He stood in the hall with me by the great cake and guided my hand as I cut it, and there was something about him which I can only describe as triumph.

There were the usual speeches—Father’s rather rambling and sentimental; Dr. Hunter’s short and rather witty; Franklyn’s conventional—the sort of speeches that had been made at weddings for the last hundred years. Stirling answered. He was direct. It was a happy day for him, he said. He felt tie had come home.

Some of the guests stayed on to a dinner-party and afterwards we danced in the hall which made a wonderful ballroom. Stirling and I waltzed round together. He was not a good dancer but I loved him the more because of that.

“You’ll find me lacking in fancy manners,” he told me.

“I know I shall love what I find,” I replied. Then the guests left and we were alone. I was a little afraid of my inadequacy, but Stirling was kind. It was almost as though he were sorry for me and I was enchanted by his unexpected tenderness. Yes, that was the happiest day of my life.

Two

It was a strange honeymoon. On the first day Stirling wanted me to take him on a tour of the house.

“Just the two of us,” he said.

I was delighted and we went round together. He was horrified by the state of things and made a lot of notes. I remember how he probed the oak beams in some of the rooms.

“Worm!” he commented.

“They could collapse at any moment. We’ll have to get to work on them right away.”

“You’re more like an assessor than a husband,” I told him.

This is your house,” he retorted.

“It’s in trust for our children. We have to see that it is kept in order.”

I hadn’t realized how thoroughly neglected the house had been.

“It will need a fortune spent on it, Stirling,” I said.

“There’s no need to do everything at once.”

’I have a fortune,” he said. I laughed because what Lucie called his ostentatiousness amused me. He was rich and proud of being so because his father had made that fortune and everything his father had done was wonderful in his opinion.

“And,” he went on, ‘nothing is going to be left. I’m going to see that your house is in perfect order.

“I wish you wouldn’t say your house in that way, Stirling. What I have is yours. You know that.”

Then he smiled in a way which touched me deeply. He kissed me gently and said: “You’re a sweet girl, Minta. I’m sorry that I am as I am.”

I laughed at him and said: “But that’s why I love you.” He put his arms round me and held me against him.

“We’re going to be very happy,” I told him, for it was as though he was the one who needed assurance then.

“Our children will play on the lawns of Whiteladies,” he said solemnly.

“A restored and beautiful Whiteladies which has lost its woodworm and whose bartizans will stand for another thousand years.”

What energy Stirling had and he spent it on the house! Within three months the rot had been arrested and Whiteladies was beginning to be a fine old house again. But he wasn’t satisfied. There was still a good deal to be done. That time was what I called the Whiteladies Summer.

At the beginning of September tragedy struck Wakefield Park. Sir Everard had another stroke and died. It had been expected for we all knew that he couldn’t live long, but it was a shock nevertheless.

Especially for Lady Wakefield. She was lost without her husband; Franklyn was with her all the time but she fretted and a week after the funeral she took to her bed and for some weeks lay there without any will to leave it. In the middle of October she died and everyone said it was a ‘happy release’.

Poor Franklyn was distressed, but he was not the man to show it. Dr. Hunter told us that he had warned Franklyn of the inevitability of his father’s death and the fact that Lady Wakefield had died so soon afterwards was as she would have wanted it. Dr. Hunter had come to Whiteladies to see Druscilla. Lucie was always calling him. She worried ridiculously about that child. In fact where Druscilla was concerned she was by no means her usual practical self.

“She had no will to live,” said Dr. Hunter.

“I’ve known it happen like that many times. People have been together all their lives. One goes and the other follows immediately.”

Father was upset about losing his dear friends. He insisted on going to the funeral. Lucie was quite cross about it because there was a keen east wind blowing; she declared she would not allow him to go out. Yes, she did fuss us. It was because she had never had a family before and that made us rather precious to her. Father usually gave in but he was adamant on this occasion. He said he was determined to ‘see the last of his old friend’. So he drove to the church and followed the cortege to the graveside and stood there in the wind.

his hat in his hand.

