New Friends & Old Acquaintances

 35

New Friends & Old Acquaintances

    The luncheon hosted by Major Kernohan at the Hammond Arms duly took place; after which Mrs Goodbody, Miss Ainsley and Miss Charleson were, or so the last-named eagerly declared, ready to visit the shops!

    “I’m afraid I do have a considerable amount of correspondence, Miss Hildegarde,” Aurry said awkwardly, as the three ladies departed.

    “Good. I am quite ready, sir. Shall we sit down at the table?”

    The Major having already rung for ink and paper, they set about it. He had several business letters to write, and when these were done, said that if she would not mind, his papa would be wanting news of him.

    Hildy’s brothers did not bother to write much to their family, except an occasional scrawl to say they were staying with old so-and-so and the shooting was splendid (Hal) or that they had had a good jape last week with the bag-wig and if Mamma could send one of those fruit-cakes it would not be half bad (Tom), so she was very surprized to find that Major Kernohan wrote to his papa as—well, as she herself would have written to Gaetana!

    “What is it?” he asked with a smile.

    “Nothing,” she said, blushing. “Um, I have got to: ‘You would smile could you but see Dollery square up to the yokels with the assertion that those as fought for King and Country under Old Hooky cannot be said to be foreigners and if he hears the word once more he will give ’em a taste of what the Froggies got, not to say follow up the threat with a—’”

    “Oh, dear: am I shocking you?” he said.

    “No. Shall I write ‘wisty castor’?” replied Miss Hildegarde firmly.

    “No, I thank you!” he gasped. “Er—well, I was going to say ‘a thumping right to the jaw that would floor an ox, much less one of the local simpletons.’”

    “‘...that would floor an ox,’” murmured Hildy, writing busily. “There! Go on, sir!” She beamed at him.

    “Er—yes. Please would you read over that paragraph to me, Miss Hildegarde? I have lost my thread.”

    “Oh—yes,” he said when she had done so. “Er—well, pray continue thus, if you would, Miss Hildegarde: ‘The dear fellow has me out every morning for a sparring match on the lawn, for he declares’—am I going too fast?”

    “No: ‘declares’,” said Hildy breathlessly, dipping her pen again. “Go on, sir.”

    The Major dictated more slowly: “‘Declares that a bent wing ain’t’—please write ‘ain’t’, Miss Hildegarde—”

    “Yes: I understand, you wish to give your Papa the essence of the man.”

    “Yes,” he said with a smile: “Er—‘that a bent wing ain’t no reason for a man to neglect hisself. I fear I do not perform entirely creditably: Dollery with his one leg is more than my match, but nevertheless he maintains it is doing me good, and to say truth, I am feeling much better in myself since he instituted the régime.’ –Is anything wrong?”

    “No,” said Hildy, blinking rapidly and not looking up. “I have got that, sir.”

    “Er—mm. ‘The workmen think we are both entirely mad, of course, but clearly that is down to our being foreigners. Dollery continues with the massage he instituted at home, and the arm is much easier for it.’”

    “‘ ...easier for it,’” said Hildy, looking up at him. “Yes, sir?”

    The Major was staring into space. “Oh!” he said with a jump. “Um...” He got up and began to pace slowly round the table. “I wish to assure Papa that I am very well but—but do not wish to give him the idea that he can expect any true improvement in the arm,” he explained. “His is a most optimistic temperament, as no doubt you have realized, and— But the surgeons have assured me I have as much movement in it as I ever will.”

    Hildy swallowed. “I see. Well, let me see what you have.” She read it over silently. “Yes,” she said. “Perhaps we could simply say: ‘However, I have no more movement in it, and as you know that is not to be looked for’?”

    “Yes,” said Aurry in relief. “Please put that.”

    Hildy wrote it carefully.

    “Yes,” he said, coming to look over her shoulder, “that will do very well. Um—we could finish that paragraph thus, I think!” he added with a chuckle: “‘Naturally Dollery follows up the sparring match by dousing me under the yard pump, an activity which the locals find as incomprehensible as our taking exercise!’”

    “Slow down!” said Hildy with a little laugh. “Oh, dear, I am sure they do,” she added.

    “Mm. Um—I was going to write Papa of the delightful evening I spent at your cousin’s house,” he said with a sly look, “but perhaps that could be left for another time.”

    “I quite understand,” said Miss Hildegarde sedately.

    Aurry looked down at her with a smile and did not say that if he was sure she did understand his wish to express his mixed amusement and gratitude over the care Mr Ainsley had taken with his table, he was even more sure she did not understand that he wished also to express delicately to his Papa the utter adorableness of Miss Hildegarde with her little cat—without, of course, at the same time giving the over-optimistic Mr Henry the wrong impression entirely.

