The Eldest Son Part 4

added Nancy.

"Not till I know what you spent the last contribution on," said d.i.c.k.

"You're getting regular young spendthrifts. I shall have to look into this, or you'll be ruining me by and by."

"Won't you give us anything more unless we tell you?" enquired Joan; and Nancy amended the question: "Will you give us something more if we do tell you?"

"I'll see," said d.i.c.k. "Come, out with it!"

"Well, it's nothing to be ashamed of," said Joan. "We wanted to buy the old Starling a really good present, and out of our own money."

"It took the form of a pair of silver-backed brushes with cupids' heads on them, and cost three pounds seventeen and sixpence," added Nancy.

"They are not cupids, but angels," said Joan, "which are much more adapted to Starling's tastes."

"Well--cupids or angels--it cleaned us entirely out," concluded Nancy.

d.i.c.k put an arm round the shoulders of each and gave them a squeeze as they walked. "You're a pair of topping good Tw.a.n.kies," he said. "I'll start your new camera fund. I'll give it you now."

"Thanks awfully, d.i.c.k," said Joan, as he took out his sovereign purse, "but I think we'd rather you didn't. You see, it's rather a special occasion--the poor old Starling going away--and we wanted to give her something that would really cost us something."

"I agree with my sister," said Nancy. "But thanks awfully all the same, d.i.c.k. You're always a brick."

"Well, I respect the delicacy of your feelings, Tw.a.n.ks," said d.i.c.k.

"But isn't anybody ever going to be allowed to contribute to the camera fund? How long does the embargo last?"

"There's a good deal in that," said Joan thoughtfully. "Of course we can't refuse tips for ever, can we, Nancy?"

Nancy thought not. "Let's say in a month from to-day," she suggested.

"If d.i.c.k likes to give us something then and happens to remember it--of course, we shan't remind him--then I think we might accept without feeling pigs."

"I'll make a note of that," said d.i.c.k gravely, "when I get home."

CHAPTER IV

THE DOWER-HOUSE

Surrounded by its winter woods and an over-thick growth of evergreens, the little Jacobean hall, which had for centuries been the second home of the Clintons of Kencote, had an air slightly depressing as d.i.c.k and the twins came to it through the yew-enclosed garden at the back.

White blinds were down behind all the leaded mullioned windows, only one thin thread of smoke rose into the sky from the carved and twisted chimney-stacks.

Forty years before, when the Squire had succeeded his grandfather, his six spinster aunts had left him in undisturbed possession of the great house and taken up their abode here, very seldom to leave, until one by one they had been carried off to their grave in Kencote churchyard.

Aunt Ellen, the eldest of them all, had died at a great age a few months before, and Aunt Laura, the youngest, who was now seventy-eight, had removed herself and her belongings to a smaller house in the village. Neither d.i.c.k nor, of course, the twins had ever known the dower-house una.s.sociated with the quiet lives of the old ladies, and they shared in their different degree the same feeling of strangeness as they stood under the porch and listened to the bell echoing in the empty house. It was like a human body from which life had departed, but with its age and many memories it still kept a soul of its own which could be revivified by fresh occupancy.

They went through all the rooms. There was a great deal of fine old furniture in them, things which Clintons of past centuries had bought new, never thinking that they would some day acquire merit as antiquities. There were few such things in the great house, which had been rebuilt after a fire in the reign of Queen Anne and refurnished later still, in the reign of Queen Victoria. Nor had the beautiful things of which the dower-house was full been valued in the least by their owners until long after the six maiden aunts had gone to live there. They had been simply old-fashioned in the eyes of the Squire, their owner, and were so still, for he had no knowledge of such things, and no appreciation of them. d.i.c.k knew a little more, and as he looked at one fine old piece of furniture after another, standing forlorn on the carpetless floors, or against the dark panelling of the walls, he said, "By Jove! Tw.a.n.kies, there's some good stuff in this old shanty."

"Who is going to live in it?" asked Joan.

"Ah, that's the question!" replied d.i.c.k. "Tell you what, Tw.a.n.kies, let's play a game. Supposing I ever got married, _I_ should live here, you know. Let's see how the rooms would pan out."

The twins were quite ready to play this or any other game, although it did not promise much excitement, because there were only quite a limited number of rooms, and most of them were more or less obviously labelled. It seemed, however, that d.i.c.k was prepared to play the game seriously, for after they had fixed the dining-room, drawing-room, morning-room, and smoking-room, and a tiny oak parlour which the aunts had used for garden chairs and implements and d.i.c.k said would do for his guns if a baize-lined gla.s.s cupboard were put up in a recess by the fireplace, he inspected the kitchen premises with some thoroughness.

"I say, d.i.c.k, _are_ you going to get married and come and live here?"

asked Joan, as he began to make notes on the back of an envelope.

"There's more in this than meets the eye," observed Nancy.

