CHAPTER XVI
Helps buttoned on his great coat, said a few words to one of the clerks, and stepped out into the foggy night. He hailed a passing omnibus, and in the course of half-an-hour found himself fumbling with his latch-key in the door of a neat little house, which, however, was at the same moment thrown wide open from within, and a tall girl with a pale face, clear grey eyes, and a quantity of dark hair coiled about her head stood before him.
"It's father, Cherry," she said to a little cousin who popped round the corner. "Put the sausages on, and dish up the potatoes. Now don't be awkward. I'm glad you're in good time, father – here, give us a kiss. Do I look nice in this dress? I made it all myself. Here, come up to the gas, and have a good look at it. How does it fit? Neat, eh?"
The dress was a dark green velveteen, made without attempt at ornament, but fitting the slim and lissom figure like a glove.
"It's neat, but plain, surely," replied Helps, looking puzzled, proud, and at the same time dissatisfied. "A bit more color now, – more flouncing – Why, what's the matter, Essie? How you do frown, my girl."
"Come in out of the cold, father. Oh, no, not the kitchen, I've ordered supper to be laid in the dining-room. Well, perhaps the room it does smoke, but that will soon clear off. Now, father, I want to ask you an important question. Do I look like a lady in this dress?"
She held herself very erect, the pure outline of her grand figure was shown to the best advantage, her massive head had a queenly pose, and the delicate purity of her complexion heightened the effect. Her accent was wrong, her words betrayed her – could she have become dumb, she might have passed for a princess.
"Do I look like a lady?" she repeated.
Little Helps stepped back a pace or two – he was puzzled and annoyed.
"You look all right, Essie," he said. "A lady? Oh, well – but you ain't a lady, my girl. Look here, Esther, this room is mortal cold – I'd a sight rather have my supper cosy in the kitchen."
"You can't then, father. You must take up with the genteel ways. After supper we're going into the drawing-room, and I'll play to you on the pianner, pa; I have been practising all day. Perhaps, too, we'll have company – there's no saying."
"Company?" repeated Helps. "Who – what?"
"Oh, I'm not going to say, maybe he won't come. I met him in the park – I was skating with the Johnsons, and I fell, and he picked me up. I might have been hurt but for him. Then he heard George Johnson calling me by my name, and it turned out that he knew you. Oh, wasn't he a swell, and didn't he look it! And hadn't he a name worth boasting of! 'Mr. Gerald Wyndham.' Why, what's the matter, father? He said that he had often promised to look you up some evening, to bring you some stupid book or other. He said maybe he would come to-night. That's why I had the drawing-room and dining-room all done up. He said perhaps he'd call, and took off his hat most refined. I took an awful fancy to him – his ways was so aspiring. He said he might come to-night, but he wasn't sure. I didn't know you had young men like that at your office, father. And what is the matter? – why, you're quite white!"
"I never talk of what goes on at the place of business," replied Helps, in quite a brusque voice for him. "And as to that young gent, Esther, he's our Miss Valentine's husband."
"Married? Oh, lor, he didn't look it! And who is 'our Miss Valentine?' if I may be bold enough to ask."
"Mr. Paget's daughter. I said I didn't mention matters connected with the place of business."
"You always were precious close, father. But you're a dear, good, old dad, all the same, and Cherry and I would sooner die than have you scolded about anything. Cherry, my fine beau's a married man – pity, aint it? I thought maybe he'd suit me."
"Then you needn't have lit the fire in the drawing-room," answered Cherry, a very practical and stoutly-built little maid of fifteen.
"Maybe I needn't, but there's no harm done. I suppose I can talk to him, even if he is married. Won't I draw him out about Miss Valentine, and tell him how father always kept her a secret from us."
"Supper's ready, uncle," said Cherry. "Oh, bother that fire! It's quite out. Don't the sausages smell good, uncle? I cooked them myself."
The three sat down to the table, poor Helps shivering not a little, and casting more than one regretful glance at the warm and cosy kitchen. He was feeling depressed for more than one reason this evening, and a sense of dismay stole over him at Esther's having accidentally made Wyndham's acquaintance.
"It's a bad omen," he said, under his breath, "and Esther's that contrary, and so taken up with making a lady of herself, and she's beautiful as a picter, except when she talks folly.
