“Perhaps he’s not much out in that,” assented the lady.
“Roxham struck me as being rather smitten the other night; did you notice anything in that direction,” inquired Sir Simon carelessly, as he rose to go. “I was too busy to see much of what was going on in the way of flirtation, but I fancied he was rather assiduous!”
“Now, that would be a very nice thing!” And the mother who had made many matches brightened up with lively interest. “I should like to help on that; it would be quite an exciting amusement, and I have nothing to do just now.”
“Take care!” and Sir Simon raised his finger with a warning gesture; “you may have a social nuisance on your hands before you know where you are.”
“Oh! I don’t mind when it’s of my own making,” said the dowager; “that quite alters the case.”
“Then you will drive over to-morrow or next day and call at The Lilies?”
Sir Simon mounted Nero in high good humor; whistled a hunting air as he dashed through the stiff Wellingtonias that flanked the long avenue at Rydal, and never drew rein until he alighted at his own door.
M. de la Bourbonais greeted Lady Anwyll with the innate courtesy of a grand seignior, and never let her see by so much as a look that her visit was not an agreeable surprise. Yet it was not so. Since that conversation with Sir Simon about Franceline’s fortune, an uneasy feeling had possessed him, and he had shrunk back more sensitively than ever into his shell of reserve and isolation. He had been content, or rather compelled, to leave matters entirely in Sir Simon’s hands, or in the hands of fate, but he did not feel at rest, and he had no mind to launch out into new acquaintances just at a moment when his mind was disturbed by strange probabilities, and his habitual abstraction broken up by vague anxieties, that could not take any definite shape as yet. But Lady Anwyll saw nothing of this in the old gentleman’s courtly greeting; she saw that Franceline had welcomed her with a warmth that was unmistakable—childlike and gleeful, and fettered by no ice bands of conventional politeness.
The dowager’s visit was indeed welcome; the utter silence that had succeeded to the stir and agitation of the past few weeks had fallen upon Franceline like a snow-drift in the midst of summer; the return to the old stagnant life was dreadful—she felt chilled to death by it. The reaction was natural enough to one of her age and circumstances; but we know that there was a deeper reason for her sense of loneliness and weariness than the mere relapse into routine and dulness after a season of excitement. Where was Mr. de Winton, and why had he gone off in that strange way, without a sign or a word, leaving her trembling and expectant on the threshold of her awakened womanhood?