II
Apropos of their ignorance of each other's patronymics. ... One afternoon Maria Dolores was taking the air at the open door of the presbytery, when, to a mighty clattering of horses' hoofs, a big high-swung barouche came sweeping into the court-yard, described a bold half-circle, and abruptly drew up before her. In the barouche sat a big old lady, a big soft, humorous-eyed old lady, in cool crêpe-de-chine, cream-coloured, with beautiful white hair, a very gay light straw bonnet, and a much befurbelowed lavender-hued sunshade. Coachman and footman, bolt upright, stared straight before them, as rigid as if their liveries were of papier-maché. The horses, with a full sense of what they owed to appearances, fierily champed their bits, tossed their manes, and pawed the paving-stones. The old lady smiled upon Maria Dolores with a look of great friendliness and interest, softly bowed, and wished her, in a fine, warm, old high-bred voice, "Good afternoon."
Maria Dolores (feeling an instant liking, as well as curiosity and admiration) smiled in her turn, and responded, "Good afternoon."
"You enjoy a fine view from here," the old lady remarked, ducking her sunshade in the direction of the valley.
"A beautiful view," agreed Maria Dolores, following the sunshade with her eyes.
Those of the stranger had a gleam. "But don't you think, if the unvarnished truth may be whispered, that it's becoming the merest trifle too hot?" she suggested.
Maria Dolores lightly laughed. "I think it is decidedly too hot," she said.
"I'm glad to find we're of the same opinion," declared the old lady, fanning herself. "You can positively see the heat vibrating there in the distance. We children of the North should fly such weather. For my part, I'm off to-morrow for England, where I can shiver through the summer comfortably in my chimney-corner."
Maria Dolores laughed out again.
"So I've driven over from Roccadoro," the newcomer continued, "to have a farewell look at a young man of my acquaintance who's staying here. I dare say you may know him. He has blue eyes and a red beard, a flattering manner and a pretty wit, and his name is Blanchemain."
"Oh?" said Maria Dolores, her eyebrows going up. "Is that his name? You mean the young Englishman who lives with the parroco?"
The old lady's eyebrows, which were thick and dark, went up too.
"Is it possible you didn't know his name?" was her surprised ejaculation. Then she said, "I wonder whether he is anywhere about?"
"I fancy he's asleep," said Maria Dolores.
"Asleep? At this hour?" The dark eyebrows frowned their protest. "That sounds like a sad slugabed."
Maria Dolores looked serious. "He was up all night. We have a child ill here, and he was up all night, watching."
The stranger's grey eyes filled with concern and sympathy. "I hope, I'm sure, it's not that pretty little girl, the niece of the parroco?" she said.
"Unhappily, it is," said Maria Dolores. "She has been very ill indeed."
"I am extremely sorry to hear it, extremely sorry," the old lady declared, with feeling. "If I can be of any sort of use—if I can send anything—or in any way help—" Her eyes completed the offer.
"Oh, thank you, thank you," replied Maria Dolores. "You are most kind, but I don't think there is anything any one can do. Besides, she is on the mend now, we hope. The doctor says the worst is probably over."
"Well, thank God for that," exclaimed the visitor, with a will. She considered for a moment, and then reverted to the previous question. "So you did not know that my vivid young friend's name was Blanchemain?"
"No," said Maria Dolores.
"It is a good name—there's none better in England," averred the old lady, with a nod of emphasis that set the wheat-ears in her bonnet quivering.
"Oh—?" said Maria Dolores, looking politely interested.
"He's the nephew and heir of Lord Blanchemain of Ventmere," her instructress went on. "That is one of our most ancient peerages."
"Really?" said Maria Dolores. (What else did she say in her heart? Where now was her cobbler's son?)
"And I'm glad to be able to add that I'm his sort of connection—I'm the widow of the late Lord Blanchemain." The lady paused; then, with that smile of hers which we know, that smile which went as an advance-guard to disarm resentment, "People of my age are allowed to be inquisitive," she premised. "I have introduced myself to you—won't you introduce yourself to me?"
"My name is Maria Dolores of Zelt-Neuminster," answered the person questioned, also smiling.
The widow of the late Lord Blanchemain inwardly gasped, but she was quick to suppress all outward symptoms of that circumstance. The daughter of Eve in her gasped, but the practised old Englishwoman of the world affably and imperturbably pronounced, with a gracious movement of the head, "Ah, indeed? You are then, of course, a relation of the Prince?"
"I am the Prince's sister," said Maria Dolores. And, as if an explanation of her presence was in order, she added, "I am here visiting my old nurse and governess, to whom my brother has given a pavilion of the Castle for her home."
Lady Blanchemain fanned herself. "A miller's daughter!" she thought, with a silent laugh at John's expense and her own. "I am very glad to have made your acquaintance," she said, "and I hope this may not be our last meeting. I'm afraid I ought now to be hastening back to Roccadoro. I wonder whether you will have the kindness, when you see him, to convey my parting benediction to Mr. Blanchemain. Oh, no, I would not let him be wakened, not for worlds. Thank you. Good-bye."
And with a great effect of majesty and importance, like a conscious thing, her carriage rolled away.