I was sad for Franklyn, knowing how devoted he was to his parents, and was glad Nora was there because I felt that her presence comforted Franklyn. I had known for some time that he admired her. Towards him she showed a certain aloofness but she was friendly in a way. I remarked to Stirling that it would be rather a pleasant solution for Nora if she married Franklyn, for she constantly talked as though she intended to return to Australia.

“They’re completely unsuited to each other,” said Stirling coldly.

“Franklyn!” he added quite contemptuously as though Franklyn wouldn’t make a good husband.

“You don’t know Franklyn,” I defended my old friend.

“He’s one of the kindest people in the world.”

He turned away quite angrily. Nora had married his father, of course, and I supposed the thought of anyone’s supplanting him was distasteful.

Still, I continued to think how pleasant it would be if Franklyn and Nora could marry. I wondered whether the idea was in Franklyn’s mind.

I was sure it was not in Nora’s.

A few days after Lady Wakefield’s funeral Father developed a cold.

Lucie fussed terribly as she always did when he was ill and made him stay in bed. He should never have gone to the funeral, she grumbled.

She sent for Dr. Hunter and kept him with her a long time. When the doctor left the sick room I asked him to come into the library and asked him if my father was really ill or was it just Lucie’s worrying.

“It’s a chill,” he said, ‘but it’s near to bronchitis. I hope we’ve caught it in time. Perhaps a few days in bed. “

Poor Dr. Hunter! He looked very tired himself; and I thought of his going home to that rather dismal little house where his housekeeper might or might not be in a drunken stupor. Why didn’t he marry Maud?

She would look after him.

I insisted on his drinking a glass of sherry before he went out to his brougham; that brought a little colour into his cheeks and he seemed more cheerful.

“I’ll look in this evening,” he promised, ‘just to make sure your father is going along as he should. “

But when he came that evening. Father had bronchitis. In a few days this had turned to pneumonia. I had rarely seen Lucie so upset and I thought how lucky Father was to have such a devoted wife, for I had believed that for Lucie hers had been a marriage of convenience. I knew she had wanted Whiteladies to be her home for ever and no doubt she had enjoyed being Lady Cardew; but when I saw how upset she was I realized how deeply she eared for my father.

She wouldn’t leave the sick room; she was with him day and night, only snatching an hour or so’s sleep in the next room if I sat with him.

I don’t trust those servants,” she said.

“He might want something.”

“If you don’t rest you’ll be ill yourself,” I scolded.

I sat with him but as soon as he started to cough she was up.

We waited for the crisis; but I knew Dr. Hunter didn’t think there was much hope. Father was old and had been failing in health for some time. Pneumonia was a serious illness, even for the young.

Father wanted Lucie at his bedside all the time and was uneasy if she wasn’t there. I thought how wonderful it was to see their love for each other and I remembered how peevish my mother had always been. I was glad my father had found happiness in the end with a woman like Lucie.

We were both with him when he died but his hand was in Lucie’s. I shall never forget the look on her face when she lifted it to me. It was as though she had lost everything she cared for.

“Lucie darling,” I said, ‘you still have Cilia. “

I led her to Druscilla’s room. It was nine o’clock and the child was asleep. Nevertheless I picked her up and put her into Lucie’s arms.

“Mamma,” said Druscilla sleepily and a little crossly.

And Lucie stood there tragically straining the child to her till I took Druscilla away and put her back in her bed. It was perhaps a rather sentimental and dramatic gesture but it did some good. Lucie braced herself and I knew she was realizing that she had Druscilla to live for.

Christmas came. Last year we had gone to Wakefield Park; this year the festivities should be held at Whiteladies. They could not be as lavish as they would be next year, said Stirling, because of my father’s death, but they should be worthy of the house. It must be understood that Whiteladies, not Wakefield Park, was the focal point of the neighbourhood.

Lucie had gone about like a ghost in her widow’s weeds. In fact they rather became her. Druscilla was nearly two; she had become imperious and demanding, the pet of the household. Lucie loved her passionately but refused to spoil her as I fear the rest of us did. I adored her and constantly longed to have a child of my own. Stirling wanted it too. He was always talking about our children’s playing on the lawns of Whiteladies.