



Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England




The Daughters of a Genius, by Mrs George de Horne Vaizey.

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THE DAUGHTERS OF A GENIUS, BY MRS GEORGE DE HORNE VAIZEY.



CHAPTER ONE.

UNKNOWN COUSINS.

"What is your letter, my dear?  You seem annoyed.  _No_ bad news, I
hope," said the master of Chedworth Manor, looking across the table to
where his wife eat behind the urn, frowning over the sheet which she
held in her hand.  She was a handsome, well-preserved woman, with
aquiline features, thin lips, and eyes of a pale, indefinite blue.  She
looked up as he spoke, then threw down the letter with a sigh of
impatience.

"Oh, bad news, of course!  When did we ever return from a holiday
without finding something of the sort awaiting us?  It's from Stephen
Charrington.  He says he would have written before, but heard that we
were abroad, and did not know where to direct.  Edgar is dead.  He died
a fortnight ago, and the funeral was on Friday week.  I never knew a man
who married improvidently and had a huge family who did _not_ die before
he reached middle age.  It seems a judgment on them; and here is another
instance.  Forty-nine his last birthday!  He ought to have lived for
another twenty years at least."

Mrs Loftus spoke with an air of injury which seemed to imply that the
deceased gentleman had died out of pure perversity, and her husband
knitted his brows in disapproving fashion.  Even after twenty-five years
of married life his wife's heartless selfishness could give him a twinge
of shocked surprise when, as now, it was obtrusively displayed.  He
himself made no claims to philanthropy, but one expected some natural
feeling from a woman; and with all his faults, Edgar Charrington had had
close claim on her sympathy.

"He was your brother, my dear," he said dryly.  "I suppose the poor
fellow would not have died if he could have helped it.  We have not seen
anything of him for a long time, but he used to be a most attractive
fellow.  I thought he would have made his mark.  Never met a man with so
many gifts--painting, music, writing; he used to take them up in turn,
and do equally well in each."

"But excel in nothing!  That was the undoing of Edgar; he had not the
application to keep to one thing at a time, but must always be flying
off to something new.  That disastrous marriage was like a millstone
round his neck, and practically doomed him to failure.  Oh, I know what
you are going to say.  There was nothing against Elma; and you admired
her, of course, because she was pretty and helpless; but I shall always
maintain that it was practically suicide for Edgar, with his Bohemian
nature, to many a penniless girl, with no influence to help him on in
the world.  How they have managed to live at all I can't imagine.  He
never confided in me, and I made a point of not inquiring.  To tell the
truth, I lived in dread of his wanting to borrow money, and one has
enough to do with one's own claims.  I think he was offended because we
never invited the children, for I have scarcely heard from him for the
last five years.  Really, it was too great an experiment I can't imagine
what they must be like, brought up in that little village, with next to
no education.  Social savages, I should say."

"How many children were there?  I've forgotten how they come after the
first two.  Stephen and Philippa visited us once long ago, and I
remember thinking her an uncommonly handsome child, with a spirit of her
own, which will probably stand her in good stead now.  The boy was not
so interesting.  How many are there besides these two?"

"Oh, I don't know.  Dozens!  There was always a baby, I remember,"
returned Mrs Loftus impatiently.  "Goodness knows what is to become of
them now that they are left orphans, with practically no means of
support.  Stephen seems quite bewildered with the responsibility.  He
says he is anxious to see us, as his father's nearest relations, and to
consult with us as to the future.  I think we had better decline all
responsibility.  It is a thankless task to interfere with other people's
business, and young folks are so opinionated.  I shall write a letter of
sympathy, and say that, as I know so little of their circumstances and
surroundings, I do not feel myself competent to advise."

"Just as you please, my dear; but you must speak for yourself alone.  I
shall certainly have a chat with the poor young fellow.  It is the least
we can do, and I am only sorry I was not back in time to attend the
funeral I am afraid we behaved shabbily to poor Edgar while he was
alive, and I should have liked to pay him some respect in death.  This
is Monday.  I must attend to one or two affairs here, but I'll run down
to Leabourne towards the end of the week, and put up at the inn.  Tell
Stephen I'll write later on and say when he may expect me."

Mr Loftus pushed his chair back from the table, and tossed his serviette
on a chair.  He looked decidedly ruffled in temper, and injured and
sorry for himself into the bargain.  If there was one thing he disliked
more than another, it was to have anything approaching a dissension with
the members of his household.  "Peace at all price" had been the motto
of a character kindly enough, yet lacking the necessary strength to make
a stand for the right, and already he was beginning to doubt his own
wisdom, and to reflect sorrowfully how much less trouble it would have
involved to have taken Gertrude's advice.  Half-way down the table he
stopped short, with a sudden softening of the face, and laid his hands
caressingly on the shoulders of a pale, languid-looking girl who had
been a passive listener to the late conversation.

"You had better write too, and sympathise with your poor cousins, Avice.
You wouldn't like it, would you, if _you_ were to lose your poor old
father?"

The girl smiled at him affectionately enough, but made no response until
the door had closed, when she turned to her mother with an expression of
real anxiety upon her face.