"Small Tw.a.n.kies mustn't ask impertinent questions," replied d.i.c.k. "But I'll tell you exactly how it stands, and you mustn't let it go any further."

"Oh, rather not," said Joan.

"Our ears are all agog," said Nancy.

"You see, Tw.a.n.kies, _some_body has got to live in this house, haven't they? Well, then, it must be done up, eh? And if _I_ come and live in it some day, I don't want to have to do it up again--see? So there you have it all in a nutsh.e.l.l."

"Yes, I see," said Joan; "but it's a little disappointing."

"It all sounds very reasonable," said Nancy, "but I still think there's more in it than meets the eye."

They were in the great stone-floored kitchen, which still retained its cavernous hearth and open chimney.

"You could roast an ox here," said d.i.c.k. "We'll turn this into a servants' hall, Tw.a.n.kies, and rig up the other place for cooking. The cellar's all right, so is the pantry--and big enough for two. We'll divide it up, eh? and one part will do for a brushing-room. There's nowhere at present where a servant can brush your clothes."

"What wonderful domestic knowledge you display, d.i.c.k!"' observed Nancy.

"Where are the maids to brush their mistresses' clothes? In here with the valets?"

"Yes, of course," said d.i.c.k. "This isn't a palace. People who come to stay must expect some inconveniences. I don't see any place for a game larder. We must see about that outside. Now we'll go upstairs."

They went up the broad shallow stairs of age-worn oak, and through the hive of rooms, which opened into one another, and led out into little pa.s.sages, closets, and stairways in the most confusing way, and made you wonder what scheme of daily life the old builder had in mind when he planned them. He had certainly wasted a great deal of room. The main corridor opened out here and there into broad s.p.a.ces, where there was perhaps a bookcase, or a low seat under a latticed window, or only the rich emptiness of the square of oak panelling, the polished floor, and the plastered ceiling. Whatever his aims, he had gained his effect of gracious ease and warm shelter. However varied might be the needs of its occupants through the succeeding years, the dower-house would be as much of a home as on the day it was first built.

"A man might make himself very comfortable here, Mr. Copperfield,"

quoted Nancy, as they stood at a window of the biggest bedroom, which had panels of linen pattern, with a plastered frieze and an oak-beamed ceiling. There was also a heavy carved oak bed, in which Aunt Ellen had recently looked her last upon surroundings that had continually reminded her of the age and importance of the family of which she was a member.

"I shall have all these beastly laurels grubbed up, and some of the trees cut down," said d.i.c.k. "The place is like a family vault. And I'm not sure that I won't have this woodwork painted white."

Joan looked doubtfully round her. She knew nothing of the value of old good things, but she felt dimly that the carved panelling, dark with age, ought to remain as it was. Nancy felt so still more strongly.

"It would be wicked to do that," she said. "This is a lovely room, and tells you stories. If you like I'll give you a rhapsody."

Joan grinned. "Have you ever heard one of Nancy's rhapsodies, d.i.c.k?"

she asked. "They're awfully good."

d.i.c.k had not, but expressed himself willing to listen to whatever foolishness might be in store for him for the s.p.a.ce of one minute precisely. Nancy stood against the dark woodwork on the other side of the room. Her pretty, mischievous face was framed in the thick fall of her fair hair and the fur round her throat. She wore a little fur cap and a red coat, and a big m.u.f.f hung from her shoulders. d.i.c.k, always affectionately disposed towards his young sisters, thought he had never seen a girl of her age look prettier, and put his arm vicariously round Joan, who was exactly like her, as they sat on the window-seat.

"In this old house," began Nancy, using her right hand for gesticulation and keeping the other in her m.u.f.f, "lots of old Clintons have died, and lots of new Clintons have been born. Think, my children, of the people who have come here to live. Some of them were gallant young men Clintons who had just taken to themselves fair young brides, and they were full of hope for the future, and pleasure in having such a jolly house to live in with her they loved best in the world. A few years would pa.s.s and the rooms would echo with the voices and steps of little children, and all would be gaiety and mirth. Then a change would come over the spirit of the scene. The young couple would go with their family to the great house, and in their stead would come a sad-faced figure in deep black, a Clinton widow, who had had her day of glory, and would now spend the rest of her years here in peace and seclusion. But all would not be dark to her. She would have great fun in suiting the dear old house to her taste, she would be cheered by the constant visits of the younger members of her family, and she could do a good deal more what she liked than she had done before."

"Well, upon my word!" interposed d.i.c.k.

Nancy held up her hand. "Hear, all ye Clintons!" she concluded. "Old men and women, young men and maidens, and especially the gallant warrior knight and the sweet young maiden I see before me--ye belong to a race which has its roots far back in history, and has been distinguished for many things, but not particularly for brains, as far as I can make out from my recent researches. But at last there has arisen one who will make up for that deficiency. You now behold her in the person of Nancy Caroline Clinton, who addresses you. See that ye cherish her and tip her well, or ye will be eternally disgraced in the eyes of posterity."