather--well, rather under a cloud. If you ask me what I think about it----" I had been growing interested--yet not interested in precisely the point about which Mr. Cartmell conjectured that I might be about to inquire. "Did she say anything about it herself?" I interrupted. He stroked his chin. "She said rather a curious thing--she was only sixteen, you know. She said that we might have given her credit for being able to take just a little care of herself." "That sounds like underrating your diplomacy, Cartmell." "I thought myself that it reflected on the bill I proposed to send in! Funny, wasn't it? From a chit like that!" "What did you say?" "Asked her if she'd like a foot-warmer for the journey to Dawlish." "Capital! You were about to tell me what you thought about it?" "The folly of a young ignorant girl, no doubt. Powers was an insinuating rascal--and a girl doesn't know at that age the difference between a gentleman and a cad. He moved too soon, though. We were in lots of time to prevent real mischief--and Mrs. Powers came up to the scratch!" He drummed his fingers on the window of the landau, looking thoughtful and, as it seemed to me, retrospectively puzzled. "And did all go smoothly with the clergyman's family?" "She's been there ever since. I've heard of no trouble. The governess's reports of her were excellent, I remember Mr. Driver telling me once." "Well then, we can forget all about Powers." "Yes, yes," said Cartmell, drumming his fingers still. "And what was she like?" Cartmell looked at me, a smile slowly breaking across his broad face. "Here's the station. Suppose you see for yourself," he suggested. We had ten minutes to wait before Miss Driver's train was due--we had been careful to run no risk of not being on the spot to receive her. Cartmell was at no loss to employ the time. I left him plunging into an animated discussion of the points of a handsome cob which stood outside the station: on the handsome cob's back was a boy, no less handsome, fresh of color and yellow-haired. I knew him to be young Lord Lacey, heir to the Fillingford earldom, but I had at that time no acquaintance with him, and passed on into the station, where I paced up and down among a crowd of loiterers and hasteners--for Catsford was by now a bustling center whence and whither men went and came at all hours of the day and most hours of the night. Driver had foreseen that this would come about! It had come about; he had grown rich; he lay dead. It went on happening still, and thereby adding to the piles of gold which he could no longer handle. Instead of indulging in these trite reflections--to be excused only by the equal triteness of death, which tends to evoke them--I should have done well to consider my own position. A man bred for a parson but, for reasons of his own, averse from adopting the sacred calling, is commonly not too well fitted for other avocations--unless perhaps he would be a schoolmaster, and my taste did not lie that way. In default of private means, an easy berth at four hundred pounds a year may well seem a godsend. It had assumed some such celestial guise to me when, on the casual introduction of my uncle one day in London, Mr. Driver had offered it to me. As his private secretary, I drew the aforementioned very liberal salary, I had my "office" in the big house on the hill, I dwelt in the Old Priory (that is to say, in the little dwelling house built on to the ruinous remains of the ancient foundation), I was seldom asked for more than three hours' work a day, I had a horse to ride, and plenty of leisure for the books I loved. It would be very unfortunate to have to give up all that. Verily the question "What is she like?" had a practical, an economic, importance for me which raised it far above the sphere of mere curiosity or the nonsense of irrelevant romance. Was she a sensible young woman who would know a good secretary when she saw one? Or, on the other hand, was she not? A secretary of some sort she would certainly require. Nay, perhaps, she wouldn't. The one utterance of hers which had been, so far, credibly reported to my ears was to the effect that she could take care--just a little care--of herself. This at sixteen! This on the top of circumstances which at first sight indicated that she had taken particularly bad care of herself! Letters to a man like Powers! My imagination, forsaking my own position and prospects, constructed a confident picture of Powers, proceeded to sketch Mrs. Powers--strong lights here!