“After all, Hetty,” I said, “I should not be in the least surprised if the contents of my mother’s telegram interested you amazingly. I don’t see why you shouldn’t know. It is a most exciting story. We’ll have tea together, and then I’ll tell it to you.”
Hetty’s little face came quickly out of the shadow in which it had looked so pathetic. She was all smiles and sunshine once more. She even laughed with glee when I arranged our evening meal. Her impatience to know the mystery was absolutely childish, but I was determined not to be cross with her, nor to blame her in any way again.
After we had finished eating, I drew a chair up to her sofa, and began my story. I told everything from the beginning—I mean from the time of my visit to Cousin Geoffrey. Really, Hetty was a most delightful listener; she was all sympathy, her interest was absorbing, she interrupted the narrative with no questions, but her beautiful eyes spoke volumes for her. They expressed wonder, sorrow, joy. I had quite a pleasant time as I told my little romance. I could not have desired a prettier sight than Hetty’s eyes with the soul looking out of them as they gazed at me.
What a benefit to the possessor those speaking eyes are! In some cases I could imagine them to be the best of all good fairies’ gifts, for what can they not do? Wheedle, coax, command, subdue. Hetty was not a particularly brilliant personage in any way. She was a very loving, dear, true little creature, but she was neither clever, nor particularly heroic. Yet with her eyes she could command a kingdom. Now some people speak of me as clever, and I know I have plenty of presence of mind, but I can do nothing at all with my eyes.
Well, Hetty heard the story, and then she examined the ring, and then we had a long consultation over Lady Ursula’s visit of the morrow.
“Won’t you write and tell her not to come?” said Hetty.
“Oh dear, no,” I said, “I am not afraid of Lady Ursula Redmayne,—she can come if she wishes to.”
Hetty sighed.
“You are courageous, Rose,” she answered. The next morning my brother’s wife took upon herself to show great anxiety with regard to my wardrobe.
“I want you to look beautiful,” she said. “Don’t you think you might wear your hair not quite—not quite so flat on your forehead?”