On being pressed by Miss Sartoris as to the reason of this sudden trip, she added, rather awkwardly, that it was on business; her mother was not well,—oh, very far from well; and they had to look at a house that belonged to them, as the tenant had lately died.
This was all very plausible; but Dulce’s manner was so constrained, and she spoke with such hesitation, that Miss Sartoris was convinced that something lay behind. They went out in the garden, however, and chose sides for their game of tennis; and, though Dulce had never played so badly in her life, the fresh air and exercise did her good, and at the end of the afternoon she looked a little less drooping.
It was felt to be a failure, however, by the whole party; and when tea was over, there was no mention of a second game. “No, we will not stay any longer,” observed Isabella Twentyman, kissing the girl with much affection. “Of course we understand that you will be wanting to sit with your mother.”
“Yes, and if you do not come in to-morrow we shall quite know how it is,” added Miss Sartoris, good-naturedly, for which Dulce thanked her and looked relieved.
She stood at the hall door watching them as they walked down the village street, swinging their racquets and talking merrily.
“What happy girls!” she thought, with a sigh. Miss Sartoris was an heiress, and the Twentymans were rich, and every one knew that Carrie and Sophy Paine would have money. “None of them will have to work,” said poor Dulce sorrowfully to herself: “they can go on playing tennis and driving and riding and dancing as long as they like.” And then she went up to her mother’s room with lagging footsteps and a cloudy brow.
“You may depend upon it there is something amiss with those Challoners,” said Miss Sartoris, as soon as they were out of sight of the cottage; “no one has seen anything of them for the last three or four days, and I never saw Dulce so unlike herself.”
“Oh, I hope not,” returned Carrie, gravely, who had heard enough from her father to guess that there was pecuniary embarrassment at the bottom. “Poor little thing, she did seem rather subdued. How many people do you expect to muster to-morrow, Adelaide?” and then Miss Sartoris understood that the subject was to be changed.
While Dulce was trying to entertain her friends, Nan and Phillis were reconnoitring the Friary.
They had taken an early train to London, and had contrived to reach Hadleigh a little before three. They went first to 70 Beach House,—a small unpretending house on the Parade, kept by a certain Mrs. Mozley, with whom they had once lodged after Dulce had the measles.