--and to outline the family of the Smalls of Cheltenham. It ended by rejoicing that she had been removed from the influence of Powers and the environment of the Smalls of Cheltenham. Because, look at the matter how one might or could, there was no denying that it was the sort of incident which might just as well--or even better--not have happened at all. At the best, it was not altogether pleasant. Surely that was the truth--and not merely the abortive parson talking again? Well, even the abortive parson was sometimes right. Cartmell clapped me on the shoulder. The handsome boy had, it appeared, departed, after receiving from an obsequious porter the copy of _Country Life_, in quest of which he had ridden to the station from Fillingford Manor. "Here comes the train! I wonder if I shall know her again!" Two minutes later, that observation of Cartmell's seemed to me plainly foolish. A man might like her or dislike her, trust her or not trust her--oh, away with these fatal alternatives, antitheses, or whatever they are! They confine judgment, and often falsify it. He might do all these things at once--and I fancied that she might welcome his perplexity. He would not be very likely to forget her--nor she to be pleased if he did. That was only a first impression of her, as she got out of the train. CHAPTER II MAKING AMENDS Cartmell's talk, as we drove back, was calculated to give her an almost overwhelming idea of her possessions and (if her temperament set that way) of her responsibilities. Big commercial buildings, blocks of shops, whole streets of small houses, drew from the lawyer a point of the finger and a brief, "That's yours"--or sometimes he would tell how her father had bought, how built, and how profited by the venture. Every time she would turn her head to look where his finger pointed, and nod slightly, gravely, composedly. She seemed to be reserving her opinion of it all. The only time she spoke was when we were emerging from the town and he showed her Hatcham Ford, saying, as usual, "That's yours," but adding that it was let furnished to Mr. Leonard Octon, who was abroad just now. Then her nod of understanding was accompanied by a low murmur, "It's very pretty." She said nothing when we drove into the park of Breysgate Priory itself: yet I saw her eyes fixed intently on the great house on the hill, which comes into view directly the drive is entered, and certainly looks imposing enough. After the first formal greeting she did not speak to me, nor I to her, until her reception at the house was over and we had sat down to luncheon. But she had smiled at me once--when we were still standing by the door, on the terrace at the top of the steps, and Cartmell was showing her what he called "the lie of the land." The omnibus with its pair of big horses and its pair of big men came trotting up the hill, and on its big roof lay one small battered trunk. Loft was waiting to give orders to his footmen for the disposal of her luggage: when he saw the solitary and diminutive article, he advanced and, with pronounced graciousness, received it from the omnibus himself. She watched, and then gave me the smile that I have mentioned; evidently Loft--or Loft in conjunction with that humble box--appealed to her sense of humor. Cartmell was soon at his ease with her: he called her "My dear" twice before we got to the sweets. The second time he apologized for taking the liberty--on the first occasion, I suppose, the words slipped out unnoticed by himself. "But I like it," she said. "My father spoke so warmly about you in his letter." Cartmell looked at me for a moment; we neither of us knew of a letter. "He told me never to part with Mr. Cartmell because an honest lawyer was worth his weight in gold." "I ride fourteen-seven," said Cartmell with a chuckle. "And he said something about you, too," she added, looking at me, "but perhaps I'd better not repeat that." "Shall I try to guess it?" I asked. "Did he say I was a scholar?" "Yes." "And a gentleman?" "Yes." "But confoundedly conceited?" "No--well, not quite. Something like it, Mr. Austin. How did you know?" "It's what he use to say to me himself three times a week?" Her face had lit up in merriment during this little talk, but now she grew thoughtful again. I might well have looked thoughtful, too; so far as had appeared at present, there was no injunction against parting with me--no worth-his-weight-in-gold appraisement of the secretary! "I expect he liked the scholar-and-gentleman part," she reflected. "He wasn't at all a scholar himself, I suppose?" "He'd had no time for that," said Cartmell. "Nor a gentleman?" It was an embarrassing question--from a daughter about her father--addressed to Cartmell who owed him much and to me who had eaten his bread. Besides--he was lying there in his room upstairs. Cartmell faced the difficulty with simple directness. "He