No sign of help showed on the horizon from the direction of Stillington. The intercourse between the two families seemed slighter than ever, and it had never been close. And even if they—if Camilla—had been willing to re-house her, she was almost sure that she did not wish to go back. After what she had learnt, it would be stupid to put herself in the way of growing fonder of Edward than she already was. The degree and pertinacity of her regard for him often annoyed her. No, she had no wish to go back to Stillington, and yet—what a noise those tiresome birds must be making in the wood by now!
To be Lady Bletchley’s right hand was no sinecure; but though the humanitarian interest could scarcely be said to be strongly developed in Miss Ransome, she took up her share of the burden of Felicity’s good works—increased tenfold by the latter’s rise in life—with a will, reflecting philosophically that it was quite as well not to have much time to think, since she had nothing satisfactory to think about, and finding or making many little oases of worldly pleasure amid the sands of philanthropy. Lady Bletchley had announced that she was not going out; but abstention from society, as understood by her, was compatible with seeing a large number and variety of people.
Bonnybell had received ample confirmation of the verdict pronounced by the Bond Street hansoms on the first day of her arrival. She had met many young men, gilded and ungilt, in Felicity’s drawing-room, a large number of whom had been obviously willing to endear themselves to her. It was a more respectful form of love than she had been used to in the old days; but her wary eye had detected a want of seriousness in the intentions of the majority, and even among the business-like minority not one was found, after careful sifting of their positions and prospects, worth running the risk of provoking another of Charlie’s anonymous revelations. “I must not let myself go cheap because I am in low water just now,” she said, to herself, with no sense of special cynicism in the reflection. “I can well afford to wait. I shall probably even improve, and”—with a sigh—“I think I dislike the idea of marriage, if possible, more than ever!”
Charlie! Yes, Charlie was in London. She had caught sight of him one day in a little street off the Strand—Charlie was not fond of frequented thoroughfares—whither Felicity had sent her to look up a case of sweating, and, to the surprise of the chaperoning maid, had darted into a tobacconist’s shop to hide herself from him. She hoped that he had not seen her; but with Charlie one never knew. Oh, if she could make some one—some one really eligible—love her enough to dare to tell him about M——’s and the other places, she might defy Charlie—snap her fingers at him! But the test mentally applied to every one of her aspirants broke down hopelessly.
It was the 10th of March on which the blow fell. The room was the same room in which poor Miss Ransome had been made aware of Edward’s disqualifications. It seemed to gloomy after-reflections as if its one purpose in life was to be the setting for disagreeable communications. Though business was its predominant note, luxury was not altogether banished from Felicity’s sitting-room, and it was in a very well stuffed armchair, if that could be any source of comfort to her, that the “right hand” received its amputation. It was not often that Felicity allowed herself time to sit down, but she also was in an armchair, taking a brief respite from labour between the trying of Court gowns and laying the foundation-stone of a Home for Infant Inebriates.
Felicity was overdoing herself with the thoroughness of a fine lady “doubled” by a social reformer. But at the present moment something besides fatigue sat on her troubled countenance. And Bonnybell recognized, through having seen it before on another face, the signal for ejection. It was too late to avert it, yet none the less was there a cheerful daughterly sympathy in her pretty voice as she said—
“What a pity that you cannot put off the Infant Inebriates to another day! I know how specially interested you are in them, poor little things, even more than you are”—with an accent of affectionate reverence—“in all good works; but you do look so tired!”
“I am tired,” replied the other. “I am always tired now. As soon as the bazaar is well over—by-the-by, the Duchess has never yet answered as to the date—I shall take a rest cure. Dr. —— says it is indispensable; that I am living on my nerves.”
The first blast of the Trump of Doom had sounded. The second was not slow to follow.
“I shall be more tired still when I have to do without you.” The voice was tender and complaining, but there was also a sort of confusion—a mauvaise honte in it. Ejectment was on the edge of the lamenting lips.