He did not answer, and stepped at once into the boat again. In another minute the necessary farewells had been made, and he, Cursiter, and Hawkins, were rowing back to the launch, leaving Francie to face her tribunal alone.
CHAPTER XXV.
It was noon on the following day—a soaking, windy noon. Francie felt its fitness without being aware that she did so, as she knelt in front of her trunk, stuffing her few fineries into it with unscientific recklessness, and thinking with terror that it still remained for her to fee the elderly English upper housemaid with the half-crown that Charlotte had diplomatically given her for the purpose.
Everything had changed since yesterday, and changed for the worse. The broad window, out of which yesterday afternoon she had leaned in the burning sunshine to see the steam-launch puffing her way up the lake, was now closed against the rain; the dirty flounces of her best white frock, that had been clean yesterday, now thrust themselves out from under the lid of her trunk in disreputable reminder of last night’s escapade; and Lady Dysart, who had been at all events moderately friendly yesterday, now evidently considered that Francie had transgressed beyond forgiveness, and had acquiesced so readily in Francie’s suggestion of going home for luncheon, that her guest felt sorry that she had not said breakfast. Even the padlock of her bonnet-box refused to lock—was “going bandy with her,” as she put it in a phrase learnt from the Fitzpatrick cook—and she was still battling with it when the sound of wheels on the gravel warned her that the ordeal of farewell was at hand. The blasé calm with which Sarah helped her through the presentation of Charlotte’s half-crown made her feel her social inferiority as keenly as the coldness of Lady Dysart’s adieux made her realise that she was going away in disgrace, when she sought her hostess and tried to stammer out the few words of orthodox gratitude that Charlotte had enjoined her not to forget.
Pamela, whose sympathies were always with the sinner, was kinder than ever, even anxiously kind, as Francie dimly perceived, and in some unexpected way her kindness brought a lump into the throat of the departing guest. Francie hurried mutely out on to the steps, where, in spite of the rain, the dogs and Christopher were waiting to bid her good-bye.
“You are very punctual,” he said. “I don’t know why you are in such a hurry to go away.”
“Oh, I think you’ve had quite enough of me,” Francie replied with a desperate attempt at gaiety. “I’m sure you’re all very glad to be shut of me.”
“That isn’t a kind thing to say, and I think you ought to know that it is not true either.”
“Indeed then I know it is true,” answered Francie, preparing in her agitation to plunge into the recesses of the landau without any further ceremonies of farewell.
“Well, won’t you even shake hands with me?”