“But I am not likely to be there for the next twelve months,” he continued coldly, and with a certain dignity. “My place has been let for some years, and the lease will not expire till the spring. No; if I see you at Faxleham or elsewhere I must come expressly.”
He looked at Lettice and she at him. It was a tacit throwing down of the gauntlet on his part, and angry as she felt, it yet made her respect the young man whom hitherto she had spoken of so contemptuously as a boy. She bade him good-bye with courtesy, not to say friendliness, much to Nina’s relief, and even carried her attention so far as to accompany him to the door, talking busily all the time of the details of his journey, so that, as she flattered herself, there was no opportunity for any last words between him and her sister. And as she went upstairs, where Bertha was already beginning the packing—such a sad packing! the hundred and one little possessions of their mother to cry over and wonder what to do with—all the bright-coloured belongings with which, full of the hopefulness of inexperienced youth, they had left England in the autumn, to consign to the bottom of the trunks and wish they could be put out of sight for ever—she said to herself, not without self-congratulation at her perspicacity, that it was evidently time for that to be put a stop to. And she would have been strengthened in her opinion had she known that at that very moment Nina, leaning sadly on the balcony—she had not gone to the door with Philip—was cheered by the sight of his face, as, passing up the street instead of down, certainly not the nearest way to his home, he stood still for a moment on the chance of seeing her again, and, lifting his hat, called out softly, not “goodbye” but “au revoir.”
Lettice wondered at Nina’s good spirits that evening.
“Evidently she does not, as yet, care much about him. She was so very young when she first met him—how unfortunate it was!—and was, no doubt, flattered by his attention. But she cannot but see how superior Godfrey Auriol is—how much more of a man—and then by-and-by it will be easy to suggest how mother would have liked it. One of her own name, and altogether so closely connected with her!”
And the imaginary castle in the air which Lettice had constructed for her sister’s happiness assumed more and more imposing and attractive proportions. Lettice had such faith in herself as an architect; she knew so much better than people themselves the sort of castle they should live and be happy in.
So that, on her side, Nina wondered at Lettice’s improved spirits during the last few days at Esparto, and even through the journey. For, besides the other recommendations of the project she had built upon such slender foundations, Lettice felt that there was a good deal of magnanimity in herself for approving of and encouraging such an idea.
“It shows I am not prejudiced,” she said to herself with satisfaction. “And if dear mamma could but know it, she would see how ready I am to sacrifice any personal feelings of mine when hers would have been concerned. For, of course, though Godfrey is not actually connected with the Morisons, he has entirely ranged himself on their side.”
We have wandered a long way from the evening of the arrival at Faxleham, but perhaps it was necessary to explain how it came to pass that the outer sunshine was matched by greater inward serenity than might, all things considered, have been expected.
It was, as I said, a most lovely evening. The drive from the station at Garford was through pretty country lanes, where the hedges were at their freshest, untouched as yet by summer dust, and the wild roses and honeysuckle were already in bud, giving promise of their later beauty. And to the young travellers, after their several months’ absence in different scenery, the sweet, homely beauty of their own country was very attractive.
“Is it not pretty? So peaceful and yet bright! Just think how mamma would have liked it!” exclaimed Nina; and, though Lettice did not speak, she pressed her sister’s hand sympathisingly.