"I liked that young man from the first," he murmured. "I took, so to speak, a fancy to him, and warned him, and I quoted scripter to him. All to no good. The glint of a gel's eye was too much for him, he sold himself for her – body and soul he sold himself for her. Still, I went on keeping up a fancy for him, and I axed him to look me up some evening, and have a pipe – he's wonderful on words too – he can derivate almost as many as I can. I'm sorry now I asked him – Esther's that wilful, and as beautiful as a picter. She talks too much to young men that's above her. She's set on being a lady. Mr. Wyndham's married, of course, but Esther wouldn't think nothing of trying to flirt with him for all that."
"Esther," he said, suddenly, raising his deep-set eyes, and fixing them on his daughter, "ef the young man calls, it's to see me, mind you – he's a married man, and he has got the most beautiful wife in the world, and he loves her. My word, I never heard tell of nobody loving their wife so much!"
Esther's big grey eyes opened wide.
"How you look at me, dad," she said. "One would think I wanted to steal Mr. Wyndham from his wife! I'm glad he loves her, it's romantic, it pleases me."
"And there's his ring at the door," suddenly exclaimed Cherry. "Esther was right to prepare the drawing-room. I'm glad he have come. I like to look at handsome gents, particular when they are in love."
Gerald's arrival was accidental after all. He and his wife were dining in Queen's Gate, and after dinner he remembered his adventure on the ice, and told the story in an amusing way.
"A most beautiful girl, but with such an accent and manner," he said. "And who do you think she turned out to be, sir?" he added, turning to his father-in-law. "Why, your cracked clerk's daughter. She told me her name was Esther Helps, and I found they were father and daughter."
"Has old Helps got a daughter?" exclaimed Valentine.
"How funny that I should never have known it. I have always been rather fond of old Helps."
"He has an only daughter, as I have an only daughter," replied Mr. Paget. Valentine was sitting close to him; he put his arm around her waist as he spoke.
"How queer that I should never have known," continued Valentine. "And her name is Esther? It is a pretty name. And you say that she is handsome, Gerry? What is she like?"
"Tall and pale, with an expressive face," replied Wyndham, lightly. "She is lady-like, and even striking-looking until she opens her lips – then – " he made an expressive grimace.
"Poor girl, as if she could help that," replied Val. "She has never been educated, you know. Her father is poor, and he can't give her advantages. Does old Helps love his daughter very much, dad?"
"I suppose so, Val. Yes, I think I may say I am sure he does."
"I am so interested in only girls with fathers," continued Mrs. Wyndham. "I wish I had seen Esther Helps. I hope you were kind to her, Gerald."
"I picked her up, dear, and gave her to her friends. By-the-way, I said I'd call to see old Helps this evening. He has a passion for the derivation of words, and I have Trench's book on the subject. Shall I take Esther a message from you, Val?"
"Yes, say something nice. I am not good at making up messages. Tell her I am interested in her, and the more she loves her father, the greater my interest must be. See, this is much better than any mere message – take her this bunch of lilies – say I sent them. Now, Gerald, is it likely I should be lonely? Father and I are going to have two hours all to ourselves."
But as Valentine said these light words, her hand lingered on her husband's shoulder, and her full brown eyes rested on his face. Something in their gaze made his heart throb. He put his arm round her neck and kissed her forehead.
"I shan't be two hours away," he said.
He took up the flowers, put "Trench on Words" into his pocket, and went out.
Wyndham had a pleasant way with all people. His words, his manner, his gentle courteous smile won for him hearts in all directions. He was meant to be greatly beloved; he was born to win the most dangerous popularity of all – that which brought to him blind and almost unreasoning affection.
He was received at No. 5 Acadia Terrace with enthusiasm. Esther and Cherry were open-eyed in their admiration, and Helps, a little sorrowful – somehow Helps if he wasn't cynical was always sorrowful – felt proud of the visit.
Gerald insisted on adjourning to the kitchen. He and Helps had a long discussion on words – Cherry moved softly about, putting everything in order – Esther sat silent and lovely, glancing up now and then at Gerald from under her black eyelashes. Valentine's flowers lay in her lap. They were dazzlingly white, and made an effective contrast to her dark green dress. It was a peaceful little scene – nothing at all remarkable about it. Gerald fell more contented than he had done for many a day. Who would have thought that out of such innocent materials mischief of the deadliest sort might be wrought to him and his.
CHAPTER XVII
When Wyndham came back to Queen's Gate his wife met him with sparkling eyes.
