"I am glad that you approve, Madam," said Prue, with an air of the deepest respect, as she again sank gracefully down in a most profound curtsey.
"I said nothing about approval," replied her grandmother sternly. "I know your Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert—a Whig—a renegade, whose father was a good Catholic and a 'King's man.' The son would have made a fitting husband for your father's daughter if he had been loyal to his father's king—but you know well that I would rather see you the wife of the least of Jacobites than the greatest of Whigs. Go your own wilful way and do not pretend to ask my approval."
"I am not married to him yet," said Prue, who had not been unprepared for a vigorous protest from her ancestress, and for obvious reasons desired to placate her. "Nor would I contemplate such a step until my dear grandmother's recovery set me free from anxiety. And now, if your ladyship will permit us to kiss your hand, we will withdraw, as we grieve to hear that your physician has forbidden you all excitement."
During the whole interview the two girls had remained standing—not being invited to seat themselves, nor venturing to do so without permission. As they withdrew after saluting the tapering, ivory fingers of the invalid, she called after them, with more graciousness than she had yet shown, "You may return in the evening and read me Mr. Pope's poem. I have had it these three weeks and could not bring myself to let Lowton stumble through it. 'Twill give me something to think of besides an old woman's gout and gruel."
CHAPTER III
SIR GEOFFREY'S ARRIVAL
Lady Drumloch was not really half so ill as she fancied herself, and no better medicine could have been prescribed to hasten her convalescence than the gaiety and cheerfulness that her two granddaughters infused into the atmosphere of the little house in Mayfair, as soon as they had recovered from the fatigues of their journey.
Instead of lying in bed grumbling at the length of the lonely days and pain-weary nights, her ladyship allowed herself to be cajoled into rising and reclining on a couch, which was then wheeled into the adjoining room by James and the faithful Lowton. At first this was only for an hour or two a day, and the invalid, refusing to admit that she could be, in any way, benefited by the lively gossip of her granddaughters, had insisted that the reading of sermons and other pious works suited better with her age and infirmities than plays and poetry. But by the end of the week she had abandoned Atterbury and Taylor for the Tatler and the latest works of Pope and Prior, and was thirsting for yet more exciting entertainment, which she knew to be tantalizingly near at hand.
As soon as the return of the cousins became known, their numerous friends, who had contented themselves with polite inquiries after the invalid, while Lowton was the sole dispenser of news, displayed a touching solicitude about her condition. Every afternoon Lady Prue held quite a little levee—at which the sickness of the old countess up-stairs did not interfere greatly with the gaiety below. Day by day these cheerful sounds grew more and more exasperating to Lady Drumloch, whose passion for scandal was only whetted by the comments of the two girls, and who chafed rebelliously under the restrictions of the doctor, and led the devoted Lowton the life of a dog.
"Did I hear voices and laughter this afternoon?" she demanded, one evening, when her granddaughters came to bid her a dutiful good night.