“No, no; I believe they were to call for Denton. But I say, Maudie, I’m rather in a hole, I’ve asked the fellow to shoot to-morrow, and to dine.”
“I’ll take him off your hands for dinner,” she answered with short decision, “the shoot can stand over. We must manage somehow.”
As Mrs. Hesketh walked through the village in the frosty January night, she heard two voices approaching; and presently Letty and her escort came into view.—They had deposited the Rector at home, and were en route to The Holt, unaware that its door was now, figuratively, barred against this undesirable Guest.
Moved by a sudden impulse, she resolved that her own house should stand wide for him, and for Letty. Yes, in spite of Doodie and Prudence! These two young people should have just one glimpse of Paradise, before the dust and tumult of the world overtook them.
Maude Hesketh was a clever woman, and it was marvellous how she contrived to arrange meetings without apparent effort, or giving cause for remark, much less gossip. She had a taste for psychology, for the study of character, and a charming romance unfolded under her own eyes was ten times more absorbing than any novel. She watched the swift and silent approaches of spirit to spirit, listened to the light raillery and random talk, that disguised much greater things,—which so far remained unspoken. Letty and Lancelot were unaware, that they were in the thrall of the all-compelling power, which insensibly draws youth to youth. But their hostess noted their happy faces, their tireless sociability, their frequent, and uncalled-for smiles.
To do Mrs. Hesketh justice, her friends were not altogether the mere victims of a cynical interest; in the core of a withered heart, long-forgotten emotions and sympathies, were stirring. In the days of her exquisite youth, Maude Charlton, too, had a gallant, handsome, penniless lover; but when love had extended imploring arms she suffered ambition to restrain her, and accepted instead of a heart’s devotion, middle age, position, and wealth. He, the abandoned, had gone to India and there shortly afterwards died. Often now, in the barren autumn of her life, did her thoughts turn to Lawrence Ormond—her heart ached and ached, as she thought with wet eyes, of his neglected grave in some sun-scorched up-country cemetery. Thirty years had elapsed since three volleys had been fired over that shrunken mound, and he was now forgotten by all. Mrs. Hesketh had a habit of whispering to herself, scraps of poetry, lines that she admired, and that dwelt in her memory, and as she recalled her young dead lover, she would murmur the appropriate quotation:
“Forget not Earth thy disappointed ones,
Forget not the forgotten.”
Then would brush away a tear that trickled down her cheek, and exclaim:
“You silly old woman; your mind is wandering—don’t drivel!”