Snowdrift and Other Stories Read online

  The lady bridled. ‘The name’s Flint,’ she said. ‘But I’m changing it. I was your grandpa’s housekeeper.’

  ‘Oh!’ said Miss Trent. ‘Then will you have the goodness to take me to my grandfather, if you please?’

  Mrs Flint sniffed, but turned to lead the way up one pair of stairs. She opened a door giving on to a large parlour, and said: ‘Here’s your granddaughter, Mr K!’

  From a winged arm-chair by the fire a desiccated old gentleman peered at Miss Trent. ‘Well, it’s no use her coming here, because I’ve altered my mind,’ he said. ‘Maria’s girl, hey? Damme if you don’t look like her!’

  Mrs Flint, who had taken up a position beside his chair, said with a simper: ‘Me and Mr K. is going to be married.’

  ‘It’ll be cheaper,’ explained Mr Kennet simply.

  Miss Trent sank nervelessly into the nearest chair. Mr Kennet was meanwhile subjecting Sir Julian to a severe scrutiny. ‘A fine buck you’ve turned out to be!’ he pronounced. ‘What’s your name? Joseph?’

  ‘No,’ said Sir Julian. ‘My name is Julian Arden.’

  Both Mr Kennet and his prospective bride stared very hard at him. ‘Mr K., if it isn’t Beau Arden himself!’ palpitated the lady.

  ‘Are you the son of Percy Arden, who was up at Oxford with me?’ demanded Mr Kennet. ‘Sir Julian Arden?’

  ‘I am,’ said Sir Julian.

  ‘What do you want?’ asked the old gentleman suspiciously.

  ‘To marry your granddaughter,’ replied Sir Julian coolly.

  This intelligence produced an instant change in Mr Kennet’s attitude. He rubbed his dry hands together and ejaculated: ‘That’s good! That’s the girl! Come and give me a kiss, Sophy! I’m proud of you, and I’m sorry I said you was like your mother! Damme if I don’t do something handsome by you!’

  Miss Trent, submitting unwilling to his embrace, was feeling too dazed by the shocks of the past few minutes to speak, but at this her eyes lit with a faint hope.

  ‘I will!’ said Mr Kennet, with the air of one reaching a painful decision. ‘You shall have your grandmother’s pearls!’

  ‘When we’re dead and gone, Mr K.,’ interpolated the future Mrs Kennet firmly.

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Mr Kennet, perceiving the wisdom of this. ‘And I’ll give her my poor Charlotte’s garnet brooch for a bride gift, what’s more! I can’t lay my hand on it at the moment, but I’ll send it. Where are you putting up, my dear?’

  Sir Julian, perceiving that Miss Trent was quite stunned, took her hand in a comforting hold, and said: ‘She will be staying at the Christopher, sir. And now I think we must take our leave of you.’

  Mr Kennet brightened still more at finding that he was not expected to entertain his grandchild and her betrothed to dinner, and said that if she liked she might come to visit him again before she left Bath. ‘But I won’t have your cousin Joseph coming to batten on me!’ he added, suddenly querulous.

  ‘Which leads one to wonder,’ remarked Sir Julian, when he had extricated Miss Trent from the house, ‘what is to become of Joseph!’

  ‘What is to become of me?’ said Miss Trent, wringing her hands.

  ‘You are going to marry me.’

  ‘Yes – I mean – But poor Mama! Bertram! Dear Ned! I have no right to be so happy when I have failed so miserably!’

  He lifted her up into the curricle. ‘My little love, you have not so far given my circumstances a thought, but I must inform you that I am accounted to be extremely wealthy. Bertram, and Ned, and Tom shall go to Eton, and Oxford, and anywhere else you may choose; and Clara shall have her lessons on the pianoforte; and your mama shall have a dozen maids; and –’

  ‘Good God, you cannot be as rich as that!’ cried Miss Trent, quite frightened.

  ‘Much richer!’ he averred, mounting on to the box beside her.

