Two Sides of the Face | Page 5

Roger found himself grunting that "she wasn't to
trouble about that: he'd do well enough." He did not actually thank her
for her preparations to make him comfortable, but discovered with a
kind of indignant surprise that he had come very near to it. Somehow
this woman, whom he had expected to find an ignorant fisher-wench,
hoity-toity and brazen or tearful and sullen, was making him painfully
conscious of his own boorishness. Out she must go, of course, after the
funeral; but he wished he had seen a little more of good company in the
past, and he kept up his temper by reminding himself that he had been
ill-used and denied a college education.
The meal ended, she rose and swept him a curtsey, neither
over-friendly nor standoffish. "Peggy will bring you the brandy and
water," she said, "or, if you prefer it, there is rum in the house. I
thought, maybe, the weather was warm for a fire; but, as you see, it is
laid, and only needs a light if you feel chilly. Your father liked to sit by
a fire even on summer evenings." She did not add that he had
invariably come drunk to bed. "But there," she ended with a faint smile,
"we have the old servants, and they are not likely to neglect you."
A second curtsey, and she was gone. Roger sat down by the cold hearth
and stroked his chin. By-and-by he looked at his fingers, as if (absurdly
enough) to make sure he had not shaken hands with her.
Next day this armed but almost friendly neutrality continued. Roger
spent the hours in striding about his acres, planning how to improve
them and curtail expenses here and there. The farm to be sure was

neglected; but here and there he noted improvements, and caught
himself wondering if the credit of them belonged to the old man. He
left the household to his stepmother, and returned to find his meals
ready and his appetite courted by some of his favourite dishes.
At dinner Mrs. Stephen produced and handed to him a sheet of paper.
"I thought it might save trouble," she explained, "if I made out a list of
folks to be invited to the funeral. You understand that I've only put
down those that occurred to me. Please take the list away and strike out
or add any names you choose."
Roger was within an ace of telling her to look after this for herself. He
had forgotten that these invitations were necessary, and the writing of
them would be a nuisance. But he recollected his suspicions, took the
paper, and carried it out into the fields to study it. The list was a careful
one, and almost all the names belonged to neighbours or old family
friends. Half a dozen at most were unfamiliar to him. He pored over
these one by one, but scratched none out. "Let the poor creature invite
them if they're friends of hers," he decided; "'twill be her last chance."
At supper he gave her back the list, and somewhat awkwardly asked
her to send the invitations.
Had he been cleverer in the ways of women, he might still have failed
to read the glint in her eyes as she folded the paper and thrust it into her
bodice.
So the three days passed.

V.
They buried Humphrey Stephen on the morning of the 11th, and if any
of the widow's own friends attended the funeral they forbore to obtrude
themselves during the ceremony or at the breakfast which followed it.
While the guests drank sherry and ate cold chickens in the dining-room,
Mrs. Stephen carried her grief off to her own apartment and left Roger
to do the honours. She descended only when the throng had taken

leave.
The room, indeed, when she entered, was empty but for three persons.
Roger and the family attorney--Mr. Jose, of Helleston--stood by one of
the windows in friendly converse, somewhat impatiently eyeing a
single belated guest who was helping himself to more sherry.
"What the devil is he doing here?" asked Mr. Jose, who knew the man.
He turned and bowed as the young widow entered. "I was on the point,
madam," said he, "of sending up to request your presence. With your
leave, I think it is time to read the deceased's will." He pulled out his
watch and glanced again, with meaning, towards the stranger.
He had lifted his voice purposely, and the stranger came forward at
once with the half of a pasty in one hand and his glass of sherry in the
other.
"Certainly," agreed the stranger, with his mouth full of pasty. He
nodded familiarly to Mr. Jose, drained his glass, set it down, and wiped
his damp fingers on the lappels