“H’m,” the old lady ejaculated dubiously. “Well, I don’t. I met Mrs. Henniker once, and I must say that I did not care for her in the least. Ethelwynn is very fond of her, but to my mind she’s fast, and not at all a suitable companion for a girl of my daughter’s disposition. It may be that I have an old woman’s prejudices, living as I do in the country always, but somehow I can never bring myself to like her.”
Mrs. Mivart, like the majority of elderly widows who have given up the annual visit to London in the season, was a trifle behind the times. More charming an old lady could not be, but, in common with all who vegetate in the depths of rural England, she was just a trifle narrow-minded. In religion, she found fault constantly with the village parson, who, she declared, was guilty of ritualistic practices, and on the subject of her daughters she bemoaned the latter-day emancipation of women, which allowed them to go hither and thither at their own free will. Like all such mothers, she considered wealth a necessary adjunct to happiness, and it had been with her heartiest approval that Mary had married the unfortunate Courtenay, notwithstanding the difference between the ages of bride and bridegroom. In every particular the old lady was a typical specimen of the squire’s widow, as found in rural England to-day.
Scarcely had we seated ourselves and I had replied to her question when the door opened and a slim figure in deep black entered and mechanically took the empty chair. She crossed the room, looking straight before her, and did not notice my presence until she had seated herself face to face with me.
Of a sudden her thin wan face lit up with a smile of recognition, and she cried:
“Why, Doctor! Wherever did you come from? No one told me you were here,” and across the table she stretched out her hand in greeting.
“I thought you were reposing after your long walk this morning, dear; so I did not disturb you,” her mother explained.
But, heedless of the explanation, she continued putting to me questions as to when I had left town, and the reason of my visit there. To the latter I returned an evasive answer, declaring that I had run down because I had heard that her mother was not altogether well.
“Yes, that’s true,” she said. “Poor mother has been very queer of late. She seems so distracted, and worries quite unnecessarily over me. I wish you’d give her advice. Her state causes me considerable anxiety.”
“Very well,” I said, feigning to laugh, “I must diagnose the ailment and see what can be done.”
The soup had been served, and as I carried my spoon to my mouth I examined her furtively. My hostess had excused me from dressing, but her daughter, neat in her widow’s collar and cuffs, sat prim and upright, her eyes now and then raised to mine in undisguised inquisitiveness.