



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