T is only fair to Aunt Caroline to record that she was not quite herself on the first evening of her visit to her nephew and his wife. Her nerves were none of the best, and the long railway journey had jarred them. She had left a little bag in the carriage, and that had jarred them still more, for there were relics in the bag that she held holy. Her nephew and niece-in-law bad jarred her nerves further. John was so different from the curly-headed boy of her memory; so undemonstrative compared with the little fellow who used to leap at her. Christine was not at all as she had expected John's wife to be. She had fair hair, and Aunt Caroline mistrusted fair-haired women. They were attentive enough, but a trifle formal. She felt herself a stranger among them, instead of one of the family. They pretended to be interested in the fate of the bag, and in her history of all its contents, but they stole from the room in turn to run upstairs and look at the two-months-old baby. When they were both present, they were always looking at each other. He called her "Girl," and she called him "Boy." They squeezed each other's fingers when they thought that Aunt Caroline would not notice. They did not realise how very little escaped Aunt Caroline's eyes. Her maids said that she had a spare pair in the back of her head. They were very silly young people, she thought, and she had made her pilgrimage in vain. She wanted relatives who were interested in her, and they were only interested in each other and the little, squealing, red-faced baby. She was not even sure that she liked the baby. It favoured its mother, and she wanted a grand-nephew who favoured John. So she felt disappointed and irritable. At ten o'clock she stated that she had a headache and would go to bed.
It was a warm night, and the bedroom window was open. She went and sat by it to soothe the jarred nerves. The window of the drawing-room below was open, too, and she heard the voices of the young couple distinctly. Her hearing was very acute.
"Oh, Boy," the girl cried, "I've got you to myself at last!"
"Bless you. Girl! " said the man.
"And they've been married fourteen months!" Aunt Caroline muttered.. "The young fools!" But her frown gradually relaxed into a smile, as the cool air and the quiet, starry night soothed her, and perhaps the happiness of the foolish young couple. She did not shape her thoughts in words, but they were very much like "Bless you. Boy and Girl!" She would win their affection to-morrow, she was fancying; and then she heard John's voice.
"We shall find the old lady a handful," he remarked.
Aunt Caroline stiffened to abnormal stiffness—and her maids always said that she "sat like a poker."
"Oh, dearie me, Boy!" cried the girl. "I shall! You'll be at office all day."
"Not a bit," John contradicted. "I shall be out looking for the bag."
There was a duet of laughter.
"I shall be hearing about it," the girl declared. "I believe I know everything in it, and who gave it to her, and what they said!" And then she mimicked Aunt Caroline: "'John, I've left my little bag in the train. Call a porter! Tell the station-master! Send a telegram! John-n-n!'"
There was another duet of laughter.
"She made a face like this," the girl said, struggling with her merriment.
"If you screw up your mouth like that, I'll"
"So he shall, then! Is her hair her own, Boy?"
Aunt Caroline became absolutely rigid. Her hair was the one charm that the thief Time had left, and she wore it still in youthful style for the sake of someone who liked it—someone whom Time had taken, which had made all the difference to Aunt Caroline's story.
"Goodness knows! You'll see when Son and Heir gets hold of it! Her temper's her own, anyway! It's worse for you than for me, Girl. You'll have her all day."
"But I shall have Son and Heir to remind me why I put up with her. Really, Jack, if it weren't for him, I should be inclined to say, 'Let her go and keep her money,' though, goodness knows, we'd like some of it."
Aunt Caroline made a quick gesture with her hands, and then buried her face in them. The stiffness was all gone, and she huddled over the window-sill.
"Son and Heir is going to be a man," John said. "He must fend for himself, without sacrificing his little mother. I shall teach him that from the first."