‘Oh! mother; you may say that to other people—but to me! Of course, I shall find out.’
‘It was something your uncle James said to me, Mab.’
‘Oh!’ said Mab, satisfied; ‘I am not surprised if he was in it. He does say such strange things. But he means well enough. Come out, then, mother, for a walk. That always does you more good than anything.’
‘It is too early; it is not noon yet. It is dissipated going away from one’s work at this time of the day.’
But the conclusion was that the two ladies did go out, and went to the river-side, where Lady William sat down on a bench by the landing-place, while Mab made certain investigations in respect to the boats. It was a fine morning, but not over bright—one of those gray days in the beginning of May, when Nature seems to veil herself capriciously by way of making the after-glory more glorious. The day was gray, with breaks of quiet light, not bright enough to be called sunshine, through the clouds, and all the new foliage tempered and softened in its fresh greenness of spring by the neutral tints that enveloped everything. The river flowed quietly upon its way, stopping for nothing, indifferent whether overhead there was sunshine or clouds, working away at the tall growing reeds on the edge, and sweeping round them, pushing them back out of its way, sapping the camp-shedding on the other side, hollowing out the bank that intruded into the current. The soft, strong flowing carries one’s thoughts with it, whatever they may be, and Lady William gradually gave way to that silent coercion, and let her more painful reflections escape her, and the thoughts she could not get rid of swell round and round her mind like the circles of the stream. The scenery was not remarkable at that point. From the river, indeed, the pretty little landing-place, with its bit of green bank, its marshalled boats, and the old red-and-white houses behind, made a delightful touch of life and colour: but to the spectators on the bank there was nothing exciting to be seen, only the grassy shore opposite, the trees, a brown cow or two coming down to the river, or a passing boat full of travellers, or of merrymakers, as the chance might be. How softening, pacifying, composing it was! Mab’s voice talking to the boatman on the river’s edge came softly through the harmonious air. Who can think, in the mild calm of such a day, of confusion, or trouble, or shame?
‘I am in much luck,’ said Leo Swinford’s voice behind her, ‘to find you here; you are not usually to be found out in the morning.’
‘No,’ said Lady William, telling him the reason with a burst of assumed cheerfulness. ‘It is possible that all Mab’s hopes of her auricula are spoiled by my fault; yet she forgives me,’ she said. Then suddenly she put forth her hand and gripped his arm, with a change on her face—‘Leo, where is Artémise? Find me Artémise!’
‘What is the matter, dear lady?’ he said.
‘Ah! it is of no importance what is the matter. I will tell you afterwards. It is only this, that I must find Artémise—if I take a lanthorn myself and go out and search for her.’
‘Ah! you laugh,’ he said, ‘and I am relieved. It is Mrs. Mansfield you mean—is she Mansfield now?—I think not, nor can I tell what her name is. Certainly I can find her. I saw her once, as I told you—twice—here in this village, as if she were living here; and then she came to see my mother. I am sure she has been with my mother since; but I have not seen her again.’