wasn't polished in manner; when he was opposed or got angry, he was rough. But he was honest and straight, upright and just, kind and----" "Kind?" she interrupted, a note of indignation plain to hear in her voice. "Not to me!" That was awkward again! "My dear Miss Driver, for what may have been amiss he's made you the best amends he could." He waved his arm as though to take in all the great house in which we sat. "Handsome amends!" "Yes," she assented--but her assent did not sound very hearty. A long silence followed--an uncomfortable silence. She was looking toward the window, and I could watch her face unperceived. From our first meeting I had been haunted by a sense of having seen her before, but I soon convinced myself that this was a delusion. I had not seen her, nor anyone like her (she was not at all like her father), in the flesh, but I had seen pictures that were like her. Not modern pictures, but sixteenth- or seventeenth-century portraits. Her hair was brown with ruddy tips, her brows not arched but very straight, her nose fine-cut and high, her mouth not large but her lips very red. Her chin was rather long, and her face wore the smooth, almost waxy, pallor which the pictures I was reminded of are apt to exhibit. Her eyes were so pronounced and bright a hazel that, seeing them on a canvas, one might have suspected the painter of taking a liberty with fact for the sake of his composition. Cartmell broke the silence. "Since he wrote you a letter, may I venture to ask--?" He stopped and glanced at me. "Perhaps you wouldn't mind giving us five minutes to ourselves, Austin?" I thought the request not unnatural, and rose promptly from my chair. But we had reckoned without our host--our new host. "Why do you tell him to go?" she demanded of Cartmell with a sudden sharpness. "I don't ask him to go. I don't want him to go. Sit down, please, Mr. Austin." Cartmell had his two elbows on the table; he bit his thumb as he glanced up at her from under raised brows. He was not often called to book so sharply as that. I thought that she would make apology, but she made none. As I obediently--and, I fear, hastily--sat down again, she took a letter from a little bag which hung at her waist. "What did you want to ask?" she said to Cartmell in a tone which was smooth but by no means overconciliatory. Cartmell's manner said "Have it if you want it!" as he inquired bluntly, "Does your father say anything about your mother?" She took the letter from its envelope and unfolded it. "About my mother he says this: 'It is necessary for me to say a few words about your mother. Mr. Cartmell is in possession of all proofs necessary to establish your position as my daughter, and there is no need for you to trouble your head about that, as not the smallest difficulty can arise. The personal aspect of the case is that on which I must touch. Three years after your birth your mother left me under circumstances which made it impossible for me to have any further communication with her. She went to Australia, and died five years later in Melbourne from an attack of typhoid fever. I caused constant inquiry to be made as to her position and took measures to secure that she should suffer no hardship. The circumstances to which I have referred made it imperative that I should remove you from her charge. As she consented to give up all claim on you, I did not go to the trouble of obtaining a divorce--which she did not desire either, as matters had been kept quiet. You will ask, and with reason, why I did not bring you up myself, and why I have delayed publicly acknowledging you as my daughter till the hour of my death. I can give no reason good to the world. I can give none good to my own conscience, unless it is a good one to say that a man is what God made him and that there are some things impossible to some men. It will seem a hard saying, but I could not endure to have you with me. I know myself, and I can only assure you that, if your childhood has not been a very happy one as it is, it would have been no happier if spent under my roof. Now we have been only strangers--you would have been worse than a stranger then.'" Miss Driver, who had read in a low but level and composed voice, paused here for a moment--perhaps in doubt whether to read more. Then she went on: "'With that much excuse--for I have none other--I must now, my daughter, say good-by, for I am dying. Though of my own choice I have not seen you since your infancy. I have not been without thought for you. I hesitated long before throwing on your shoulders all the burden which I have created for my own and carried on them. But in the end nature has seemed to say to me--and to speak more