"Then how have you learned all the things you know?" he asked.
"That was not difficult. I do not know much," she said, gently, "and
Sarah taught me in the beginning, and then I went to convents whenever
we were in towns, and dear papa was so kind and generous always; no
matter how hard up he was he always got the best masters available for
me--and for Clementine. Sarah is much older, and even Clementine five
years."
"I wonder what on earth you will think of it--England, I mean?" He was
deeply interested.
"I am sure I shall love it. We have always spoken of it as home, you
know. And papa has often described my grandfather's houses. Both my
grandfathers had beautiful houses, it seems, and he says, now that I am
rich and cannot ever be a trouble to them, the family might be pleased
to see me."
She spoke quite simply. There never was room for bitterness or irony in
her tender heart. And Hector looked down upon her, a sort of worship in
his eyes.
"Papa's father is dead long ago; it is his brother who owns Beechleigh
now," she continued--"Sir Patrick Fitzgerald. They are Irish, of course,
but the place is in Cambridgeshire, because it came from his
grandmother."
"Yes, I know the old boy," said Hector. "I see him at the turf--a fiery,
vile-tempered, thin, old bird, about sixty."
"That sounds like him," said Theodora.
"And so you are going to make all these relations' acquaintance. What an
experience it will be, won't it?" His voice was full of sympathy. "But
you will stay in London. They are all there now, I suppose?"
"My Grandfather Borringdon, my mother's father, never goes there, I
believe; he is very old and delicate, we have heard. But I have written
to him--papa wished me to do so; for myself I do not care, because I
think he was unkind to my mother, and I shall not like him. It was cruel
never to speak to her again--wasn't it?--just because she married papa,
whom she loved very much--papa, who is so handsome that he could never
have really been a husband, could he?"
Then she blushed deeply, realizing what she had said.
And the quaintness of it caused Hector to smile while he felt its
pathos.
How could they all have sacrificed this beautiful young life between
them! And he slashed off a tall green weed with his stick when he
thought of Josiah Brown--his short, stumpy, plebeian figure and bald,
shiny head, his common voice, and his pompousness--Josiah Brown, who had
now the ordering of her comings and goings, who paid for her clothes and
gave her those great pearls--who might touch her and kiss her--might
clasp and caress her--might hold her in his arms, his very own, any
moment of the day--or night! Ah, God! that last thought was
impossible--unbearable.