"How much time can you give me to-morrow?" she said. "I want to go out with you. I have been speaking to father, and he accedes to all our wishes – he will give us an income. He says he thinks a thousand a year will be enough. Oh, he is kind, and I feel so excited. Don't let us drive, let us walk home, Gerry. I know the night is fine. I feel that everything is bright just now, and you will come with me to-morrow, won't you, Gerry? Father, could you spare Gerald from business to-morrow? You know it is so important."
Mr. Paget was standing a little in the shadow, his face was beaming, his eyes smiling. When Valentine turned to him, he laid his hand lightly on her shoulder.
"You are an inconsistent little girl," he said. "You want to become a business woman yourself. You want to be practical, and clever, and managing, and yet you encourage that husband of yours to neglect his work."
Gerald flushed.
"I don't neglect my work," he said. "My heavy work has never a chance of being neglected, it is too crushing."
Valentine looked up in alarm, but instantly Mr. Paget's smiling face was turned to the young man, and his other hand touched his arm.
"Your work to-morrow is to go with your wife," he said gently. "She wants to shop – to spend – to learn saving by expenditure. You have to go with her to give her the benefit of your experience. Look out for cheap sales, my dear child – go to Whiteley's, and purchase what you don't want, provided it is a remnant, and sold under cost price. Save by learning, Val, and, Gerald, you help her to the best of your ability. Now good-night, my children, good-night, both of you, bless you."
"It almost seemed to me," said Valentine, as they walked home together – it was a starry night and she clung affectionately to her husband's arm – "it almost seemed to me that father was put out with you, and you with him. He was so sweet while you were out, but although he smiled all the time after you returned I don't think he was really sweet, and you didn't speak nicely to him, Gerald, about the work I mean. Is the work at the office very heavy. Gerald? You never spend more than about two hours a day there."
"The work is heavy, Val, and it will grow more so. I don't complain, however – I have not the shadow of a right to complain. I am sorry I spoke to your father so as to vex you, dearest – I won't do so again."
"I want you to love him, Gerry; I want you to feel for him a little bit, as I do, as if he were the first of men, you understand. Don't you think you could try. I wish you would."
"You see I have my own father, darling."
"Oh yes, but really now – the rector is a nice old man, but, Gerry, if you were to speak from your inmost heart, without any prejudice, you know; if you could detach from your mind the fact that you are the son of the rector, you would not compare them, Gerry, you could not."
"As you say, Valentine, I could not. They stand on different pedestals. Now let us change the subject. So you are the happy possessor of a thousand a year."
"We both possess that income, Gerry. Is not it sweet of father – he felt for me at once. He said he was proud of me, that I was going to make a capital wife – he said you were a lucky fellow, Gerry."
"Yes, darling, so I am, so I am."
"Then he spoke of a thousand a year to begin with. He mentioned a lot more, but he said a thousand was an income on which I might begin to learn to save. And he gave me a cheque for the first quarter to-night. He said we had better open a banking account. As soon as we get in, I'm going to give you the cheque, I'm afraid to keep it. Father said we might open a separate account in his bank."
"My father has always banked at the Westminster," said Gerald. "It would suit me best to take the money there."
They had reached the house by this time. Gerald opened the door with a latch-key, and the two went into the pretty, cosy drawing-room. Valentine threw off her white fur wrap, and sank down into an easy-chair. Her dinner dress was white, and made in a very simple girlish fashion – her hair, which was always short and curled in little rings about her head and face, added to the extreme youth of her appearance. She raised her eyes to her husband, who stood by the mantel-piece. The expression she wore was that of a happy, excited, half-spoiled child, a creature who had been somebody's darling from her birth. This was the predominating expression of her face, and yet – and yet – Gerald seemed to read something more in the gaze of the sweet eyes to-night; a question was half coming into them, the dawn of a possible awakening might even be discerned in them.
"My darling," he said, suddenly coming up to her, putting his arm about her, and kissing her with passion, "I love you better than my life – better – better than my hope of heaven. Can you love me a little, Valentine – just a little?"
"I do love you, Gerald." But she spoke quietly, and without any answering fire.
His arms dropped, the enthusiasm went out of his face; he went back again to his old position with his back to the fire.
"What kind of girl is Esther Helps, Gerald?"
"A beautiful girl."
"As beautiful as I am?"
"In her way quite as beautiful."
"Why do you say 'in her way?' Beauty must always be beauty."
"It has degrees, Esther Helps is not a lady."