    He went on, therefore, to tell Mr Henry some details of what he was doing with the house. Then he said with a little laugh: “Oh! I had almost forgot! let me see… Yes, pray start a new paragraph: ‘I should be glad of news of the oak four-poster bed. As Uncle Francis writes he does not care if he never sets eyes on the adjectival thing, I have determined to use it myself, if it is salvageable. I hope we did the right thing in taking all the pegs out—’”

    “Pegs?” said Hildy dubiously.

    “Yes,” he said, smiling: “it is an antique thing that belonged to the house. Most beautifully carved. All the joints were pegged.”

    “Oh,” she said uncertainly. “I see. Pray go on.”

    “Um... ‘taking all the pegs out and dismantling it entirely before we sent it you, but in any case the carter declared he could not have carried it, whole. The local builder assures me oak will stand up to any amount of damp, as of course that is what Lord Nelson’s fleet that defeated Boney’s lot was built from!’ Er, please insert an exclamation point, there, Miss Hildegarde.”

    “Yes, I have done so,” said Hildy with a smile.

    “So you have,” he said, looking over her shoulder. “What an excellent secretary you are! When I was in hospital—” He broke off.

    “Yes?” said Hildy timidly.

    “Oh—when I was laid up in Belgium, y’know: one of my young subalterns from the regiment volunteered to write my letters for me: the boy had received a ball right through the calf, but was recovering well, thank God. But although he was most earnest about transcribing my exact words, he—he was very weak on punctuation!” he ended with a little laugh.

    “It can alter the whole sense of one’s prose,” she said with a smile.

    “Indeed!” He looked over her shoulder again and said: “Er... ‘However that may be, please let me know if the joiner you found shares that opinion—’ Er—no, Miss Hildegarde?”

    “I would leave out the ‘However that may be’,” she said, blushing a little.

    “You are very right!”

    Hildy wrote the amended sentence and the Major continued: “‘... as otherwise I will have to look for a modern bed. Uncle Francis is of the opinion that four-posters are not as healthful as the new beds, but I suppose one need not draw the hangings, and I own I should like to put the old bed in the house for which it was built.’”

    “Yes. Paul says—” She hesitated, but the Major encouraged her to continue and she said: “Paul says there is a shop here in Ditterminster which will prepare bed hangings in quite the old style!”

    The Major expressed great interest and Hildy promised to ask Paul, and send him a note of the name of the shop. He mentioned the fine embroidered hangings he had seen in the cathedral, some obviously quite new, and she said yes, the embroiderers who did work for that shop had also done many of those hangings. And all the kneelers had recently been replaced, and that was the work of the same team: they would work to any style required.

    From this, somehow they diverged onto the subject of the burgeoning industrial towns and the shocking conditions of the workers therein, and it was a little while before the Major came to himself and said: “Well, this is not getting Papa’s letter finished, I fear! Er—shall we have a little break for refreshments, perhaps?”

    He himself chose a glass of ale but ordered tea for Miss Hildegarde. After a while the door opened, but it was not the refreshments but the landlady herself, apparently in order, with a beaming smile, to assure Miss that she would look to the tea herself, for they could be sure she kept it under lock and key, and it was perfectly fresh. The tea—and the ale—duly eventuated, with some unrequested biscuits.

    “I think we had best try these,” murmured Hildy.

    “Or risk offending her forever and a day? Yes!” The Major took one. It was very nice, but sat rather oddly with the landlord’s excellent ale.

    The tray was cleared away, not altogether to their surprise, by the landlady herself, very pleased to receive Hildy’s thanks for the excellent tea and delicious biscuits.

    The Major then resumed his letter. He gave his papa some news of the state the property was in, mentioned the kitchen garden was a jungle of overgrown gooseberry bushes and the orchard a wilderness, and then, noting with a little laugh how many sheets they had covered, said he had better end it there.

    “I fear it will cost several sixpences, sir,” said Hildy on an anxious note.

    “Well, he has not had news of me for some time; I do not think he will feel it extravagant in me! Now, let me see; yes, I will just end it thus: ‘As I mentioned, Roly wrote me very recently. You will be glad to hear that the dear boy is growing up a little at last, for in place of the off-hand Roland to whom we are accustomed, he wrote a most caring letter, expressing great concern for my welfare and adjuring me to wrap up warmly, especially at night. I think he felt my being wounded more than we had assumed at that time, and has become aware, as we all must, of the essential fragility of all human flesh, and the value our loved ones must hold for us—’ No, please stop, Miss Hildegarde, I am not expressing that very well.”

    Hildy wiped a tear away with the back of the hand that held the pen, but said nothing.

    “Put this: ‘... and the value we must not neglect to place on our loved ones while we still have them with us. You would have been very pleased with his letter, I think. Nota bene: this does not mean we may expect any greater depth of emotional maturity in his verse, I fear!’”

    “Shall I write that?” said Hildy, swallowing.

