The Great Miss Driver. Hope Anthony

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