strongly as I grow weaker--that you are the person to whom it should belong and that, if things go wrong, it will be nature's fault, not mine. Don't spend more than two-thirds of your income--the other third should go back to work and bring in more. Give handsomely when you give, but don't be always dribbling out small sums; they mount up against you without aiding the recipients. Go to church unless you really dislike it. Be independent, but not eccentric. You have a great position; make it greater. Be a power in your world. About love and marriage, remember always that being sensible in general matters is no guarantee that you will act sensibly there. So be doubly on your guard. Suspect and fear marriage, even while you seek the best alliance you can find. Be you man or woman, by marriage you give another a power over you. Suspect it--suspect your lover--suspect yourself. You need fear no man except the man to whom you have given yourself. With earnest wishes for your welfare, I remain your affectionate father--NICHOLAS DRIVER.'" During the reading Cartmell's face had been disturbed and sad; once or twice he fidgeted restively in his chair. I had listened intently, seeming again to hear the measured full voice, the hard clean-cut counsels, to which I had listened almost daily for the last four years. Fine sense! And a heart somewhere? I was inclined to answer yes--but how deep it lay, and what a lot of digging to get there! He had never given his daughter one chance of so much as putting her hand to the spade. She tucked the letter away in her little bag; she was smiling again by now. I had smiled myself--my memories being so acutely touched; but she must have smiled for discernment, not for memory. "Now I think I should like to go and see him." Cartmell excused himself, as I knew he would. "I've never seen him, that I can remember, you know," she said. The meeting of the Catsford Corporation (the town had become a borough ten years before--largely owing to Mr. Driver's efforts) could not wait. But Cartmell had one thing to say before he went; it was not on business, nor arising out of the letter; he was to have a full business discussion with her on the morrow. He took her hand in both of his and pressed it--forgetful apparently of her sharp rebuke. "You can't live in this great house all alone," he said. "I wonder your father said nothing about that!" "Oh, that's all right. Chat's coming in a week. She'd have come with me, but Mrs. Simpson wouldn't let her go till a new governess could be got. Four girls, you see, and Mrs. Simpson thinks she's an invalid. Besides, Chat wouldn't come without a new black silk dress. So I had to give her most of that money--and she'll be here in a week--and I haven't got a new dress." I noticed that her black dress was far from new. It was, in fact, rather rusty. Her black straw hat, however, appeared to be new. It was a large spreading sort of hat. "Yes, Mr. Austin, the hat's new," she remarked. The girl seemed to have a knack of noticing where one's eyes happened to be. "I can give you lots of money," Cartmell assured her. "And--er--'Chat' was governess at the Simpsons', was she?" "Yes, she's been there for years, but she's very fond of me, and agreed to come and be my companion. She taught me all I know. I'm sure you'll like Chat." "You can only try her," said he, rather doubtfully. I think that he would have preferred, Miss Driver, to cut loose from the old days altogether. "But, you know, we can't call her just 'Chat.' It must be short for something?" "Short for Chatters--Miss Chatters. And she says Chatters is really--or was really--Charteris. That's pronounced Charters, isn't it?" She addressed the last question to me, and I said that I believed she was right. "I shall get on very well by myself till she comes." She questioned me again. "Do you live in the house?" "No, I live down at the Old Priory. But I have my office in the house." "Oh, yes. Now, if Mr. Cartmell must go, will you take me up?" She stopped a moment, though, to look at the pictures--old Mr. Driver had bought some good ones--and so gave me one word with Cartmell. "Depend upon it," he whispered. "Chat's a fool. People who keep telling you their names ought to be spelt like better names, when they aren't, are always fools. Why don't they spell 'em that way, or else let it alone?" There seemed to be a good deal in that. Cartmell gone, we went together up the broad staircase which sprang from the center of the hall. As we passed a chair, she took off her hat and flung it down. The rich masses old brown hair, coiled about her head, caught the sun of a bright spring afternoon; she ran swiftly and lightly up the