"Shall I have to wear mourning, mother!  Will it be necessary?"

"Cer-tainly not!  I should not dream of such a thing.  It is quite out
of fashion nowadays for any but the nearest relations, and it would be a
sin to put aside all those lovely French frocks until they were
out-of-date.  It would be different if we lived in the same place; but
you are not in the least likely to come in contact with your cousins.  I
can't think what has made your father take up this attitude all of a
sudden; but if he insists upon going to Leabourne I shall certainly go
too.  He is so carried away by the impulse of the moment that there is
no knowing to what mad plan he might commit himself.  The best thing
your cousins can do will be to stay quietly where they are and take in
paying guests to make ends meet.  Quite good people do that nowadays;
and with so many girls they would not need much extra service in the
house.  From what Stephen says, I fear they have some notion of coming
up to town, but that I shall strongly denounce.  Most rash and
improvident for them, and uncomfortable for us.  They would, no doubt,
expect us to take them up and introduce them to our friends, and would
be offended when they discovered that we had no intention of doing
anything of the kind.  Much better stay where they are and work among
their old friends."

"I should like to see Philippa again.  It's an age since she was here,
but I remember her quite well.  She was so lively and amusing!  And
there is another girl just my age, with a pretty, uncommon name.  Faith,
is it?  No; Hope.  Uncle Edgar sent me a little sketch of her on my
birthday years ago, and it was so pretty!  I'd rather like to know my
cousins, mother, if they were presentable.  It's so lonely being an only
child."

Mrs Loftus looked at her daughter, and something like a quiver passed
across the hardness of her face.  Avice was her darling, her idol, the
only creature on earth whom she really loved; and every now and again a
spasm of alarm gripped her heart as she noted the languid speech and
movement, the fragile form, and pallid complexion which distinguished
the girl from her companions.  Everything within the power of love and
money had been done to make her strong and happy, yet she continued
listless and ailing, seeming to regard the very amusements provided for
her as so many penalties to be endured with resignation.  Something must
be wrong--and very wrong--to make a girl of twenty-one assume so
unnatural an attitude.  The mother checked a sigh half-way, and said
caressingly:

"There is no reason for you to be dull, dearest.  I am always ready to
invite any one you may fancy.  Surely, with all your friends, you need
not be alone.  What about Truda Bennett!  If you like liveliness you
could hardly improve upon her; and The Knoll is a nice house for you to
visit in return.  Shall I write and ask her to come next week!"

"No, thank you, dear, I'd rather not Truda is very nice, but she tires
me out.  She dislikes being quiet, and cares only for rushing about all
day long.  She doesn't amuse _me_; I have to amuse _her_.  The nice
thing about relations would be that one would not have to be on ceremony
with them all the time.  Couldn't I go down with you to Leabourne next
week, mother, and see what the girls were like, and if I should care to
invite one of them here."

"You could, of course; but I strongly advise you to do nothing of the
sort.  Your uncle Edgar has been dead only a fortnight, remember, and
though I don't think he was an especially devoted father, the children
will naturally be upset and distressed.  It would be very dull for you
with the girls weeping, and your father and Stephen discussing money
matters, and ten to one a dreary, uncomfortable inn.  Better stay at
home, and let me bring back a report.  In any case you won't care to
invite one of them here until the first few months are over and she is
able to go about and make herself agreeable.  It would be depressing to
have her about in her first deep black."

"Oh dear, yes!  I couldn't stand that.  I'd rather be alone than have
any one in low spirits," agreed Avice fervently, the idea that she
herself might possibly help to cheer and console never dawning on her
self-engrossed brain.  "You say that the girls must be savages, mother,
but I should think they can hardly help being interesting.  Aunt Elma
was a beauty, and Uncle Edgar was a genius--and some of them, at least,
must have inherited his gifts.  Why do you say he was not a devoted
father?  From my vague recollection he seemed very proud of the
children."

"Oh yes, he was proud enough; but they worried him when they were young,
and as they grew older I think he felt that they criticised him and
realised how he had wasted his opportunities.  He was devoted to Elma,
for she worshipped him meekly all her life, and was convinced that no
such genius had ever existed.  Your father is right.  I never knew a
more brilliant young man than Edgar was at twenty-one; but what is there
to show for it now?  A few songs, two or three novels and volumes of
poetry, and a number of pictures and sketches which he was ashamed even
to sign!  He was always growing discouraged, turning from one thing to
another, and lowering his standard to meet the taste of the market.  His
songs became more and more clap-trap and commonplace, his stories more
sensational, his pictures of the cheaply-pretty order which sell at
provincial exhibitions.  I believe at the bottom of his heart he
realised his downfall, and when Elma died, and he had not her adoring
admiration to keep up his faith in himself, he fretted himself ill.  The
last time I saw him he was a wreck--mentally and physically--and I fancy
those girls must have had a trying time of it before the end."



CHAPTER TWO.

STEPHEN'S CONFESSION.

Stephen Charrington had expressed a wish to consult with his aunt and
uncle less from any