"Well, you see, Faunce, Rannock left England in March—late in March—to go to Klondyke—a wild-cat scheme, like most of his schemes—and from that day to this nobody who knows him—so far as we can discover—has received any communication from him."
"Is that so strange, sir? I shouldn't think that when a man was digging for gold among a few thousand other adventurers, at the risk of being frozen to death, or murdered if he was lucky, he would be likely to trouble himself much about family correspondence?"
"Well, no doubt it's a rough-and-tumble life, but still, I'm told they do get the mails, and do keep somehow in touch with the civilized world; and, blackguard as Rannock is, he has been in the habit of writing to his mother three or four times a year, and oftener. I believe there is a soft spot in his heart for her. But you'll see the old lady, and she'll tell you her troubles," concluded Major Towgood, "so I needn't say any more about it."
In spite of which remark he talked without intermission all the way to Buckingham Gate.
CHAPTER XV.
"Happy he
With such a mother! faith in womankind
Beats with his blood, and trust in all things high
Comes easy to him, and tho' he trip and fall
He shall not blind his soul with clay."
The Honourable Mrs. Rannock, widow of Captain Rannock, second son of Lord Kirkmichael, lived in a narrow-fronted Queen Anne house facing Wellington Barracks. It was one of the smallest houses to be found in a fashionable quarter, and the rent was the only thing big about it; but Mrs. Rannock had lived at Court for the greater part of her life, having begun as a maid-of-honour when she and her Royal mistress were young, and she could hardly have existed out of that rarefied atmosphere. Refinement and elegance were as necessary to her as air and water are to the common herd; she would have pined to death in a vulgar neighbourhood; her personal wants were of the smallest, but her surroundings had to be the surroundings of a lady.
Everything in the house was perfect of its kind. It was furnished with family relics, Sheraton and Chippendale furniture that had been made to order by those famous cabinet-makers for the Rannocks of the eighteenth century, a buhl cabinet that had come straight from the Faubourg St. Germain in the Red Terror, when Paris was running with innocent blood, and the ci-devants were flying from ruin and death.
The street door was painted sky-blue, the hall and staircase were white, the rich colouring of the wall-papers made a vivid background to the sober tones of the old furniture, and in the dainty drawing-room, with its apple-blossom chintz and exquisite Chelsea china, the daintiest thing was old Mrs. Rannock, with her pink-and-white complexion, silvery hair, patrician features and bearing, tall and slender figure, rich brocade gown, and Honiton cap with lappets that fell almost to her waist.