Angélique put her biggest irons in the fire, and smoothed out her young mistress’s prettiest white muslin dress, and set her sashes and ribbons in order, and was as full of bustle as if the quiet visit a few miles off had been a wedding.
“I am glad the petite is going; it will do her good,” she observed, complacently, as she brought in the lamp and set it down on the count’s table that evening.
“Why do you think it will do her good? Is she suffering in any way?” said the father, a sudden sting of the old fear giving sharpness to his voice.
“Bonté divine! How monsieur takes the word out of one’s mouth!” ejaculated Angélique, throwing up her hands like an aggrieved woman; “why, a little distraction always does good at mamselle’s age; look at me: it would put new blood into my old veins if I could go somewhere and distract myself.”
“You find it very dull, my good Angélique?” And the master turned a kindly, almost penitent glance on the nut-brown face.
“Hé! listen to him again! One does not want to be dying of ennui to enjoy a little distraction; one does not think of it, but when it comes one may like it!” She gave the shade a jerk that made it spin round the lamp, and walked off in high dudgeon.
Franceline was conscious of a pleasurable flutter next day, when she heard the carriage crunching the gravel, and presently Lady Anwyll came round on foot, followed by the footman, who carried off her box and secured it in some mysterious part of the vehicle. She was flushed when she kissed her father and said good-by; he thought it was the pleasure of the “little distraction” that heightened her color, and that took away the pang of the short parting.
“Yes, decidedly, a change does her good,” he mentally remarked; “I must let her take advantage of any pleasant one that offers.”
It was an event in Franceline’s life, going to stay at a strange house. The Court was too much like her own home, and she had known it too long and too early to feel like a visitor there, or to be overpowered by its splendors. Rydal was not to be compared to it either for architectural beauty or magnitude, or for the extent and beauty of the grounds and surrounding scenery. The Court was a grand baronial hall; Rydal was an old-fashioned manor house; low-roofed, straggling, and picturesque outside; spacious and comfortable inside; with enough of the marks of time on the furniture and decorations to stamp it as the abode of many generations of gentlemen. A low-ceiled square hall, with sitting-rooms opening into it on either side, and quaint pictures and arms ornamenting its walls, received you with a hospitable hearth, where a huge log was blazing cheerily under a high, carved oak mantel-piece. It was not flagged with marble, nor supported by majestic columns like the Gothic hall of the Court, but it had a charm of its own that Franceline felt, and expressed by a bright exclamation as she alighted in it.
“Come in and sit down for a moment in the drawing-room,” said Lady Anwyll. “I always rest before toiling up-stairs, my dear; and you must fancy yourself an old woman and do so too.”