    “Why, yes. Do you not think Papa is capable of grasping the change of tone?” he asked with a little smile.

    “Yes!” said Hildy hurriedly. “Of course, Major.” She wrote busily.

    “There!” said Aurry pleasedly. “I cannot tell you how grateful I am, Miss Hildegarde, not the least for affording me the opportunity to say that last to Papa. I shall finish it off myself, if I may.” He drew up the chair to her side, took the pen from her and scrawled: “So very glad to have this opport.y to write, dearest Papa. All love to the family and to yrself. Kiss Mamma and the girls for me. Yr devoted son, Aurry.”

    Hildy had simply sat and watched him. She had been so absorbed in the letter that it had not occurred to her not to. Now further tears rolled down her cheeks. She produced a handkerchief from her sleeve and stealthily tried to wipe them away.

    “What is it?” he said.

    “Nothing. You love them very much,” she gulped.

    “Yes, of course,” he said gently. “Had you not realized that, while you stayed with Grandmamma?”

    “Yes. Only, my brothers do not write letters like that. I did not know that gentlemen did.”

    Aurry looked at her doubtfully. “Your papa died when you were very young, I think?”

    “Yes,” said Hildy, nodding and sniffing.

    “Yes. Well, Papa and I are very close. Of course, it is not always so, between fathers and sons, but  we have always felt a bond, although our characters are, I suppose, very different.”

    “Your grandmamma said you got your steadfastness of character from him,” she said, blowing her nose.

    “I am glad to hear she thinks so.” He hesitated and then said: “Dear Miss Hildegarde, did your dear old teacher never manage to afford you the impression that—that feeling is not the province of the female half of humanity alone?”

    Hildy blew her nose again. “You are very acute, Major. I suppose I had unconsciously assumed that. It was silly of me, when you think of the great works of literature written by men. I suppose... Well, Dr Rogers was interested in the intellect rather than the emotions. I am sure he did not realize that I—that I had what I now perceive to be some very silly notions in my head.”

    “Yes.” He looked at her uncertainly. “Much may be learned from books: I would never deny that. I have always felt it a pity that neither Dorian nor Roly are great readers, and nor, I fear, are Horty, Angie, and Tarry. But the true lessons, those of the emotions and the true nature of feeling itself, if I may put it so, are those which we gain from life.”

    Hildy nodded. “Yes, I understand that. And I think, now, I am also beginning to—to feel it. Losing Dr Rogers and—and Old Tom, has imperceptibly made me both think and feel differently, over this last year.”

    And perhaps simply growing a little older, too, thought the Major, looking at her kindly. “I see. Who was Old Tom?”

    Hildy told him a great deal about Old Tom, not omitting the facts of his being smelly and a rascal, and the Major listened with interest and did not appear to feel the need to voice any criticism, however kindly, of the friendship. He was genuinely interested in the way the old man had treated the injured squirrel, and Hildy told him a lot about this, and also about Old Tom’s ways with animals and birds in general, unaware that the Major was interested in this part of her narrative rather more for what it revealed of Miss Hildegarde than for what it did of the old poacher.

    Although the afternoon was now considerably advanced there was no sign of the others, so they then strolled off to take the letters to the post. Neither of them spoke very much on the short trip.

    The rest of the party had returned by the time they reached the Hammond Arms again, so with little more ado they mounted into their carriage and were off.

    The Major waved farewell to the Ainsley Manor carriage and turned to go back inside, but was halted in his tracks by the sight of a familiar fair-headed figure, curly-brimmed hat in hand, dismounting from a carriage which had just pulled up outside the inn.

    “Roly!” he said with an amazed laugh. “My dear fellow, what the— It is not bad news from home, is it?” he asked, cheeks whitening.

    “No, no, dear old fellow, of course not! Dare say they would not have entrusted it to me, y’know. No, well, Bath was dashed flat, y’know, and— Oh, wait just a second, Aurry, I must just—”

    He turned back to the carriage, which Aurry now perceived in some astonishment to be a handsome private vehicle, and not a hired post-chaise, and handed down a passenger from it.

    “Aye!” said the passenger, panting. “That be it, me dear! Acos I must admit it, I is long past hoppin’ down from a carriage like a sparrer, like I did in me young days—though you might not believe it, to see me now! Now, never tell me this is that brother of yours! Well, ain’t that a coincidence, now!” She beamed upon the pair of them.

    “Yes, indeed, ma’am,” said Roland on a nervous note. “My brother, Major Kernohan, ma’am.”

    The stout lady in the very emerald-green pelisse, half shrouded in a voluminous wrap of rich-looking sables, straightened the very bright emerald silk bonnet, upon which appeared four of the largest, most upstanding ostrich plumes Aurry Kernohan had ever been privileged to lay eyes on, not to mention the largest and reddest bunch of artificial cherries—they were more the size of apples—and held out a plump hand encased in a lilac kid glove.