stairs. "Nice, soft, thick, carpet!" she remarked. I began to perceive that she would enjoy the incidental luxuries of her new position--and that she did enjoy the one great luxury--life. I fancied that she enjoyed it enormously. We trod another "nice, soft, thick, carpet" for the length of a long passage and came to his door. I opened it, let her pass in, and was about to close it after her. But as we reached his room, a sudden shadow of trouble or of fear had fallen upon her--grief it could hardly be. "No," she said. "Come in, too. Remember--he's a stranger." To be in the room with the dead seems to be itself a partaking of death; it is at least, for a moment, a suspension of life. Yet the still welcome is not unfriendly. She walked toward the bed alone, but in an instant beckoned to me to follow her. She bent down and moved the covering. His broad strong face looked resolute and brave as ever. It looked--to speak truth--as hard as ever also. Her eyes were set on him; suddenly she caught hold of my hand; "Don't go." I pressed her hand, for I heard her breathing quickly. I just caught her next words: "He might have given me a chance!" [Illustration: "_He might have given me a chance!_"] "I believe he was sorry about that at the end." She shook her head. "He's given you a big chance now." She nodded, but absently. "How strange to--to be his doing--and he there! And then--all this!" She let go my hand, took a step forward, bent and kissed his brow quickly. "How cold!" she murmured and grasped my hand tightly again. To my fancy she seemed surprised--and relieved--that the sleeper did not stir. We were--as I say--out of the world; we were just two creatures, living for a little while, by the side of a third who lived no more. "You shouldn't kiss him unless you forgive," I said. She kissed him again and drew the sheet over his face. "He must have been a fine man. I forgive. Come, let's go." Outside, the world was with us--and I wondering whether that was what I had really said. At least she seemed to bear me no ill-will. "Are you free to come for a walk?" she asked. "I should like some fresh air." "Would you like to see the gardens?" "No--that means pottering. Take me for a good spin." By a happy thought I remembered Tor Hill and took her there. The hill lies at the extremity of the Priory park, looking down on the road which separates our dominions from the Fillingford country; beyond the road the Manor itself can be seen by glimpses through the woods which surround it. Catsford lies in the valley to the left; away to the right, but not in sight, lay Oxley Lodge, and Overington Grange, the seat of Sir John Aspenick. Here she could take a bird's-eye view of her position and that of her nearest neighbors. "I'm glad to see Fillingford," she remarked. "My father mentioned it--in the earlier part of that letter. He said that he had wanted to buy it, but Lord Fillingford couldn't or wouldn't sell." "His son's consent was necessary--that's the present man--and he wouldn't give it. Indeed the story runs that he hated Mr. Driver for trying to buy." She seemed to take as careful a view of Fillingford Manor as the distance and the trees allowed. "My father seems to have been sorry he couldn't buy it. He seemed to think it might still be sold." "Surely you've got enough! And, for my part, I should much prefer the Priory. It's muggy down there in the valley--though I believe it's a very fine house." "You've not been there?" "No. We of the Priory have had small dealings with Fillingford lately. We've kept up the forms of civility--but it's been very distant. Underneath, there's been a kind of silent feud--well, more or less silent; but I daresay that'll be all over now." "My father wrote 'Possibly you in your way may succeed better than I in mine.'" "Fillingford wouldn't sell. He's hard up, but he can get along. And there's always the chance of a rich marriage for his son--or even for himself." I really spoke without any thought of a personal reference, but I perceived, directly afterward, that I might well seem to have made one; a marriage with Miss Driver would be undoubtedly rich. She gave no sign, however, of taking my remark in that sense, unless any inference can be drawn from her saying, "Oh, he's a widower?" "He's a widower of forty, or a year or two more--and he's got a son of about seventeen--a very good-looking lad. His sister, Lady Sarah Lacey, keeps house for him, and according to local gossip is a bit of a shrew." She began to laugh as she said with a mock sigh, "One's too old for me, and the other's too young--they must look somewhere else, I'm afraid! And then--how should I get on with the shrew? I'm rather a shrew myself--at