The Great Miss Driver. Anthony Hope

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      "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

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ON THE USE OF SCRAPES

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      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