There is a letter from his lawyers, authorising you to apply to them for the money.'
In every class of society, gratitude is the rarest of all human virtues.
In the nurse's class it is extremely rare. Her opinion of the man who had deceived and deserted her mistress remained the same opinion still, perfectly undisturbed by the passing circumstance of the legacy.
'I wonder who reminded my lord of the old servants?' she said.
'He would never have heart enough to remember them himself!'
Agnes suddenly interposed. Nature, always abhorring monotony, institutes reserves of temper as elements in the composition of the gentlest women living. Even Agnes could, on rare occasions, be angry.
The nurse's view of Montbarry's character seemed to have provoked her beyond endurance.
'If you have any sense of shame in you,' she broke out, 'you ought to be ashamed of what you have just said! Your ingratitude disgusts me.
I leave you to speak with her, Henry--you won't mind it!'
With this significant intimation that he too had dropped out of his customary place in her good opinion, she left the room.
The nurse received the smart reproof administered to her with every appearance of feeling rather amused by it than not.
When the door had closed, this female philosopher winked at Henry.
'There's a power of obstinacy in young women,' she remarked.
'Miss Agnes wouldn't give my lord up as a bad one, even when he jilted her. And now she's sweet on him after he's dead.
Say a word against him, and she fires up as you see. All obstinacy!
It will wear out with time. Stick to her, Master Henry--stick to her!'
'She doesn't seem to have offended you,' said Henry.
'She?' the nurse repeated in amazement--'she offend me?
I like her in her tantrums; it reminds me of her when she was a baby.
Lord bless you! when I go to bid her good-night, she'll give me a big kiss, poor dear--and say, Nurse, I didn't mean it!
About this money, Master Henry? If I was younger I should spend it in dress and jewellery. But I'm too old for that.
What shall I do with my legacy when I have got it?'
'Put it out at interest,' Henry suggested. 'Get so much a year for it, you know.' 'How much shall I get?' the nurse asked.
'If you put your hundred pounds into the Funds, you will get between three and four pounds a year.'
The nurse shook her head. 'Three or four pounds a year? That won't do!
I want more than that. Look here, Master Henry. I don't care about this bit of money--I never did like the man who has left it to me, though he was your brother. If I lost it all to-morrow, I shouldn't break my heart; I'm well enough off, as it is, for the rest of my days.
They say you're a speculator. Put me in for a good thing, there's a dear! Neck-or-nothing--and that for the Funds!'
She snapped her fingers to express her contempt for security of investment at three per cent.
Henry produced the prospectus of the Venetian Hotel Company.
'You're a funny old woman,' he said. 'There, you dashing speculator--there is neck-or-nothing for you! You must keep it a secret from Miss Agnes, mind. I'm not at all sure that she would approve of my helping you to this investment.'
The nurse took out her spectacles. 'Six per cent. guaranteed,' she read;'and the Directors have every reason to believe that ten per cent., or more, will be ultimately realised to the shareholders by the hotel.'
'Put me into that, Master Henry! And, wherever you go, for Heaven's sake recommend the hotel to your friends!'
So the nurse, following Henry's mercenary example, had her pecuniary interest, too, in the house in which Lord Montbarry had died.
Three days passed before Henry was able to visit Agnes again.
In that time, the little cloud between them had entirely passed away.
Agnes received him with even more than her customary kindness.
She was in better spirits than usual. Her letter to Mrs. Stephen Westwick had been answered by return of post; and her proposal had been joyfully accepted, with one modification. She was to visit the Westwicks for a month--and, if she really liked teaching the children, she was then to be governess, aunt, and cousin, all in one--and was only to go away in an event which her friends in Ireland persisted in contemplating, the event of her marriage.
'You see I was right,' she said to Henry.
He was still incredulous. 'Are you really going?' he asked.
'I am going next week.'
'When shall I see you again?'
'You know you are always welcome at your brother's house.
You can see me when you like.' She held out her hand. 'Pardon me for leaving you--I am beginning to pack up already.'
Henry tried to kiss her at parting. She drew back directly.
'Why not? I am your cousin,' he said.
'I don't like it,' she answered.
Henry looked at her, and submitted. Her refusal to grant him his privilege as a cousin was a good sign--it was indirectly an act of encouragement to him in the character of her lover.
On the first day in the new week, Agnes left London on her way to Ireland.
As the event proved, this was not destined to be the end of her journey.
The way to Ireland was only the first stage on a roundabout road--the road that led to the palace at Venice.