least I've been told so." "You'd better let them alone," I counseled her with a smile. "Oh, no, I shan't do that," she rejoined with a decisiveness which I began to recognize as an occasional feature of her speech. "It'll be more amusing to see what they're like--presently. And what of the Dormers? My father mentioned them." "A very nice old couple--but I fear he's failing." A slight grimace dismissed the Dormers as not holding much interest for her. "Oh, you won't want for neighbors. There are plenty of them, and they'll all be tremendously excited about you and will flock to call as soon as you can receive them." "It must seem funny to them. I suppose they'd never heard of me?" "I don't believe any of them had. Your father had no intimates, unless Mr. Cartmell can be called one. Besides--well, I'd never heard of you myself!" "And here we are old friends!" she said graciously. "That's very kind--but you mustn't think yourself bound to take over the secretary with the rest of the furniture." She looked steadily in my face for several seconds, seeming to size me up--if I may be allowed the expression. Then she smiled--not gayly, yet again by no means sadly. It was the smile which I came to call later her mystery smile; and, as a general rule, it meant--in plain language--mischief. Of course, on this first day I did not attach these associations to it. It struck me as merely rather curious; as a man talks to himself, so she seemed to smile to herself, forgetting her interlocutor. "Oh, well--stay and see how you like me," she said. CHAPTER III ON THE USE OF SCRAPES We were settling down. It was a week since the funeral. The borough and the neighborhood had survived their first stupefaction at the apparition of Miss Driver; the local journals had achieved their articles, organs of wider circulation and greater dignity their paragraphs; the charities which received legacies had given thanks, those which did not were turning resigned but hopeful eyes to the future. The undertaker sent in his bill, and the Town Council discussed the project of a Driver Memorial Hall--with a hardly disguised anticipation of the quarter from which the bulk of the money was to come. There was really not much more to do till Miss Driver's first days of mourning were over, and the fascinating speculations as to her personal gifts and qualities could look to find some satisfaction from her appearances on public and private occasions. Only Cartmell still was--and would be for weeks--busy on the labors attendant on the transfer of a great estate, and the rearrangements necessitated by the loss of an able and experienced man--a masterly worker--and the succession of a girl ignorant of business. For the rest we were, as I say, settling down. Even Cartmell's activity caused us at Breysgate no sense of bustle, for it took him to London the day after the funeral and kept him there for above a fortnight. When I say that "we" were settling down I mean the trio formed by Miss Driver, myself--and Miss Emily Chatters. It is my duty to introduce Miss Chatters with proper formality, and I will introduce her presently--but let us take people in their order. Miss Driver had inspected her property (except the wine cellar which, to Loft's dismay, she declined to enter); she had chosen her own set of rooms and given orders for them to be entirely refurnished; she had announced her intention--and small blame to her--of extending the refurnishing process to all the sitting-rooms--at least to the sitting-rooms; she had chosen her own hack from the stables--and I have no doubt that she had done what was immediately requisite as regards her wardrobe. At any rate, an air of achievement dwelt about her. For my part I performed my duties, and began to find that I had less work to do--and more time occupied in doing it. In Mr. Driver's day we worked as few men except Mr. Driver understood work from ten to one; then, as a rule, I was free. Under the new _régime_ we worked at a gentler pressure--a much gentler pressure--for the same morning hours; but I stayed to lunch always, I came back to tea frequently, and I returned to dinner two or three evenings in the week. My duties as secretary grew lighter, but I seemed to be assuming the functions of a companion. I may do myself the incidental justice of saying that I rather resented this tendency to transform my office; but it was not easy to resist. She was paying for my whole time as her father had paid for it; it was her right, within wide limits, to say to what uses it should be put. Or--I could go. The liberty--perhaps it is rather theoretical--of "chucking my job" remained to me as to every free-born Englishman--who sees