Valentine was silent for half a minute.
"I should like to know her," she said then. "I wonder how much she cares for old Helps."
"Look here, Valentine, Esther Helps is not the least like you. I don't know that she has any romantic attachment for that old man. She is a very ordinary girl – a most commonplace person with just a beautiful face."
"How queerly you speak, Gerald. As if it were something strange for an only daughter to be attached to her father."
"The amount of attachment you feel, darling, is uncommon."
"Is it? Well, I have got a very uncommon father."
"My dear Valentine, God knows you have."
Gerald sank down into a chair by the fire. He turned his face, dreary, white and worn, to the blaze. Valentine detected no hidden sarcasm in his tones. After a time she took the cheque out of her purse and handed it to him.
"Here, Gerry, you will put this into your bank to-morrow, won't you? We will open an account in our joint names, won't we? And then we can calculate how much we are to spend weekly and monthly. Oh, won't it be interesting and exciting. So much for my clothes, so much for yours, so much for servants, so much for food – we need not spend so much on food, need we? So much for pleasures – I want to go to the theatre at least twice a week – oh, we can manage it all and have something to spare. And no debts, remember, Gerry – ready money will be our system. We'll go in omnibuses, too, to save cabs – I shall love to feel that I am doing for a penny what might cost a shilling. Gerald darling, do you know that just in one way you have vexed my father a little?"
"Vexed him – how, Valentine?"
"He says it is very wrong of you to croak, and have gloomy prognostications. You know you said it was not worth while for me to learn to housekeep. Just as if you were going to die, or I were going to die. Father was quite vexed when I told him. Now you look vexed, Gerry. Really between such a husband and such a father, a poor girl may sometimes feel puzzled. Well, have you nothing to say?"
"I'm afraid I have nothing to say, Valentine."
"Then you won't croak any more."
"Not for you – I have never croaked for you."
"Nor for yourself."
"I cannot promise. Sometimes fits of depression come over me. There, good-night, sweet. Go to bed. I am not sleepy. I shall read for a time. Your future is all right, Valentine."
CHAPTER XVIII
"I don't like it," said Lilias.
She was sitting in the sunny front parlor, the room which was known as the children's room at the rectory. An open letter lay on her dark winter dress; her sunny hair was piled up high on her shapely head, and her eyes, wistful and questioning, were raised to Marjory's brisker, brighter face, with a world of trouble in them.
The snow lay thick outside, covering the flower beds and the grassy lawn, and laying in piles against the low rectory windows. Marjory was standing by a piled up fire, one of those perfect fires composed of great knobs of sparkling coal and well dried logs of wood. She, too, had on a dark dress, but it was nearly covered by a large holland apron with a bib. Her sleeves were protected by cuffs of the same, on her hands she wore chamois leather gloves with the tips cut off. She looked all bright, and active, and sparkling, and round her on the table and on the floor lay piles and bales of unbleached calico, of coarse red flannel, of bright dark blue and crimson merino. In one of Marjory's capable hands was a large pair of cutting-out scissors, and she paused, holding this implement slightly open, to listen to Lilias' lugubrious words.
"If you must croak to-day," she said, "get it over quickly, and come and help me. Twenty-four blue frocks and twenty-four red to be ready by the time the girls come at four o'clock, besides the old women's flannel and this unlimited supply of unbleached calico. If there is a thing which ruffles my equanimity it is unbleached calico, it fluffs so, and makes one so messy. Now, what do you want to say, Lilias?"
"I'm troubled," said Lilias, "it's about Gerald. I've the queerest feeling about him – three times lately I've dreamt – intangible dreams, of course, but all dark and foreboding."
"Is that a letter from Gerry in your lap, Lilias?"
"No, it is from Val – a nice little letter, too, poor child. I am sure she is doing her best to be a good wife to Gerald. Do you know that she has taken up housekeeping in real earnest."
"Does she say that Gerald is ill?"
"No, she scarcely mentions his name at all."
"Then what in the name of goodness are you going into the dismals for on this morning of all mornings. Twenty-four blue frocks and twenty-four red between noon and four o'clock, and the old women coming for them to the moment. Really, Lilias, you are too provoking. You are not half the girl you were before Gerald's marriage. I don't know what has come to you. Oh, there's Mr. Carr passing the window, I'll get him to come in and help us. Forgive me, Lil, I'll just open this window a tiny bit and speak to him. How do you do, Mr. Carr? You can step in this way – you need not go round through all the slush to the front door. There, you can wipe your feet on that mat. Lilias, say 'how do you do' to Mr. Carr, that is if you are not too dazed."
