“How?” asked Félicia, with some interest.
“Oh, I’ll fix things,” said Maimie, mysteriously but with secret satisfaction. Félicia was returning to her allegiance very fast. It was another reason for contentment that Félicia asked no questions as to the way in which she secured success. This was very simple. Maimie told Lady Caerleon that Félicia slept badly, which was true, and suggested that she ought not to sleep alone. Before Lady Caerleon, somewhat puzzled, had time to propose that Maimie should move into the same room, Maimie added that she felt sure the easterly aspect of Lady Philippa’s room was not good for Félicia. Informed that it was the outlook which Philippa had specially loved, Maimie retorted that that might be so, but Félicia was just perished with cold. Lady Caerleon remarked that she was sure to be cold in the winter if she would not go out; to which Maimie replied that in America the houses were heated, and people had not to go outdoors to get warm. Lady Caerleon was horrified by the implied reproach. She had meant the girl Usk loved to be so much to her, but in some mysterious way they seemed to be fast drifting apart. And now it was suggested that Félicia was suffering heroically in silence, fearing to wound her hostess by the suggestion that Philippa’s room was too cold for her! Always ready to accuse herself, Lady Caerleon blamed her own lack of sympathy and insight, and entreated Maimie to say what she thought it would be best to do. Maimie was quite prepared for this. There were two rooms opening into one another, and facing south-west, which she thought would be just right. And might she look about in the unoccupied rooms of the Castle, and choose the furniture that Félicia would probably like? In her compunction, Lady Caerleon would have given leave for anything, and in due time Maimie introduced Félicia to a kind of fairy bower. There were quaint tables and cabinets belonging to the Castle, but the draperies and ornaments came from Maimie’s own stores. She had foreseen this crisis, and provided against it.
Lady Caerleon found that her dream of having two young companions and helpers always with her this winter instead of one was doomed to disappointment. The two girls spent their time almost exclusively in their own rooms, and what they did there was a mystery. Maimie had American books and papers sent her by post, and sometimes her voice could be heard as she read aloud to Félicia; but Félicia’s activities seemed to be confined to the eating of bonbons. When there were visitors, however, both the girls made their appearance as soon as they were sent for, and took all the burden of entertaining off Lady Caerleon’s shoulders. About each of them would gather a circle of worthy squires and parsons, whose honest laughter over Transatlantic audacities of speech made the great hall ring. The country ladies, sitting silent and astonished and a little shocked, had yet eyes to note the Parisian elegance of the deep mourning gowns, even if they remarked afterwards that it was just like Americans to dress with such uncalled for smartness every day. In any case, an impression was made.
CHAPTER VI.
TOTÂ QUOD MENTE PETISTI.
“How did Phil stand it, any way?” said Félicia.
She and Maimie were sitting over the fire in her room, discussing the Rector’s daughters, whom they had just been interviewing at tea. There is no other word to describe the intercourse between the American and the English girls, for Félicia, in a wonderful Empire tea-gown, which revealed her white arms and shoulders through clouds of black chiffon, had set herself deliberately to catechise the Misses Jones on the occupations and pleasures—particularly the pleasures—of their daily life. The Rector was a good Welshman, and his daughters, who were rosy, healthy, country girls, rejoiced in the names of Gwladys and Myfanwy. Now that Philippa was married, they were Lady Caerleon’s right hand in all her schemes for the good of the parish, and their multifarious duties had hitherto left them no time to cultivate the acquaintance of the two Americans, whose clothes they had regarded admiringly from a distance. Christmas was now over, however, and in the short breathing-space at the end of the holidays Lady Caerleon had insisted on making her young friends known to one another, and with some misgivings had left the four girls together.
The conversation that ensued was not entirely devoid of friction. Something in the tone of Félicia’s questions and comments seemed to rouse the two Welsh girls, and the sedate Gwladys took refuge in assuring her calmly that she could not possibly understand the pleasures and interests of a life so far removed from her own, and therefore there was no use in telling her about them. The livelier Myfanwy, on the other hand, was anxious to justify her contentment with things as they were. She and Gwladys were so busy, she said, that they really had no time to go about hunting for amusement; but when they wanted it there was plenty of one kind or another. They had their bicycles, and they took turns in driving their parents in the pony-cart, and they belonged to a harmonic society, and this winter there were University Extension Lectures in Aberkerran, and Lady Caerleon had given them tickets. They took turns, also, in going to dinner-parties, and in the summer there was tennis—which still lingered on in this remote corner of the world—and croquet (Gwladys was a crack player), and picnics, and choir excursions—the last form of dissipation was included somewhat doubtfully.
“But don’t you ever have any frolics?” demanded Félicia.
Both girls looked rather offended at being asked such a question, but inquired forbearingly what in the world she meant. Félicia, racking her memory to recall the amusements of country girls in America, mentioned candy-pulls, corn-huskings, apple-bees, clam-suppers, and church-socials, to which they replied with marked coolness that in England it was only the farmers and the Dissenters who went in for that sort of thing.
“Maybe this is a frolic?” suggested Maimie, with a wave of her hand, which included the room and the tea-table.