his way to getting another whereby to live. Not that I wished to surrender mine; I was interested and--to tell the truth--I grew, within our jurisdiction, important. She approached the assumption of her power cautiously, and at first would return almost any answer to almost any letter at my suggestion. I did not expect this to last, but so it was for the moment. For instance it was I, in ultimate reality, who offered that ten thousand pounds toward the Memorial Hall. I had a great difficulty in fixing the proper figure. If I may judge from the language employed by the Mayor (Councillor Bindlecombe) in public, I exceeded all possible anticipations of munificence; in private, I am told, he confessed to having entertained a hope of fifteen thousand. I imagine that my figure was not, on a balancing of considerations, far wide of the mark. Cartmell thought five thousand would have served--but old Cartmell was a screw with other people's money. I remembered "Give handsomely when you give." So, I think, did Jenny Driver. All the same, Bindlecombe did, in my opinion, open his mouth a bit too wide. Miss Chatters came two days after the funeral--in the new black silk dress: it rustled powerfully. She was tall, had pale-brown hair with a broad parting in the middle, a very long inquiring nose, faded blue eyes, an absolutely flat chin, and--inconceivable gentility. If we others were settling she settled far quicker. She took the bedroom next to Jenny Driver's; she annexed a small sitting-room for her own--next but one to Jenny Driver's; she had a glass of the best port every day at eleven. ("She came down to the cellar and chose the bin herself, sir," Loft informed me with a wry smile of grudge for his dearest possessions.) Yet all these acts of proprietorship--for they pretty nearly came to that--were performed with a meekness, a deprecation, a ladylikeness (I can find no other word) that made opposition seem unkind and criticism ungenerous. It was only "Poor Chat!" She had a habit of talking to Jenny in a kind of baby-language, and used to refer to herself as "Poor Chat." "Poor Chat doesn't know!" "Poor Chat's not wise!" Also she did keep talking about her name and the respectability of her descent. In fact she was a woman of a number of silly affectations and one or two exasperating foibles, and Cartmell never varied from his impromptu judgment--expressed before he had seen her--that she was a fool. It is my deliberate opinion that she wished to be thought more of a fool than she was--partly from an idea that little sillinesses and affectations were genteel, partly with the notion that they were disarming. She seemed always bent on showing you that she was not the sort of person from whom any opposition need be feared, nor any undue exercise of influence apprehended. It could only be supposed that she had found this line of conduct useful in her relations toward her employers; by contrast it flattered both their superior brains and their superior positions. I allow for her natural taste, for her standards of gentility. But she was a snob, too, "Poor Chat," and a time-server. No harder words than those need be used about her--and they are too hard perhaps; for there is one thing to be said on the other side--and it is a thing of weight. Chat was fifty; as a governess she was hopelessly out of date; I do not suppose that she saw her daily bread secure for three months ahead. For a hundred pounds a year certain--secure from the caprice of employers or of fate--she would probably have done or been anything--even, so far as she could, honest. But honesty alone, as she may well have reflected, does not breed security of tenure in subordinate positions. I am far from saying that it ought; on the whole I consider it to be a commoner, and therefore a cheaper and more easily obtainable--and replaceable--commodity than either a good brain or an agreeable demeanor. At any rate how easily it may come near to costing a man his place I was very soon to discover by my own experience. Well, perhaps, to honesty I ought to add a lack of diplomacy and a temper naturally hot. But I am not sure: I cannot see how any man could have done anything very different--given that he was barely honest. "There's a person in the drawing-room with the ladies, sir," said Loft one day when I came up to tea at four o'clock. Loft's social terminology was exact. When he said a "person" he did not mean a "gentleman"--who was a gentleman--nor a "man"--who was a member of the definitely lower orders of the community; he meant somebody in between, one of the doubtful cases. "A
{'title': 'The Great Miss Driver by Anthony Hope', 'source': 'Project Gutenberg', 'lang': 'en'}