"How do you do, Miss Wyndham? How do you do. Miss Lilias?" said Carr in a brisk tone. "It is very good of you both to let me into this pleasant room after the cold and snow outside. And how busy you are! Surely, Miss Wyndham, your family don't require such a vast amount of re-clothing."
"Yes," said Marjory, "these bales of goods are for my shivering widows," and she pointed to the red flannel and unbleached calico. "And those are for my pretty orphans – our pretty orphans, Lilly darling, twenty-four in the West Refuge, twenty-four in the East; the Easterns are apparelled in red, the Westerns in blue. Now, Mr. Carr, I'll put it to you as our spiritual pastor, is it right for Lilias to sit and croak instead of helping me with all this prodigious work?"
"But croaking for nothing is not Miss Lilias' way," said Carr, favoring her with a quick glance, a little anxious, a little surprised.
Lilias sprang up with almost a look of vexation. Valentine's letter fell unheeded on the floor.
"You are too bad, Maggie," she said, with almost a forced laugh. "I suppose there are few people in this troublesome world who are not now and then attacked with a fit of the blues. But here goes. I'll shake them off. I'll help you all I can."
"You must help, too," said Marjory in a gay voice, turning to Carr. "Please take off your great coat – put it anywhere. Now then, are your hands strong? are your arms steady? You have got to hold this bale of red merino while Lilly cuts dress lengths from it. Don't forget. Lil, nine lengths of three-and-a-half yards each, nine lengths of four yards each, and six lengths of five yards each. Oh, thank you, Mr. Carr, that will be a great assistance."
Carr was a very energetic, wide-awake, useful man. He could put his hands to anything. No work, provided it was useful, was derogatory in his eyes – he was always cheerful, always bright and obliging. Even Gerald Wyndham could scarcely have made a more popular curate at Jewsbury-on-the-Wold than did this young man.
"If anything could provoke me about him, it is that he is too sunny," Marjory said one day to her sister.
Lilias was silent. It occurred to her, only she was not sure, that in those dark, quick, keen eyes there could come something which might sustain and strengthen on a day of clouds as well as sunshine.
It came now, when Marjory suddenly left the room, and Carr abruptly let the great bale of merino drop at his feet.
"Are you worried about anything?" he asked, in that direct fashion of his which made people trust him very quickly.
Lilias colored all over her face.
"I suppose I ought not to be silly," she said, "but my brother – you see he is my only brother – his marriage has made a great gulf between us."
Carr looked at her sharply.
"You are not jealous?" he said.
"I don't know – we used to be great chums. I think if I were sure he was happy I should not be jealous?"
Carr walked to the fireplace.
"It would not be folly if you were," he said. "All sisters must face the fact of their brothers taking to themselves wives, and, of course, loving the wives best. It is the rule of nature, and it would be foolish of you to fret against the inevitable."
He spoke abruptly, and with a certain coldness, which might have offended some girls. Lilias' slow earnest answer startled him.
"I don't fret against the inevitable," she said. "But I do fret against the intangible. There is a mystery about Gerald which I can't attempt to fathom. I know it is there, but I can't grapple with it in any direction."
"You must have some thought about it, though, or it would not have entered into your head."
"I have many thoughts, but no clues. Oh, it would take me a long, long time to tell you what I fear, to bring my shadowy dread into life and being. I have just had a letter from Valentine, a sweet nice letter, and yet it seems to me full of mystery, although I am sure she does not know it herself. Yes, it is all intangible – it is kind of you to listen to me. Marjory would say I was talking folly."
"You are talking as if your nerves were a little out of sorts. Could you not have a change? Even granted that there is trouble, and I don't suppose for an instant that anything of the kind is in store for your brother, it is a great waste of life to meet it half way."
Lilias smiled faintly.
"I am silly," she said. And just then Marjory came into the room, followed by Augusta, and the cutting out proceeded briskly.
Carr was an invaluable help. Some people would have said that he was a great deal too gay and cheerful – a great deal too athletic and well-knit and keen-eyed for a curate.
This was not the case; he made an excellent clergyman, but he had a great sense of the fitness of things, and he believed fully in a time for everything.
