CHAPTER XXII
A LITTLE COMMISSION
Lady Isabelle and Lieutenant Kingsland sat on the lawn before the old manor house in the soft glow of an English afternoon, contemplating the inevitable. In this case the inevitable was represented by the Dowager, who was enjoying a peaceful nap not fifty feet away. Only fifty feet of faultlessly-kept turf separated them from the vials of a mother's wrath; and in spite of their supreme happiness of the morning, they felt the presence of this gathering storm which must now be faced—as soon as the Marchioness awoke—for to wake her would put her in a bad temper, and her rage promised to be violent enough without any external irritants.
But it happened that while the Dowager slumbered, Miss Fitzgerald, slipping around the corner of the house, appeared in the background, and signalling to the Lieutenant to come to her, where they could talk without awakening the Marchioness, gave him his telegram. He read its contents once, twice, and a third time, word by word, gave a sigh of unutterable relief, and then laughed joyously.
"Good news, apparently," commented Miss Fitzgerald.
"The best," he replied. "A crusty old relative, who is no good to anybody, lies dying in the north of England, and for some unknown reason has made me his heir— I must leave at once to see him out of this world in proper style—but it means I'm a rich man."
"I'm ever so glad. Must you start to-day?"
"I shall go up to London this afternoon, and on to-morrow."
"You'll spend the night in town, then?"