The last of the equerries to follow looked back at the door, and saw my Ladies Mandeville and Kilcroney embracing and kissing and he thought they were both in tears.
My Lord Kilcroney had been among those who unobtrusively joined the lookers-on in the pump room during the Royal visitation, and, beholding the scene, his own eyes filled. In the effort to regain his self-control he turned his dimmed gaze away from the two who enfolded each other in such affecting and unaffected friendship and it fell upon Mistress Lafone. As awhile ago his son and heir, he was fascinated by the expression on the small pale visage. Molly caught his riveted glance, wilted beneath it, and somehow vanished. Not my Lord Kilcroney nor anyone could ever as much as guess at her share in the morning’s business; yet so does conscience make cowards of us all, as Mr. Shakespeare has it.
My Lord kissed his wife’s hand before most respectfully saluting that of my Lady Mandeville. At sight of him, Kitty mingled laughter with her tears.
“Is it not delightful, Denis,” cried she, “that our sweet Rachel should have had this happy thought? But, oh, my dear love, our little rascals are at fisticuffs again!”
“My dear Kitty,” wrote Lady Florence that evening, in a letter brought round from Fauconberg Hall by one of the pages in waiting, “I thought you were dished, I did indeed. And of all the odd tiresome contretemps, my love!... Well, I have not time to say even a word of what I felt: Her Majesty is not fond of audacities and you did, dearest Kitty, the most audacious deed.... Well, never mind again!
“’Twas your hat did the trick to begin with, my love; you was always so clever about clothes, Kitty. Sure, it was the finest inspiration to wear that modest country straw with its plain ribbon. It caught Her Majesty’s eye from the first moment, and that you know means so much. So modest, sensible and quiet you showed beside poor Susan! Susan, with that tow-row of feathers on her head! ’Tis she who is dished after all: ‘A loud young woman,’ says the Queen to me. ‘I do not approve of Lady Verney’s style.’ And what must she do on the top of it but present herself in my parlour at Fauconberg Hall this very afternoon?—a vast piece of presumption, since the Queen hath forbidden visitors to all and sundry!—And wants an interview of Her Majesty, to apologise—prithee, Kitty, think of it!—for Her Majesty’s having been exposed to such a meeting. She, to apologise for the town! She, to cast her stone at poor Rachel! I have never known my Royal so angry! ‘Are you then not acquainted with my Lady Mandeville?’ She asks our Verney. You should have seen Susan’s face under her red plumes. (I had taken good care Her Majesty should know we all were.) To be brief, Kitty, Verney went forth with her comb considerably cut, and Her Majesty took a twist in the other direction and spoke very kind to me; though regretting the incident, she said she could not find too grave a fault with a display of loyalty. ‘Tell my Lady Kilcroney,’ she says, ‘that about My Person I appreciate loyalty!’”
Denis Kilcroney heard the contents of this missive with a grave countenance. Then, looking at his wife’s charming face, all irradiated between the joys of her good conscience and its unexpected reward, he exclaimed generously that it was a proud day for the House of O’Hara. “Though,” he added, “the proudest moment of it all was when I saw you stand by your friend, me darling girl!”
CHAPTER II
In Which Miss Pamela Pounce is ordered
to Pack
Pamela Pounce sat with a bunch of cowslips in one hand and the lid of the ribbon box in the other; she had fallen into a profound muse.