    “Mrs Urqhart, Aurry,” said Roland weakly. “Mrs Urqhart was so very kind as to offer me a ride as far as the town, when she learned I was wishful to head out this way.”

    “Delighted, ma’am,” said the Major, bowing over her hand. Over the glove it wore two large rings of mixed rubies and sapphires, an enormous diamond surrounded by pearls, and a carved emerald which rivalled the one he had lately seen worn by the Marquis of Rockingham. Round the other wrist was a fine set of cameos set in gold. He could not help wondering in some horror what in God’s name Roly had got himself mixed up with. And if Papa knew.

    “No, you ain’t delighted, you is a-thinkin’ I is a Bath widder on the catch for a pretty young gent,” she said shrewdly.

    The Major gasped.

    “Aye, well, it’s the natural thing to think, and no need to bite your lip, neither,” she said kindly. “—Ain’t he black?” she added to his brother in an interested aside. “You would almost think he were a native.—Well, it’s true we did meet at that there Pump Room,” she said, nodding the plumes at Aurry, “only you may trust me, I has a son of my own what is older than Mr Roland, and two fine girls with families of their own—aye, and seven more as I buried out in India,” she added on a more mournful note,  “and I ain’t never seen the man yet as could go next or nigh replacin’ my dear old Pumps, God rest his soul!” She panted a little.

    A smile spread over Aurry’s dark countenance. “I think you must be Miss Hildegarde Maddern’s dear friend.”

    “There! Ain’t that sweet?” she cried. “Dear friend, eh? Well, it was like her to tell you that, Major. And I must say, I could wish she was me own daughter. And her mamma has been most kind to me, indeed, if my pa was a man as worked for his living, aye, and his pa afore him!”

    “Miss Hildegarde has told me how very happy she was during her stay in your house, Mrs Urqhart.”

    “There now! Bless her!” she said, beaming. “They didn’t hardly do nothing, the pair of ’em, you know, save go for walks and read my Pumps’s blessed books! But then, neither of ’em is your usual sort of mimsy-pimsy Miss what must be always payin’ calls and bein’ squired here, there and everywhere to your Society parties!”

    The Major bowed, smiling, in tremendous appreciation of this artless speech. Mrs Urqhart shot him a shrewd glance before turning back to the coach to say loudly: “Come along, Jo, what is you a-doing of?”

    A smiling, pink-cheeked face framed in brown fur appeared in the carriage doorway and a fresh young voice with a laugh in it said: “I was waiting until you had finished testing Major Kernohan’s mettle, Aunt Betsy!”

    The old lady gave a terrifically gratified snort, and, choking: “There ain’t no flies on her!” explained to the Major: “This is Miss Jubb, sir. She is not my true niece, but the daughter of a very old friend.”

    The Major watched with interest as Roly handed Miss Jubb down. He did not indulge in his usual excessive bowing and scraping but smiled cheerfully at her, and she smiled cheerfully back. So possibly it was not going to be a new goddess to replace Miss Hildegarde in his affections. Aurry didn’t know whether to be glad or sorry, on the whole!

    “We were so sorry to have just missed Hildy in Bath, sir,” said Miss Jubb as he bowed to her. “But the waters at Leamington Spa were so nasty we found ourselves obliged to hurry up to London for a revivifying round of good dinners and concerts with my papa before submitting our constitutions to the rigours of Bath.”

    “Aye, and then we missed her, acos she had come earlier than what I had thought, and gone earlier than what I had been sure she was going to,” said Mrs Urqhart aggrievedly. “I was so blamed sure she had said she was not leaving till November!”

    “Er—possibly that was the plan, ma’am,” said Aurry uncertainly. “Mr Ainsley mentioned that she had not had as long at her home as was the original intention.”

    Mrs Urqhart sniffed. “Don’t tell me! Patty Ainsley Maddern would ’a been a-runnin’ up to London to buy bride-clothes for them others the minute as Mr Ainsley had turned his back on her!”

    “Aunt Betsy—” murmured Miss Jubb.

    “Well, tell me it ain’t so!” she demanded, fixing Aurry with a beady eye.

    “I shall tell you no such thing, ma’am, for I concluded it was exactly so,” he said promptly, offering his arm. “However, Miss Hildegarde was enabled to have a good long rest with my grandmother, doing nothing more than take an occasional stroll to the Pump Room and—er—read Grandmamma’s blessed books, for several weeks.”

    “Well!” she said, very pleased indeed. “You is all and more than what your brother said: aye, and worth twenty of that other brother of yours!” she added, nodding.

    Aurry’s heart almost failed him at the thought of the fashionable Dorian and this stout-hearted old creature juxtaposed in the Pump Room. He swallowed. “Thank you,” he said weakly. “Would you care to come in out of the cold, Mrs Urqhart?”

