Chapter Seven.
Lady Sarah.
Mildred had been a week at The Deanery, and if her enjoyment during that time had not been entirely unalloyed, the fault lay without question with Lady Sarah, for all the members of the family vied with each other as to who could show the young guest the most kindness. Even the Dean himself fell a victim to the “Norse Princess”, much to his wife’s amusement, for he was, as a rule, the most unnoticing of men. Mildred had written to her mother that Bertha’s father was “exactly like a Dean.” She had never met such a dignitary before, it is true, but she had an impression that he ought to look wise and studious, and Dean Faucit fulfilled these requirements to the uttermost.
He had a thin face, with grave eyes set in a net-work of lines; his shoulders were bowed with poring over the study-desk; and he was, moreover, so absent-minded that he made two separate attempts before he succeeded in grasping Mildred’s hand on the occasion of their first introduction. She had been several days in the house before he had the vaguest idea of her appearance, but one morning it chanced that he raised his eyes from the breakfast-table to complain of the sunlight which was pouring in at the window; and right opposite sat Mildred, her eyes dancing with happiness, a soft pink flush on her cheeks, and her hair shining like threads of gold. The Dean started, and drew his brows together, staring at her in curious, short-sighted fashion. He was so accustomed to the dim light of the Cathedral, and to the pale faces of his wife and children, that Mildred, with her bright colouring, seemed the embodiment of the sunshine itself. He fumbled for his glasses, scrutinised her furtively from time to time as the meal progressed, and when it was over, lingered behind to speak of her to his wife.
“That friend of Bertha’s seems to he—er—a nice little girl, dear! There is something in her face which affects me very pleasantly. I—er—I hope you are doing all you can to give her a pleasant time. Do you—er—think she would like to look at my book plates?”
Mrs Faucit laughed, and slipped her hand inside his arm.
“No, my dear old man!” she said. “I don’t think she would like it all. I think she would be profoundly bored. Leave her to the girls. They are as happy as the day is long, wandering about together.”
“Ah, well, you know best! but I should like the child to enjoy herself. It has struck me once or twice that Sarah Monckton—eh?—not quite so sympathetic to the young folks as she might be, I’m afraid. There was something at dinner the other night—I didn’t hear it all, but I had an impression—an impression—. It distressed me very much. I—er—hope she doesn’t interfere with the girls’ enjoyment.”
“Oh, no! Don’t worry yourself, dear. They are quite happy,” protested Mrs Faucit soothingly; but when her husband had returned to his study she sighed a little, as though she were not altogether so easy in her mind as she had led him to believe.