  ‘But you must not marry me!’ she said, in great distress. ‘There must be dozens of eligible females whom you should rather marry!’

  ‘I am not the Grand Turk!’ he protested.

  ‘No, no, but you know I have no expectations!’

  ‘I know nothing of the sort,’ he said, possessing himself of her hand, and kissing it. ‘You are to inherit your grandmother’s pearls! But if I were you,’ he added, gathering up the reins, ‘I would not build too much upon that garnet brooch, my love!’

  Full Moon

  LORD STAVELY PREPARED to descend from his chaise.

  ‘We will stop here,’ he announced.

  It was certainly a charming inn. It stood at the end of the broad village street, with two great elms behind it and roses rambling over its old red-brick frontage. It was not, of course, a posting-house, which did not incline the two postilions in its favour. One of them said: ‘If we was to drive on for another mile or two, we’d likely find a decent house for your honour to bait at.’

  ‘My dear good fellow,’ replied his lordship, ‘you have no more notion of where we are than I have. Here we will stop. I like the place.’

  The village seemed asleep in the moonlight, not a soul stirring. But the sound of carriage wheels brought the landlord out of the inn, all anxiety to oblige. Lord Stavely, alighting from the chaise, said: ‘Arcadia, I presume. Tell me, what is the time?’

  The landlord, slightly taken aback, said that it lacked but ten minutes to the hour.

  ‘But what hour?’ asked his lordship.

  ‘Why, nine o’clock, sir!’

  ‘How shocking! Am I anywhere in the neighbourhood of Melbury Place?’

  ‘Melbury Place?’ repeated the landlord. ‘Yes, that you are, sir; it lies only a matter of ten miles from here, though the road’s tricky, as you might say.’

  ‘After the experiences of today, I should probably use a more forceful epithet. I imagine it will take me nearly an hour to reach the place. Obviously it behoves me to dine here. Or am I too late for dinner?’

  The landlord was not one to turn away distinguished custom from his door. This gentleman, with his high-crowned beaver hat, his driving-coat of many capes, worn negligently open over a neat blue coat, a cut Venetian waistcoat, and the palest of fawn pantaloons, was plainly a member of the Quality. He assured Lord Stavely that, if he would step into the coffee-room, dinner should be served him in a very few minutes. A qualm then attacked him, and he faltered: ‘I’m sorry I can’t show your honour to a private parlour, but there’s only Mr Tom in the coffee-room, after all.’

  ‘Then if Mr Tom does not take exception to me, I shall do very well,’ said his lordship. ‘I wonder if I should remain here for the night? Shall I endear myself on my host by presenting myself at past eleven o’clock at night?’

  ‘They do keep very early hours up at the Place, by what I hear, sir,’ offered the landlord hopefully. ‘Was the Squire expecting of you, sir?’

  ‘He was, and I trust still is. Your manner leads me to fear that he will not be pleased by my tardy arrival?’

  ‘Well, sir, begging your pardon, Squire is that pernickety in his ways, and – in a manner of speaking – a testy gentleman – not meaning any disrespect, I’m sure!’

  ‘In fact, I shall not endear myself to him by arriving famished on his doorstep at dead of night. Very well. I’ll put up here, then.’

  The landlord, mentally resolving to have the best sheets instantly put on the bed in the larger of his two guest chambers, ushered his lordship into the coffee-room.

  It had only one occupant, a young gentleman who sat in the window embrasure, with a bottle of brandy on the ledge beside him, and a glass in his hand. The landlord, casting a rather worried glance at the bottle, murmured that Mr Tom would not object to a gentleman’s dining in the coffee-room. Mr Tom blinked at Lord Stavely, and inclined his head with dignity. He then resumed his scrutiny of the moon-washed street.

  His lordship returned the civility by a slight bow, and a smile hovering about his mouth, but made no attempt to lure Mr Tom into conversation. It was apparent to him that care sat upon the young gentleman’s brow.