Stella, with girlish enthusiasm, pronounced the song to be "perfectly sweet," and proceeded to hunt through the rest of the pile. Colonel Crayfield watched her lithe movements; he was well satisfied with his own performance, and he smiled to himself as he recollected the last occasion on which he had sung this song—to a pretty young married woman with whom at that time he was pleasantly philandering; the lady had burst into tears at the piano, an affecting scene had ensued, and the husband had all but surprised them; it had been just touch-and-go, a Providential escape. What on earth was her name? He could only remember that her hair was golden and her eyes like forget-me-nots!
Never mind, it did not matter; all that mattered to him was this exquisite child who was to learn the facts and the meaning of marriage from him and from him alone.... If only the three tiresome old women were out of the room—the two spinsters, scraggy and genteel; the old mother, austere and cold; and to add to his provocation, when Mrs. Carrington beckoned Stella to her side that she might kiss her good-night, he heard the old lady forbid her to go out before breakfast next morning. No reason was given, only the order. What tyranny! Was it any wonder that, apart from everything else, Stella should yearn to escape from The Chestnuts? Stella glanced at him ruefully over her grandmother's head; he returned her a nod of sympathetic understanding. Next day it should all be different. He enjoyed the prospect of astounding the old martinet.
The following morning Mrs. Carrington was not so easy to corner. When she appeared Ellen was in close attendance, and Stella was on duty with Augusta, occupied with household tasks that seemed to involve strenuous attacks on cupboards, and perpetual visits to the kitchen, whence came hot, sweet whiffs of jam-making. Colonel Crayfield wandered aimlessly in the garden, consoling himself with plans for the immediate future. The marriage must take place as soon as possible—he supposed it would have to be in the village church—but a special licence would expedite matters. In little more than a couple of months his leave would be up—it would allow only just time for Stella to have riding lessons, singing lessons, to collect the right sort of outfit, for which, of course, he would be responsible. No village dressmaker, no ready-made garments for his wife. His own particular star should shine in every detail.
At last; there was the old lady, alone on the terrace, settled in a big basket chair, a mushroom-shaped hat tied on with a broad ribbon, her ebony stick handy, a small table at her side on which lay spectacles, a handkerchief, and the paper which arrived at midday. Colonel Crayfield approached her; formal greetings were exchanged, then he took an uncomfortable little garden chair from its resting-place against the wall and applied himself to business.
"Now," he said briskly, "I am ready to tell you what I propose should be done about Stella."
Mrs. Carrington pouched her cheeks, and intimated silently that she also was ready—to listen. He trusted she would not have a stroke when she heard what he was about to propose!
"It may seem a very sudden decision on my part, Mrs. Carrington," he began; "but I wish to take Stella into my own keeping——"
At once Mrs. Carrington was all gracious acquiescence. (Ellen! He had spoken to Ellen?)
"Perhaps I can guess the means by which you intend to bring about such an excellent solution of our difficulties," she remarked, with an arch expression that struck him as grotesque; and before he could continue, she added: "I may tell you that I had my suspicions ten years ago!" (Good heavens! What could she mean?) "I may also say that in my opinion nothing could be more suitable."