[CHAPTER VII.]
WILL-O'-THE-WISP.
A new year was opening on the just and the unjust—the fortunate and the unfortunate. Lady Gethin had arrived in town after a prolonged Christmas visit to some attentive relatives in one of the midland counties.
She was always pleased to be at home; she liked to exercise a friendly hospitality, and she was by no means afraid of a lonely evening, of which she never had too many.
It was the day after her return. Night had closed in; her dainty dinner was over, and she was established in her favorite chair beside a bright wood and coal fire in the smaller and cosier of her two drawing-rooms, which was lighted only by the ruddy glow of the fire and a shaded reading-lamp, by which she was perusing a new novel. She had laid down the book and was thinking, with an unusually softened expression on her strong face, of her favorite, Hugh Glynn. She had been intensely anxious about him during his severe illness. She had constantly visited his sick-room, and satisfied herself that nurses and servants were doing their duty. When his life was despaired of, she was grimly still, silent, and enduring, but she knew that all the woman in her somewhat masculine nature had gone out, in maternal affection, to her husband's nephew.
When he was slowly struggling back to life and strength she accompanied him to a south coast bathing-place, and gave him the great benefit of her companionship, for she knew how to be sympathetically silent, as well as congenially talkative. In this prolonged tête-à-tête Glynn grew sincerely and gratefully attached to the outspoken free-thinking old woman, whose frank kindness was never oppressive, and whose uncompromising sincerity might convince the hardest sceptic of its reality.
Attachment brought confidence, and before they parted Hugh Glynn had told her the strange history of his sudden love for Elsie Lambert, of the hold it had taken of him in spite of reason, prudence, worldly wisdom—every motive that ought to guide a man of his maturity and experience. He even confessed to the weakness of regretting he had rejected Lambert's proposal of marriage with his daughter.
In the story of Elsie's disappearance, Lady Gethin was profoundly interested, though, to Glynn's disappointment and indignation, she did not hesitate to declare her belief that the young lady eloped voluntarily, and had probably since informed her father of her whereabouts—a fact which he might think it wiser not to divulge. She further declared that although she did not think the worse of Glynn for his infatuation, she thought he had had a great escape, and believed he would come to think so himself when he had recovered his health and resumed the ordinary routine of his life.
Reviewing these conversations Lady Gethin sat forgetful of her book, when the object of her thoughts was announced.
"Why didn't you come to dinner?" she exclaimed, holding out her hand.