these things; only she had been so occupied with her private prejudices and strictures that she had neglected her duty. She resolved to mend her ways henceforth and set herself especially to be gracious to Mr. Highet. Maria having entered with that gentleman’s mother into a discussion of needlework (for she had remembered the pincushion Mr. Highet sat upon last night) Anne was free to initiate her program of amiability at once. So she begged Mr. Highet to join her on the chintz-covered settee and gaily confided,
“Mr. Rand has been showing us over the home farm of Linfield today. I confess, he quite terrifies me. Such a brusque fellow; I wonder if he is so to everyone. I suspect he is but indifferent pleased to find himself employed by me.”
Though Anne’s tone had been light and cheerful, Mr. Highet listened to her very seriously, and answered with a gathered brow: “Indeed, I am sorry to hear it. Such an attitude must hamper you severely in managing the estate.”
“Oh dear,” said Anne, disconcerted by his solemnity, “I cannot blame him so very much after all. I dareswear he considers a town-bred lady has no business to run such a place as Linfield—and I dareswear he is not far wrong.”As she spoke she could not help but wonder again whether Mr. Highet knew who would have inherited if she had not. Perhaps Rand knew; perhaps the two of them were in a plot to make her uncomfortable at Linfield, so that she would leave. But that was preposterous. Mr. Rand was a mere common garden-variety misogynist, while Mr. Highet was a mere common country—but no, she must, she would learn to be tolerant of Mr. Highet. Making an effort she continued, “I have a very great deal to learn if I am to fill my benefactor’s shoes. I hope I may ask you to help me now and then?”
“I shall be glad indeed to assist you in whatever way possible,” Mr. Highet replied, just as gravely as before, “but I fear I do not know enough myself to teach you to be Herbert Guilfoyle. He was a gifted farmer indeed, and a sage and kindly friend. You must feel his loss keenly.”
“To be quite truthful, I hardly knew him. I met him only once, when I was twelve.” Out of patience with all this reverence of her eccentric relation, she added impulsively, “Actually, he refused to speak with me until I had read Rousseau.”
To her annoyance, Mr. Highet seemed to find in this ridiculous incident only another rich example of the late Herbert’s worthiness. To be sure, he did laugh—throwing back his head and waiting, as he had last night, quite two seconds before exploding noisily—but when he had recomposed his countenance it was only to say warmly, “How like him; what a wonderful story. A most remarkable man!”
Finding nothing to say, Miss Guilfoyle listened to this tribute in uncomfortable silence.
“But about Mr. Rand,” Henry Highet at last reverted,“you must certainly ask me whatever he fails to make clear to you.”
“I am most grateful.”
“How do you like the farm? It is a model, is not it?”
“If you say so, I must think it is. I have no other farm with which to compare it.”
“But have you always lived in London, then?” he asked, his tone profoundly pitying, as if the mere idea distressed him terribly.
Ignoring his intonation, “Not always,” she replied. “Before my father died I lived at Overton, in Northamptonshire. But then his brother inherited and my mother and I removed to town.”
“What, for ever? How sad for both of you! How dreadful,” continued he sympathetically, “to be obliged to quit your home.” And he shook his head as if for very sorrow.
“We preferred it, in all candour,” Anne coldly rejoined. If she hated to be laughed at, she fairly squirmed to be pitied. Anyway, the theme of being obliged to quit one’s home struck closer to the bone than she could bear just now. How was it Mr. Highet contrived to see her as luckless and pitiable? No one else did. “We throve in London.
“Mr. Rand has been showing us over the home farm of Linfield today. I confess, he quite terrifies me. Such a brusque fellow; I wonder if he is so to everyone. I suspect he is but indifferent pleased to find himself employed by me.”
Though Anne’s tone had been light and cheerful, Mr. Highet listened to her very seriously, and answered with a gathered brow: “Indeed, I am sorry to hear it. Such an attitude must hamper you severely in managing the estate.”
“Oh dear,” said Anne, disconcerted by his solemnity, “I cannot blame him so very much after all. I dareswear he considers a town-bred lady has no business to run such a place as Linfield—and I dareswear he is not far wrong.”As she spoke she could not help but wonder again whether Mr. Highet knew who would have inherited if she had not. Perhaps Rand knew; perhaps the two of them were in a plot to make her uncomfortable at Linfield, so that she would leave. But that was preposterous. Mr. Rand was a mere common garden-variety misogynist, while Mr. Highet was a mere common country—but no, she must, she would learn to be tolerant of Mr. Highet. Making an effort she continued, “I have a very great deal to learn if I am to fill my benefactor’s shoes. I hope I may ask you to help me now and then?”
“I shall be glad indeed to assist you in whatever way possible,” Mr. Highet replied, just as gravely as before, “but I fear I do not know enough myself to teach you to be Herbert Guilfoyle. He was a gifted farmer indeed, and a sage and kindly friend. You must feel his loss keenly.”
“To be quite truthful, I hardly knew him. I met him only once, when I was twelve.” Out of patience with all this reverence of her eccentric relation, she added impulsively, “Actually, he refused to speak with me until I had read Rousseau.”
To her annoyance, Mr. Highet seemed to find in this ridiculous incident only another rich example of the late Herbert’s worthiness. To be sure, he did laugh—throwing back his head and waiting, as he had last night, quite two seconds before exploding noisily—but when he had recomposed his countenance it was only to say warmly, “How like him; what a wonderful story. A most remarkable man!”
Finding nothing to say, Miss Guilfoyle listened to this tribute in uncomfortable silence.
“But about Mr. Rand,” Henry Highet at last reverted,“you must certainly ask me whatever he fails to make clear to you.”
“I am most grateful.”
“How do you like the farm? It is a model, is not it?”
“If you say so, I must think it is. I have no other farm with which to compare it.”
“But have you always lived in London, then?” he asked, his tone profoundly pitying, as if the mere idea distressed him terribly.
Ignoring his intonation, “Not always,” she replied. “Before my father died I lived at Overton, in Northamptonshire. But then his brother inherited and my mother and I removed to town.”
“What, for ever? How sad for both of you! How dreadful,” continued he sympathetically, “to be obliged to quit your home.” And he shook his head as if for very sorrow.
“We preferred it, in all candour,” Anne coldly rejoined. If she hated to be laughed at, she fairly squirmed to be pitied. Anyway, the theme of being obliged to quit one’s home struck closer to the bone than she could bear just now. How was it Mr. Highet contrived to see her as luckless and pitiable? No one else did. “We throve in London.
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