money should have rescued her boy's inheritance instead of being spent upon lavish viciousness went without saying.What Mount Dunstan was most struck by was the perfect clearness, and its combination with a certain judicial good breeding, in Miss Vanderpoel's view of the matter.She made no confidences, beautifully candid as her manner was, but he saw that she clearly understood the thing she was doing, and that if her sister had had no son she would not have done this, but something totally different.He had an idea that Lady Anstruthers would have been swiftly and lightly swept back to New York, and Sir Nigel left to his own devices, in which case Stornham Court and its village would gradually have crumbled to decay.It was for Sir Ughtred Anstruthers the place was being restored.She was quite clear on the matter of entail.He wondered at first--not unnaturally--how a girl had learned certain things she had an obviously clear knowledge of.As they continued to converse he learned.Reuben S.Vanderpoel was without doubt a man remarkable not only in the matter of being the owner of vast wealth.The rising flood of his millions had borne him upon its strange surface a thinking, not an unthinking being--in fact, a strong and fine intelligence.His thousands of miles of yearly journeying in his sumptuous private car had been the means of his accumulating not merely added gains, but ideas, points of view, emotions, a human outlook worth counting as an asset.His daughter, when she had travelled with him, had seen and talked with him of all he himself had seen.When she had not been his companion she had heard from him afterwards all best worth hearing.She had become--without any special process--familiar with the technicalities of huge business schemes, with law and commerce and political situations.Even her childish interest in the world of enterprise and labour had been passionate.So she had acquired--inevitably, while almost unconsciously--a remarkable education.
"If he had not been HIMSELF he might easily have grown tired of a little girl constantly wanting to hear things-- constantly asking questions," she said."But he did not get tired.We invented a special knock on the door of his private room.It said, `May Icome in, father?' If he was busy he answered with one knock on his desk, and I went away.If he had time to talk he called out, `Come, Betty,' and I went to him.I used to sit upon the floor and lean against his knee.He had a beautiful way of stroking my hair or my hand as he talked.He trusted me.He told me of great things even before he had talked of them to men.He knew Iwould never speak of what was said between us in his room.That was part of his trust.He said once that it was a part of the evolution of race, that men had begun to expect of women what in past ages they really only expected of each other."Mount Dunstan hesitated before speaking.
"You mean--absolute faith--apart from affection?""Yes.The power to be quite silent, even when one is tempted to speak--if to speak might betray what it is wiser to keep to one's self because it is another man's affair.The kind of thing which is good faith among business men.It applies to small things as much as to large, and to other things than business."Mount Dunstan, recalling his own childhood and his own father, felt again the pressure of the remote mental suggestion that she had had too much, a childhood and girlhood like this, the affection and companionship of a man of large and ordered intelligence, of clear and judicial outlook upon an immense area of life and experience.There was no cause for wonder that her young womanhood was all it presented to himself, as well as to others.Recognising the shadow of resentment in his thought, he swept it away, an inward sense making it clear to him that if their positions had been reversed, she would have been more generous than himself.
He pulled himself together with an unconscious movement of his shoulders.Here was the day of early June, the gold of the sun in its morning, the green shadows, the turf they walked on together, the skylark rising again from the meadow and showering down its song.Why think of anything else.
What a line that was which swept from her chin down her long slim throat to its hollow! The colour between the velvet of her close-set lashes--the remembrance of her curious splendid blush--made the man's lost and unlived youth come back to him.What did it matter whether she was American or English--what did it matter whether she was insolently rich or beggarly poor? He would let himself go and forget all but the pleasure of the sight and hearing of her.
So as they went they found themselves laughing together and talking without restraint.They went through the flower and kitchen gardens; they saw the once fallen wall rebuilt now with the old brick; they visited the greenhouses and came upon Kedgers entranced with business, but enraptured at being called upon to show his treasures.His eyes, turning magnetised upon Betty, revealed the story of his soul.Mount Dunstan remarked that when he spoke to her of his flowers it was as if there existed between them the sympathy which might be engendered between two who had sat up together night after night with delicate children.
"He's stronger to-day, miss," he said, as they paused before a new wonderful bloom."What he's getting now is good for him.I had to change his food, miss, but this seems all right.His colour's better."Betty herself bent over the flower as she might have bent over a child.Her eyes softened, she touched a leaf with a slim finger, as delicately as if it had been a new-born baby's cheek.As Mount Dunstan watched her he drew a step nearer to her side.For the first time in his life he felt the glow of a normal and simple pleasure untouched by any bitterness.