    “Aye, I would that, Major, but first we must get that heathen out of there! Bapsee!” she cried loudly.

    A very dark, thin, elderly face wrapped in a fur over—it was not a cape: some kind of shawl?—looked out of the carriage.

    “Get out, ekdum, and get yourself into the inn. Mr Roly will bespeak us a private parlour, I is quite sure, and you can huddle by the fire. And I dare say,” the old lady added with a wicked look in her eye, “they will not offer pea soup with a bacon bone, unless you asks for it special.”

    The Indian servant gave a shriek and covered her face with her hands.

    “You has but to breathe the mere idea of P,I,G, and she will do it,” said Mrs Urqhart, very pleased.

    “Aunt Betsy,” said Miss Jubb, trying not to laugh, “you are too cruel! It was scarcely poor Bapsee’s fault if she beat you soundly at backgammon: the luck was all in her favour today. Come along, Bapsee,” she said, holding out her hand: “we shall be very cosy in the inn, and you need take no more than a cup of coffee, if you wish.”

    “We has a miniature travelling set, for chess is what I never could abide, though my Pumps, he were downright passionate for it, and taught our Timmy as soon as he could scarcely walk,” confided Mrs Urqhart to the Major.

    Bapsee took Johanna’s hand and got down, saying: “Inn coffees is not good for insides, Missy baba.”

    “Never mind about all that, come along in,” said Mrs Urqhart, urging the Major forward. –He had been turned to stone at the sight of the old servant’s feet, clad in heavy grey knitted stockings over which she was wearing what must be her native sandals. The great toe having a—a glove, or—or compartment to itself!

    He urged Mrs Urqhart to join him in his private parlour, an invitation which she accepted happily, though admitting she must just put her feet up for a bit, first. But she must have something hot immediate, for though they had had a few nuts and sweetmeats on the journey, and a new hot brick at the last posting-house, still, carriages was nasty, draughty contraptions. Though mind you, if you had not been across Delhi in a camel-cart, you had not travelled! she added with a chuckle. And if the Major would not mind ordering her up a glass of rum punch—and be sure as they put plenty of sugar and lemon in it—and coffees for the others, they would go upstairs straight away. For they had been travelling since dawn. And she made no doubt as the Major and Mr Roly would be glad to do some catching up.

    Abruptly deserted in the private parlour, the brothers looked blankly at each other for a moment. Then Aurry laughed and said: “By gad, what a trouvaille! Did you find her all on your own, dear lad?”

    And Roly grinned and said: “Aye, Dorian had gone off to lose at billiards to Planty Robinson: his nose was well out of joint, I can tell you! She is better than five General Lowells rolled into one.”

    Aurry laughed and said: “Nay, fifty!” and clapped him on the back.

    And suddenly Roly hugged his brother very hard and said in a muffled voice: “I am so very glad to see you again, old fellow.”

    At this Aurry hugged him with his good arm and kissed his cheek gently.

    “Don’t,” said Roly in a muffled voice. “Or I shall bawl.”

    “I shall not mind, I bawled when dear Ralph Kingston died in my arms.”

    Roly gulped a bit. “Yes.”

    Aurry held him for a while, and finally patted his back gently, and said cheerfully: “Well! I do trust you have come to give me the news that Dorian has been persuaded to pay his addresses to Beatrice Hallam!”

    Roly sniffed, and grinned, and stood up straight. “Maude. She is fatter.”

    “Less of a squint, though: the squint must count in Miss Beatrice’s favour!”

    They both laughed, and Aurry drew him over to the fire. They sat down, and he said: “Seriously, dear boy, Dorian is not seeing too much of Planty Robinson and his set, is he?”

    “I would not say so. Planty can give him a decent game of billiards, y’know. But actually, Aurry, it is the oddest thing, and I may be mistaken—only Vi swears to it, too: Dorian seems—and I don’t think it is our imaginations, either—”

    “Roly, for God’s sake, what?”

    “Well,” he said cautiously, ill-advisedly running a finger round the tight neckcloth, “we think Dorian seems to have come a cropper for Miss Jubb!”

    “What: that nice, fresh, wholesome young creature?” he said in astonishment.

    “Aye—well, she is pretty enough. He said autumn shades became her,” he reported dubiously.

    “Yes, but— Dorian? A fresh-faced little creature with no style about her?”

    “She is quite clever,” he said dubiously.

    “I know he admired Miss Hildegarde’s wit, but intelligence in a woman has never before been one of his criteria! Are you sure, Roly?”

    “Er—well, no. Only Vi is pretty positive. The thing is, he ain’t—well, he ain’t showering her with posies or—or— Well, you know the sort of thing! He don’t dance constant attendance on her, either. Well, I can’t explain it, Aurry: it is just something in the way he looks at her and speaks to her!”

    “Good gad. Well, does she affect him?”

