“I think most likely they don’t expect us at all. You never can be sure of Grace. Her very letters go astray as other people’s letters never do. The post itself goes wrong with her. If they had expected me, they would have sent the carriage. But I declare, there are people in the hall! I wonder,” said Mrs. Bellingham, in a tone of wonder, not unmingled with indignation, “if they have been having visitors—visitors, Grace and Margaret, while I have been away?”
No one said a word. Randal, who had been standing with his back to the door, turned round hastily, and the others stood startled, not knowing what was about to happen, but with a consciousness that the end of all things was drawing near. Mrs. Bellingham marched in, with mingled curiosity and resolution in her face. She came in, as the head of a house had a right to come, into a place where very high jinks had been enacted in his or her absence. She looked curiously at Rob Glen and his mother, who faced her first, and said “Oh!” with a slight swing of her person—a half bow, a half courtesy, less of courtesy than suspicion; but Jean was always aware what was due to herself, and could not be rude. When the third stranger caught her eye, she gave way to a little outcry of genuine surprise—“You here, Randal Burnside!”
“Yes, indeed,” he said. “You must think it very strange; but I will explain everything to you afterward.”
“Oh, I am sure there is no need for explanations; your father’s son can never be unwelcome,” said Mrs. Bellingham, guardedly. “Well, Margaret, my dear, so this is you! I think either you or Grace might have thought of sending the carriage; but you have been having company, I see—where is Grace?”
“Oh, dearest Jean!” cried Miss Leslie, rushing forward, “to think that you should arrive like this without any one expecting you! And oh, dear Ludovic, you too! I am sure—”
“You have been having company, I see,” said Mrs. Bellingham; “I trust we are not interrupting anything. I will take a seat here for a little; I think it is the coolest place in the house. You had better ask your friends to take chairs, Grace.”
“Oh, dearest Jean, it is Mr. Glen, the clever artist, you know, who—but I don’t know the—the—” What should Miss Leslie have said? To call Mrs. Glen a lady was not practicable, and to call her a woman was evidently an offence against politeness. “I assure you,” she said in her sister’s ear, “I don’t know in the least who she is.”
Mrs. Bellingham sat down in the great chair which stood by the fireplace, a great old carved throne in black wood, which looked like a chief-justice’s at least. It was close to the door, and served to bar all exit. Sir Ludovic had come in a minute after her, and he had been engaged in greeting his little sister Margaret, and shaking hands with Randal Burnside, whom he was very glad to see, with a little surprise, but without arrière-pensée. But when the salutations were over he looked round him, and with a sudden, sharp exclamation, discovered Rob Glen by his side.
“Margaret,” he said at once, “you had better retire; my dear, you had better retire. I don’t think this is a place for you.”
“I beg your pardon, Ludovic,” said Mrs. Bellingham; “where her brother and her sisters are is just the right place for Margaret. I have not the pleasure of knowing the Miss Leslies’ friends—neither do you, I suppose; but Margaret will just remain, and I dare say everything will be cleared up. It is a very fine day,” Jean said, with a gracious attempt to conciliate everybody, “and very good for bringing on the hay.”