‘The dell of the cuckoo, or the cuckoo’s dell,’ replied Lady Bowmant. ‘Yes, isn’t it pretty? It’s the farm just across the road, where Mr Portland and Mr Lennox sleep. Mrs Llewellyn is a dear old woman. I always go to her in any perplexity. She supplies us with all the extra eggs and chickens and butter we may want. Lady Ilfracombe, you should see her dairy; it’s a perfect picture, and everything about the farm is so quaint and old, and so faultlessly clean and neat. She and her husband are quite model tenants. I always take my friends to pay them a visit.’
After luncheon, when the rest of the party had separated to pursue their own devices, Nora crept after her husband.
‘Ilfracombe,’ she whispered, ‘supposing this should be one of her sisters?’
‘Whose? What are you talking about?’ he said rather curtly.
‘You know. The Miss Llewellyn you have told me of.’
‘What will you get into your head next? What likelihood is there of such a thing? Who ever said she had any sisters, or came from Usk? Didn’t you hear Sir Archibald say the place was peopled with Llewellyns? Please don’t get any absurd fancies into your head. The name is distasteful to me as it is? I wish we had not heard it. Now, I suppose there will be a grand fuss made of the service this girl rendered you, and the whole family will be paraded out for our special benefit. You have been a good friend to me in this business, Nora. Get me out of this unnecessary annoyance, if you can.’
‘Of course, I will,’ replied his wife readily. ‘You sha’n’t be bothered if I can help it, Ilfracombe. You were a dear, good boy to make a clean breast to me of the matter, and I’ll see you don’t suffer for it. I must remunerate the young woman or her parents for what she did this morning, so I’ll just go to the farm this afternoon by myself and get it quietly over. How much should I offer her? What do you think? Will five pounds be enough?’
‘I think so; but that is as you feel about it. But Nora, darling, you needn’t mention our names, need you? We shall be gone probably before they have a chance of finding out anything about us, and though I don’t suppose there is any chance of their being related to—to—her—yet if they should be—you understand?’
Lady Ilfracombe went up to her husband and kissed his anxious face.
‘I understand,’ she replied, and then left the room. There was a slight summer shower that afternoon, and the rest of the Hall party had already settled themselves to spend it indoors. A noisy set were occupied in the billiard-room, chatting and laughing over their game, and the more respectable scandalmongers were working, reading, and taking away their neighbours’ characters in the seclusion of the drawing-room. Lady Ilfracombe donned a large straw hat, and, taking an umbrella in her hand, set forth for Panty-cuckoo Farm without observation. She soon found her way through the white gate, and down the hilly slope, and found the latched wicket that guarded the bricked pathway up to the house. As soon as she placed her hand upon the latch, Mrs Llewellyn, as was her custom at the approach of any visitors, came quickly forward to save her the trouble of opening it, and give her a welcome to Panty-cuckoo Farm.