It was more than a week now since he went, and she had not heard his name once mentioned, and there was no prospect of her hearing any one speak of him; since neither her father nor Sir Simon did so. Lady Anwyll came like a messenger and a link; Lady Anwyll was in Clide’s world, the wide, wide world beyond her own small sphere where no one knew him. This was unconsciously the reason of Franceline’s joyous greeting. Sir Simon had come with the dowager; they had walked down through the park together, and it was the first time in her life that Franceline was not thoroughly glad to see him. He was not quite like his usual self either, to her, she fancied. He rattled on in his own way, telling stories and making jokes, and then catching up some chance words of Raymond’s and quarrelling with them, until their author waxed warm, and was drawn out into an elaborate refutation of some meaning that he never dreamed of giving them, but into which Sir Simon had purposely twisted them; and finally accomplishing his aim of keeping the conversation on abstract subjects and not letting it slip into the dangerous path of personal or local events.
“So you will let me come and take you out for a drive sometimes,” Lady Anwyll said, as she rose to take leave, “and by-and-by, when you get used to the old woman, perhaps you will come and spend a day or two with her in her big, lonely house? You will not be always afraid of her?”
“I am not afraid of her now,” protested Franceline, looking with her radiant dark eyes straight into the old lady’s face, “you don’t look wicked at all.”
“Don’t I? Then more shame for me; that shows I’m a hypocrite, a whitened sepulchre, my dear,” and she nodded emphatically at Franceline, and gave a little groan.
“For goodness’ sake don’t come Miss Bulpit over us!” cried Sir Simon, holding up his hands. “I’ll bolt at once if you take to that.” And with this pretence of alarm he hurried out of the room.
“Then, since you are not frightened at me, you will promise to come very soon. Let us settle it at once—for Thursday next?” and she held the young girl’s hand in both her own, and looked to M. de la Bourbonais for assent.
But Raymond began to settle his spectacles, and was for explaining how difficult it would be for him to part with his daughter even for a day, and how unaccustomed she was to going anywhere alone, when Sir Simon called out from the garden:
“Tut, tut, Bourbonais, that’s precisely why she must go; you must not mope the child in this way; she must gad about a bit, like other girls. It will do her good; it will do her good.”
The three came out and joined him, walking round to the back entrance through which the visitors were going to re-enter the park.
“I shall get a few young people together, so it will not be so very dull for you, my dear,” continued Lady Anwyll, as they walked four abreast on the grass; “and I can mount you; I know you ride.”