The Lady Next Door by Laura Matthews Read Free Book Online Page A

“Aunt Effie already has a will, and I’m persuaded matters will not come to that extreme.”
    There was a tap at the door and as Marianne bade Roberts enter, Mr. Oldham abruptly started to his feet. The footman announced in suitably impressive tones, “Harold Derwent has called, madam. Shall I show him in?”
    While Mr. Oldham’s eyes widened incredulously, those of his hostess narrowed in perplexity. “I . . . Yes, certainly, Roberts.”
    The young man who entered, although he looked a little pale, was a striking figure, possessed of the usual Derwent height and the characteristic gray eyes, high cheekbones, and an astonishingly determined chin. His powdered hair, however, instead of inveighing him with the dignity he strove for, served only to bring a twinkle to Marianne’s eyes, and she exclaimed unthinkingly, “My God, how you’ve grown!”
    “Miss Findlay? Have we met before?” he asked, confusion written plain on his countenance. “Forgive my poor memory."
    “There is no call for you to remember. You were but a boy in those days and never properly introduced.” She extended her hand to him. “I knew Lady Susan many years ago."
    “You don’t say!” he replied cheerfully, convinced now that the interview could not go too badly amiss. “Made me an uncle three times over, has sister Susan, and brats they are, every one of them. Well, perhaps not the youngest. Little Carrie was just beginning to walk when last I saw her, but she has the most devilish smile!”
    “Has she?” Marianne remembered the presence of a third person, and turned to her lodger. “May I present Mr. Oldham, an attorney who has rooms on the first floor? He has been so good as to come and inquire after my aunt’s health.”
    “An honor!” Mr. Oldham declared with a low bow. Harry’s polite, “Servant, sir,” positively made him glow, but never did the attorney lose sight of the fact that there were but three places to sit in the room, and he had every intention of claiming the seat on the sofa with Miss Findlay:
    Marianne had other ideas. “Won’t you sit here by me?” she said to Derwent. “Are you at school?”
    “Lord, no!” Harry shuddered. “Came down in the spring and I hope never to see the halls of academia again. Deuced dull material they want you to stuff your head full of and I ain’t inclined for the books.”
    If Mr. Oldham took exception to this view, he gave no sign. Instead he offered ingratiatingly, “No doubt you are a man of action—more interested in the field than the library.”
    “Right ho! Press, my brother, you know, gave me a hunter who can lead the field with his eyes closed. Never saw such heart in an animal. There may be faster, but there are none gamer.” His eye fell on the basket of fruit and he was reminded that he had had no breakfast. Politeness forbade him to ask, but Marianne saw the direction of his gaze and the longing look he bestowed. Not so far removed after all from the boy who had nipped into the drawing room to steal tarts.
    “Help yourself. Aunt Effie is not well enough just yet to enjoy them.”
    Mr. Oldham did not know whether to be chagrined that his gift was useless to the sick aunt, or proud that Derwent should seem to appreciate it so. First the young man crunched his way through an apple, and then through a bunch of grapes. Mr. Oldham took the liberty of dominating the ensuing conversation—since the fellow’s mouth was full, a dissertation on York’s desirable location with regard to its being as well-furnished with provisions of every kind, and cheap!—as any city in England. “Defoe said so in his writings, you know. And it is as true now as it was then. The river so navigable, and so near the sea. Craft of eighty tons can come up to the very city.”
    “Fancy that!” Harry mumbled between the grapes and a juicy peach, but he regarded Mr. Oldham with less respect for his erudition than astonishment at his long-windedness.
    “I imagine Mr. Oldham must