    “Don’t think so. Thinks he’s a fribble, far’s we can make out. Well, he is,” he said simply.

    “Mm. –I would say she is very young.”

    “Oh, Lord, yes! Not much older than Tarry! Barely out—well, will not be presented until next Season!”

    “I see.”

    “Of course, it would be a damn’ good thing for Dorian, if the rumour going round Bath is true: they say her pa is as rich as the old lady.”

    “Roly,” said Aurry, trying not to laugh: “Bath is always full of such rumours, it is the place’s spécialité, surely you have realized that?”

    “Aye, well, dare say it is all a hum! Thought you would want to know, however.”

    “Mm. Er—well, if she is to stay in the district, possibly I could try inviting Dorian down.”

    “Dorian? In the country?” he choked.

    “He would have to stay here, at the inn. Like yourself,” he said solemnly, but with a lurking twinkle.

    “Me? No, I say—”

    After quite some considerable time Aurry got him to see reason. A forcible argument being the fact that there were no beds at Beaubois House. Unless he fancied the sort of cot that Aurry had had during his campaigning, which was all he and Dollery were sleeping on.

    “It will be dark soon, but should you care to ride over and take a look at the house?’ he asked. “We had better come back here to dine, there is nothing much to eat there.”

    Roly agreed happily to this, and they set off immediately, Aurry on his horse and Roly on a hired hack. On the way, however, he said: “Do you not usually eat at the inn, though, old man?”

    “Mm? Oh, Lord, no! What, ride all the way over there in order to eat indifferent stewed mutton and be faced with the ride back? No, Dollery and I make ourselves cosy enough, you’ll see.”

    Roly did see. He was secretly horrified, but fancied he managed to conceal it quite well. His brother seemed to be eating rabbits and the occasional bird from off the land, the last of the wild gooseberries from the kitchen garden, a few odd roots and semi-wild cabbages from ditto, and bread and cheese supplied by a woman from a nearby cottage. He did not speak of it until they had dined back at the inn—really quite well, the mutton was local and it was roast, not boiled, and very tasty, as was its caper sauce—and then he said awkwardly: “Aurry, dear old fellow, you have not sunk your own money in that barracks of a house, have you?”

    “Why, of course!” he said with an amazed laugh. “What, did you think I would take all from Uncle Francis, and give nothing in return?”

    Roly went very red. “No, but—”

    “I mean to make a go of it,” said Aurry determinedly. “The place will run a small flock of sheep, and as well there is some excellent arable land which only needs to be brought back into condition. And if you feel like shooting any rabbits for me, you are welcome to do so, the place is overrun with ’em.”

    “Yes—well, if I may use your shot-gun?”

    Aurry nodded carelessly.

    Roly had to swallow, this was not a privilege that had been extended to him before. But he then said cautiously: “But you know, dear fellow, Papa would not altogether like to see you living hand-to-mouth like you are doing.”

    Aurry just laughed and said: “Oh, Dollery and I cannot be doing with wasting our gelt on high living, you know!”

    “Well, what does Uncle Francis say?” he pursued doggedly.

    “Er—he mentioned that he thought I should cope well enough, since my head was not filled with niffy-naffy notions like those of my brothers,” replied Aurry delicately.

    “Aurry!”

    “Well, he did,” he said with a grin. “And that is all he said on the subject: he is a sensible man. And so is Papa, so do not be writing him any nonsense in a panic.”

    “I would not!” he said indignantly.

    Aurry rather thought the redness of the cheeks indicated he might have. But he just smiled and, since Roly was now yawning his head off, packed him off to bed forthwith.

    He himself rode home very slowly. He did not really think, except about one or two matters to do with the house that would need tackling very soon. But his head was full of a picture of Hildy’s face, and his ears were still full of the sound of her deep little voice. And though undoubtedly there were many far more practical things he should be concentrating on, just for the nonce he did not bother to try.

    Perhaps he was not perfectly happy: he was by far too complex a man ever to be that, certainly now that he had left his green youth far behind him. But for the first time since Waterloo he felt at peace within himself. His Uncle Francis would have claimed this was due entirely to his having found a new occupation that he could keep busy at. The faithful-hearted Dollery would have claimed it was all that exercise and fresh air. And Mr Roland, could he but have been privileged to see the pretty picture in his brother’s mind, would unhesitatingly—for he was even more Romantically-minded than Mrs Henry—have attributed it to the charming influence of Miss Hildegarde Maddern. But Mr Henry Kernohan, who in spite of his genial and optimistic personality was not a simple man, would very probably have said that all these factors were involved. As was, more simply, the healing process of time.

    Mrs Urqhart set down her teacup with a sigh. “Aye,” she said, “I am right glad to be back.”

    “Well, dearest Mrs Urqhart, why did you stay away so long?” returned Paul with a laugh in his voice.

