She stood on the little grassy terrace which surrounded the house, looking towards the open door, but not taking any step towards it, waiting for the hero to appear. The house was low and broad, with a veranda round it, planted in the midst of the olive groves, where there was a little clearing, and looking down upon the sea. Frances paused there, with her face towards the house, and saw coming out from under the shadow of the veranda, with a certain awkward celerity, the straight slim figure of the young Indian officer, his mother’s hero, and, in a visionary sense, her own. She did not advance—she could not tell why—but waited till he should come up, while his mother turned round, beckoning to him. This was how it was that Constance and Markham arrived upon the scene before the introduction was fully accomplished. Frances held out her hand, and he took it, coming forward; but already his eyes had travelled over her head to the other pair arriving, with a look of inquiry and surprise. He let Frances’ hand drop as soon as he had touched it, and turned towards the other, who was much more attractive than Frances. Constance, who missed nothing, gave him a glance, and then turned to his mother. “We brought our brother to see you,” she said (as Frances had not had presence of mind to do). “Lord Markham, Mrs Gaunt. But we have come at an inappropriate moment, when you are occupied.”
“Oh no! It is so kind of you to come. This is my son George, Miss Waring. He arrived last night. I have so wanted him to meet——” She did not say Frances; but she looked at the little girl, who was quite eclipsed and in the background, and then hurriedly added, “your—family: whose name he knows, as such friends! And how kind of Lord Markham to come all this way!”
She was not accustomed to lords, and the mother’s mind jumped at once to the vain, but so usual idea, that this lord, who had himself sought the acquaintance, might be of use to her son. She brought forward George, who was a little dazzled too; and it was not till the party had been swept into the veranda, where the family sat in the evening, that Mrs Gaunt became aware that Frances had followed, the last of the train, and had seated herself on the outskirts of the group, no one paying any heed to her. Even then, she was too much under the influence of the less known visitors to do anything to put this right.
“I am delighted that you think me kind,” said Markham, in answer to the assurances which Mrs Gaunt kept repeating, not knowing what to say. “My step-father is not of that opinion at all. Neither will you be, I fear, when you know my mission. I have come for Frances.”
“For Frances!” she cried, with a little suppressed scream of dismay.
“Ah, I said you would not be of that opinion long,” Markham said.
“Is Frances going away?” said the old General. “I don’t think we can stand that. Eh, George? that is not what your mother promised you. Frances is all we have got to remind us that we were young once. Waring must hear reason. He must not let her go away.”
“Frances is going; but Constance stays,” interposed that young lady. “General, I hope you will adopt me in her stead.”
“That I will,” said the old soldier; “that is, I will adopt you in addition, for we cannot give up Frances. Though, if it is only for a short visit, if you pledge yourself to bring her back again, I suppose we will have to give our consent.”
“Not I,” said Mrs Gaunt under her breath. She whispered to her son, “Go and talk to her. This is not Frances; that is Frances,” leaning over his shoulder.