“And Marie, have you hidden her anywhere, you naughty boy?”
“Not I, Madame. If you saw her, you would understand that she is not easily hidden. You remember her plump, I daresay; but plump is now no word for her. Even love—and she is love-sick, poor thing, at five-and-forty, or so—does not render her less solid.”
“Ah, wicked, to laugh at Love!” replied the old lady, holding up a reproving finger, of whose shape and whiteness she was evidently proud, and not altogether without reason; “and worse still, to laugh at Marie. I love that dear Mistress Forest; and mind you, tell mamma, if ever she parts with her, that she is to come straight to me. What would I not give for a waiting-maid like that—devoted, prudent, to whom I could confide my little love-affairs!—Why do you laugh, rude children? It is, I see, time that I should go.—Seriously,” continued she, when the chorus of dissatisfaction had died away (for every one except, perhaps, Rose, was pleased with this sprightly old lady, and all felt her presence to be, under the circumstances, an immense relief), “I must be going home at once.—Thank you kindly, Sir Richard, but to stay to dinner is impossible. The night-air, at my time of life—more even than 'five-or-forty or so, Mister the Captain—is very unwholesome. You must all come and lunch with me shortly A fête champêtre upon the—what is it you call it?—Lisgard Folly. You will give this kiss to mamma for me, Miss Letty, and tell her I must see her to-morrow—no, the day after, for she will be tired. I will not have any of you young people on that day. I shall wish to talk to her alone about so many things. Will you please to ring for my—that droll conveyance which you call mouche—'fly?'—Adieu, Madame Walter; take care of your handsome husband, for I have fallen in love with him.—Adieu to you, naughty boy.—Now, Sir Richard, if you will give me your arm, by the time we get to the front door, and down these dreadful steps, the mouche will be at the door, though he walk slow, as though he had just escaped out of treacle.”
As the pair made their way to the hall, at the pace of chief-mourners, Madame de Castellan, to Richard's surprise and joy, began, for the first time, to speak in broken English. “Your mother is very fond of you all,” said she; “I hope you are fond of her.”
“I hope so indeed, Madame: we should be very ungrateful if we were not.”
“That is well, young man. Be good to her, for our mothers are obliged to leave us, you know, long before we go ourselves.”
“God forbid, Madame, that we should lose her these many years,” answered the baronet fervently.
“Yes, yes; but mind this,” answered the old lady testily, as she climbed into the mouche, “that if Mistress Forest should want a place—here am I at Belcomb, very glad to receive her. Good-bye.”
Sir Richard, thunder-struck, stared at the slowly-departing vehicle like one in a dream. “I never heard such a speech,” soliloquised he—“never. Can that old harridan be really calculating upon my mother's death giving her a new lady's-maid? How selfish is extreme old age! I could not have believed it possible. How it would have distressed mamma, could she have heard her. And yet but for that speech, she seemed an affectionate and kindly old creature enough. I have often heard that Frenchwomen have no hearts, but only manners—and I suppose that so it is.”