Helping three merry girls to cut out red and blue merino frocks, on a cold day in January, seemed to him a very cheerful occupation. Gay laughter and light and innocent chatter filled the room, and Lilias soon became one of the merriest of the party.
In the midst of their chatter the rector entered.
"I want you, Carr," he said, abruptly; he was usually a very polite man, almost too ceremonious. Now his words came with a jerk, and the moment he had uttered them he vanished.
As Carr left the room in obedience to this quick summons. Lilias' face became once more clouded.
The rector was pacing up and down his study. When Carr entered he asked him to bolt the door.
"Is anything the matter, sir?" asked the young man.
Mr. Wyndham's manner was so perturbed, so unlike himself, that it was scarcely wonderful that Carr should ask this question. It received, however, a short and sharp reply.
"I hope to goodness, Carr, you are not one of those imaginative people who are always foreboding a lion in the path. What I sent for you was – well – " the rector paused. He raised his eyes slowly until they rested upon the picture of Gerald's mother; the face very like Gerald's seemed to appeal to him; his lips trembled.
"I can't keep it up, Carr," he said, with an abandon which touched the younger man to the heart. "I'm not satisfied about my son. Nothing wrong, oh, no – and yet – and yet – you understand, Carr, I have only one son – a lot of girls, God bless them all! – and only one son."
Carr came over and stood by the mantel-piece. If he felt any surprise, he showed none. His words came out gently, and in a matter-of-fact style.
"If you have any cause to be worried, Mr. Wyndham – and – and – you think I can help you, I shall be proud to be trusted." Then his thoughts flew to Lilias, and his firm, rather thin lips, took a faint smile.
"I have no doubt I am very foolish," replied the rector. "I had a letter this morning from Gerald. He tells me in it that he is going to Australia in March, on some special business for his father-in-law's firm – you know he is a partner in the firm. His wife is not to accompany him."
The rector paused.
Carr made no answer for a moment. Then he said, feeling his way —
"This will be a trial for Mrs. Wyndham."
"One would suppose so. Gerald doesn't say anything on the subject."
"Well," said the rector, "how does it strike you? Perhaps I'm nervous – Lilly, poor girl, is the same, and Marjory laughs at us both. How does this intelligence strike you as an outsider, Carr? Pray give me your opinion."
"Yes," said Carr, simply. "I do not think my opinion need startle anyone. Doubtless, sir, you know facts which throw a different complexion on the thing. It all seems to me a commonplace affair. In big business houses partners have often to go away at short notice. It will certainly be a trial for Mrs. Wyndham to do without her husband. I don't like to prescribe change of air for you, Mr. Wyndham, as I did for Miss Lilias just now, but I should like to ask you if your nerves are quite in order?"
The rector laughed.
"You are a daring fellow to talk of nerves to me, Carr," he said. "Have not I prided myself all my life on having no nerves? Well, well, the fact is, a great change has come over the lad's face. He used to be such a boy, too light-hearted, if anything, too young, if anything, for his years – the most unselfish fellow from his birth. Give away? Bless you, there was nothing Gerald wouldn't give away. Why, look here, Carr, we all tried to spoil the boy amongst us – he was the only one – and his mother taken away when he so young – and he the image of her. Yes, all the girls resemble me, but Gerald is the image of his mother. We all tried to teach him selfishness, but we couldn't. Now. Carr, you will be surprised at what I am going to say, but if a man can be unselfish to a fault, to a fault mind you – to the verge of a crime – it's my son Gerald. I know this. I have always seen it in him. Now my boy's father-in-law. Mortimer Paget, is as selfish as my lad is the reverse. Why did he want a poor lad like mine to marry his rich and only daughter? Why did he make him a partner in his house of business, and why did he insure my boy's life? Insure it heavily? Answer me that. My boy would have taken your place here, Carr; humbly but worthily would he have served the Divine Master, no man happier than he. Is he happy now? Is he young for his years now? Tell me, Carr, what you really think?"
"I don't know, sir. I have not looked at things from your light. You are evidently much troubled, and I am deeply troubled for you. I don't know Wyndham very well but I know him a little. I think that marriage and the cares of a house of business and all his fresh responsibilities may be enough to age your son's face. As to the insurance question, all business is so fluctuating that Mr. Paget was doubtless right in securing his daughter and her children from possible want in the future. See here, Mr. Wyndham, I am going up to town this evening for two or three days. Shall I call at Park-lane and bring you my own impressions with regard to your son?"