He went home and told his mother briefly, in as few words as possible; and she said little to him, for she saw his grief was too fresh for consolation. Moreover, she was not herself grieved, and she knew it would be vain to touch his sorrow with an unsympathetic hand. Sidney was more pleased than by anything which had happened since Philip's engagement to Phyllis. It was a good thing for him to discover his mistake in time.
"Let us go to London," said Margaret, "and make a home for Philip for the next three months. If we stay here either he will not come down, or he must meet Phyllis and her mother; for we could not break off all our intercourse with the rector. Dorothy has never been in London for more than a day or two, and we can find plenty to do during the winter. And, Sidney, let us go and keep Christmas at Brackenburn."
Andrew and Mary Goldsmith left their old home in Apley, and went north to take charge of Sophy's son. It was a great change in the lives of people so old. Instead of their small, snug kitchen, and their shop, with its outlook on the familiar street, they dwelt in large, wainscoted rooms, separated by long, wandering passages and galleries, through which the autumn winds moaned incessantly, and from the windows they saw only the deserted moorland. The caretakers, who had been accustomed to have entire charge of the place, remained in it as gardener and cook; and a groom and housemaid had been hired for the extra work, caused, not by Martin, but by the tutor who had undertaken to teach him the bare elements of learning and the simplest customs of civilized society. Mary Goldsmith found herself at the head of this little establishment, not without some feelings of pride in the importance of her position; and Andrew was installed as master and guardian of his grandson. It was a great change from their homely life at Apley. Yet, with all the discomfort of the change, there was a lurking sense of pleasure in being the nearest of kin to the heir of the estate.
On the other hand, Martin was a source of constant anxiety and mortification to them both; but Andrew took the mortification most to heart. He loved his uncouth barbarian, who was Sophy's son, with a very deep though troubled love. There could be no interchange of ideas between them, except by gesture: for Andrew was too old to learn Martin's stammering patois, and Martin appeared quite unable to recollect the few English words his tutor tried to fix upon his memory. The tutor, who knew Italian well, though he was not versed in the patois of the frontier between Italy and Austria, soon learned Martin's very limited vocabulary, and also his narrow range of mental sensations. But between Andrew and his grandson there was no means whatever of communication by speech. The old man would sit patiently for hours watching the dull, coarse face of the clumsy peasant, whose favorite postures were lying huddled up on the ground, or squatting on his heels with his knees almost on a level with his ears. Sometimes he fancied his grandson responded to his wistful gaze with a gleam of intelligent affection in his eyes; and now and then Martin would offer him a pipe if he was not provided with one. There was a certain amount of friendliness in this act.