    Mrs Urqhart gave him a very dry look. “In the first place, so as Noël would not have no excuse to come back to the district and would be safe from the widder, and in the second place, so as Ned Jubb could make out he had no excuse to come back to these here parts and would be safe from the widder. And if you has not already guessed that, you is not half the man I took you for.”

    Paul went into a paroxysm.

    “He just wanted to hear you say it, ma’am,” said Rockingham with a grin.

    She gave him a hard look. “Aye; and seeing as dear little Hildy is not with us for this afternoon, I has news for you, too, me Lord!”

    Rockingham quailed.

    “News to do with Hildy?” said Gaetana in bewilderment.

    “Well, not direct, no. What time does you expect her back, me dear?”

    Gaetana looked uncertainly at the clock on the mantel. “They intended to collect Muzzie and then drive her in to Dittersford. And certainly Cousin Sophia had some commissions to do in the village. I think we cannot expect to see them for at least an hour.”

    “Well, good, acos it is not precisely fit for any of their ears, and I would not like it to get back to Hildy’s ma, yet awhile.”

    “Good gad, shall I leave the room?” drawled Rockingham.

    “Well, you might well,” retorted the indominable old lady smartly, “for as far as I can make out, half the muddle was all your fault!”

    The Marquis went very red.

    “Dear Mrs Urqhart,” said Gaetana, also very flushed, “if—if you are referring to his Lordship’s words to me on the subject of his friend Sir Julian, let me assure you that Hildy was never sure that she could care for him. Of course she liked him; indeed, we all like him; but it was never more than that.”

    “Aye, well: he is a good-intentioned gentleman, that is clear, only Hildy needs a fellow with a bit of this,” she said, tapping the side of her elaborate bonnet.

    “Poor Julian: damned with faint praise,” noted the Marquis.

    “Hah, but is he?” she said darkly.

    “Ma’am, you become too deep for my poor brain, I fear,” he said, eyes sparkling.

    Mrs Urqhart did not fail to notice that he was looking so pleased because Gaetana had just sprung to his defence. She gave him a kindly look and said: “Well, just listen. Hildy has mentioned a Mr and Mrs Anthony Hallam of Bath, is that right? They is connexions of the Kernohans, but I dunno what. Not blood relations, I don’t think.”

    “Er... Oh, why, yes! The very handsome couple she wrote of in one of her letters, Paul!” cried Gaetana. “The husband is a rector, I think she said.”

    “Aye. But he don’t preach: come into money,” said Mrs Urqhart tersely.

    The company nodded, though still looking blank. Then Gaetana said uncertainly: “Hildy did mention that Mrs Anthony is an exceeding pretty woman.”

    “Aye, she is that. Forty if a day, mind you,” said Mrs Urqhart.

    Her hosts and the Marquis stared at her, and Johanna, who had been sitting by quietly drinking her tea, said: “Aunt Betsy, unless you cease being obscure immediately, I shall tell them myself.”

    “I is workin’ up to it!” she said in injured tones.

    “No,” said Jo steadily: “you are being deliberately provoking.”

    The old lady was not a whit abashed. “Well,” she said cheerfully, “this Mrs Anthony, she has a daughter what is almost as pretty as she is, and—”

    “Wait,” said Rockingham. “Hallam, did you say?”

    Grinning, she said: “It takes some time, do it not?”

    “No, well, Julian has such a tribe of relations! Er—yes, it is his Aunt Agatha who is married to a Hallam, is that correct?”

    “That he was visiting in Bath, yes.”

    “What? He was not there when Hildy was, was he?” asked Gaetana in surprise.

    Mrs Urqhart’s jaw dropped. She had just picked up a piece of cake: it dropped, too, onto the rug.

    “One of the servants will get it,” said Paul, as she looked at it in dismay.

    Gregory duly came in and removed the offending piece of cake. Deering himself had previously served the visitors, so Mrs Urqhart did not neglect to say how pleased she was to see Gregory, and hoped as that cough were not troubling him again. Gregory was evidently much gratified, though a little embarrassed at this exchange in front of his Lordship. Gaetana explained sunnily that he was keeping very well, because Cousin Sophia had prescribed red flannel to be worn next the chest, and he was doing it, was he not, Gregory? Oddly, the Marquis of Rockingham did not seem offended by this domestic matter’s being discussed in his august company; rather, he looked at Miss Ainsley with approval.

    “So Hildy never done told you,” said Mrs Urqhart somewhat weakly, accepting another cup of tea gratefully, “that Sir Julian went and turned up her last week in Bath?”

    “I cannot believe it!” said Gaetana strongly.

    “Yes. There most of her last week,” she said tersely. “Did his best to cut those Kernohan boys out. Bath was full of it.”

    “And Mr Roland was full of the perfection of his neckcloths and the glory of his waistcoats,” noted Johanna drily.

