Page 53 of Threads that Remain

“I am very glad to see you,” said Henry. “And I hear you tried to ride a duck.”

“It was a swan.”

“It was a swan?”

“It was a very small one,” said the Captain, with dignity, “and I was quite unhurt.”

And the whole of the assembled family, which had been holding its breath for a full minute, let it out at once.

The rest of them had by this time descended from the carriage. There was a small girl in a plain white frock, with a great cloud of fair ringlets and a pair of steady eyes, holding her doll by one arm and looking up at Marianne with the calm, unblinking, and rather alarming scrutiny of a person who intends to know all about you before speaking. Behind her, upon the step, was a very small woman in a plain grey silk gown and a bonnet of severe cut, who had descended with the brisk decision of one who wished to have got a disagreeable thing over; and behind her, a little after, with an expression of the most acute and painful uncertainty, and a hat in his hand, there had come a tall man in a dark coat.

“Mrs. Brandon,” said Sophia Willoughby. She curtseyed. She had lost none of her erectness; but the face beneath the bonnet was a good deal paler than usual, and she had, about the mouth, a look that was very nearly the look of a woman who is holding a full cup. “I hope you will forgive us for being a little early.”

“You are exactly on time,” said Marianne.

“Thank you,” said she, briefly. “I did not know if I should be permitted to say that I was glad to come. I find that I am.”

“So am I.”

“It is all very irregular,” said Sophia. “I have thought about it a good deal. I have thought that there is not any possible way of managing it that is not irregular, and that one may as well begin with the one that gives the least offence to the children.” She drew a long breath. “I hope that my husband has not been tiresome.”

“Your husband has been very good.”

“He is generally very good, for about a week,” said Sophia. “Then it tends to wear off.” And she smiled, briefly, the small, sharp, dry smile that Marianne had last seen in a ballroom; and the two of them stood together, for a moment, in the sun, without speaking, and understood each other with great exactness.

It was Madeline who broke the ice on the lawn.

She had advanced across it, unattended, with the doll under one arm, and taken up a position before Henry; and she had looked up at him, with her round pale face, and her cloud of ringlets, for a very long time, without a word. Then she held one hand in front of her face so that her eyes could only see Henry’s eyes.

“You have got eyes like Charles,” said Madeline.

“I think you are right.”

“And like Papa’s.”

Henry considered. “Then we share something,” said he, with great courtesy. “It seems only fair.”

“I think that it is very good.” She looked at it critically, with her head on one side. “Are you sad?”

There was a swift stir among the elders. It was checked at once, by a movement from Marianne. She had put out a hand and stayed the Colonel; and the two of them stood by the mulberry tree, with Mrs. Smith rigid in her chair, and watched.

“Not just now,” said Henry, gravely. “Sometimes I am a little. I did not really know my first Mamma; she died when I was very small. But I have got a very good Mamma now, and Papa, and Aunt Smith, and a great many cousins. And I have got you,” he added, with a certain awkwardness, “and the Captain. I think that is a great deal. I think I am rather happy.”

Madeline nodded. She seemed to be satisfied. She put her small, warm hand into his, in the most natural way in the world; and she said, with a tone of perfect confidence, “Can you show me the pond?”

They went. It was a very small procession; it consisted of a girl of five, a boy of ten, and a doll; and the Captain, who saw them go, cried out “I want to see the pond!” and ran after them, with his hat over his eyes, and the whole of the Delaford nursery, which had been unusually quiet behind a sense of propriety, broke loose at once, in a torrent of small legs and pinafores, and followed.

They were, after a quarter of an hour, in a state of full mobilization.

They had established themselves in the walled garden, by the fishpond, in two camps with Mary, who had been appointed by common consent to act as umpire. It was upon this appointment that the trouble had begun; for it had turned out that the Captain, who had commanded the household at Combe Magna since the age of eighteen months, and Miss Mary Ferrars, who had commanded that of Delaford since the age of four, had not the smallest intention of yielding to one another.

“I am the commanding officer,” said Mary, very stiff.

“I am the Captain.”

“That is a naval rank. This is an army.”

“It is no such thing. It is a navy; there is a pond. I have a ship.”