    “Aye, and Mr Dorian’s nose was total put out of joint by same!” gasped Mrs Urqhart.

    “Yes,” said Jo, frankly grinning.

    The old lady shot her an amused glance, and said: “Aye. Well, there you have it, me dears: Sir Julian turned up to press his suit, as I would imagine. And she did not, or so me spies inform me, treat him with any more distinguishing notice than she done young Roly or that daft cousin or whatever he is of theirs, young Lieutenant Hallam!”

    “Too many Hallams,” said Paul with a groan.

    “What? Oh,” she said, looking disconcerted.

    Miss Jubb said quietly: “Mrs and Mrs Anthony Hallam have several children, of whom we met one daughter, Miss Geraldine, and one son, Lieutenant Hallam. Mr Anthony Hallam, is, I think, a brother of the Mr Hallam to whom Sir Julian’s aunt is married, and with whom he was staying in Bath.”

    “Thank you, me dear,” said Mrs Urqhart limply.

    “Wait a minute!” said the Marquis sharply. “You mean he was still there when you were?”

    “No—” began Gaetana.

    “Out o’ course he was!” cried the old lady. “That’s my point!’’

    “Aunt Betsy,” said Jo, biting her lip and trying not to laugh, “you had much better have told this story as a straight narrative, rather than try to make a mystery out of it.”

    “Just a moment,” said Paul, also trying not to laugh, “let us get the facts straight. Sir Julian arrived in Bath during the last week of Hildy’s stay and stayed with his aunt, Mrs Hallam. During this week, he apparently did not make any great impression on Hildy. Though he appeared to have been in Bath for no other purpose.”

    “Exact,” said Mrs Urqhart with a sigh.

    “Ah, now we come to the interesting bit,” said Paul. “Instead of leaving Bath when she did, Sir Julian stayed on and—if I am not reading too much into your story, dear Mrs Urqhart—appears to be paying some attention to Miss—er—Geraldine?—Hallam.”

    “Sharp as a pin: you will cut yourself one of these days,” she said with a deep groan.

    “Not really?” cried Gaetana.

    “Good gad!” said the Marquis in deep disgust.

    Mrs Urqhart drained her tea. “Aye. Well, he is clearly not serious as yet. But she is the prettiest little thing imaginable. Dark, takes after her Ma. Not like Hildy in looks—but the same sort of little figure.”

    “I—I cannot believe it,” said Gaetana, now sounding distinctly upset.

    “Well, my deary, you would not have had him go on pining after Hildy when she has made it very clear that she cannot care for him as he would like?”

    “Well—no,” she said, biting her lip, very flushed.

    “I liked Miss Geraldine very much,” put in Miss Jubb quietly. “As Aunt Betsy says, Sir Julian is far from serious, yet. But there is a certain protectiveness in his manner to her which— Well, which, should he continue to see much of her in the future, indicates that his affections could very well become involved.”

    The Marquis passed his hand through his black hair, sighing. “I suppose it is for the best. Hildy has clearly fallen for Major Kernohan.”

    “Paul,” said Gaetana firmly: “we absolutely must invite the Major again!”

    “¡Of course, querida!” he agreed with a smile.

    “I shall have him, too. And that Mr Roly,” decided Mrs Urqhart. “That is, if Jo can be trusted with him,” she added.

    The company looked in some surprize at the well-behaved Miss Jubb. “It’s the neckcloths!” she gasped, going into a helpless wheezing fit.

    “Aye: they does that to her, you see,” said her Aunt Betsy, grinning.

    “Thought young Charleson might have had you inured to that, by now,” noted the Marquis.

    “Or Luís!” noted Paul with a chuckle.

    “They are not half as bad, rolled together, as young Vernon, though,” added the Marquis glumly.

    “Lord Welling?” said Paul.

    “Aye: he is coming down for Christmas,” he said glumly.

    “Well, I am very glad to hear it!” said Gaetana briskly. Rockingham looked at her in astonishment. “You stand in place of his papa, after all,” she said. “It seems to me you do not see much of him.”

    He frowned. “If he showed the slightest interest in his estates or the responsibilities that will be his, possibly I might, Miss Ainsley.”

    Gaetana leant forward urgently. “Do you encourage him to—yourself, personally, though? Do you have him down at the Place and take him about with you and—and show him how he ought to go on? No, you do not! It is not just a matter of providing him with a bear-leader and putting in suitable men to manage his property, you know! You must take a personal interest in him, before you can expect him to—well, to improve!”

    “Aye, well, the bear-leader hasn’t done him much good,” he admitted glumly.

    “I am not surprized! Shut away in some dull little country town, glooming over his books! Poor young man!” she cried.

    “He has not been shut away,” he said crossly, “he has had plenty of hunting and shooting, whenever he wished for them! And at eighteen, he is too young to be upon the town. Whatever his damned mother may say,” he added, scowling horrifically.

    “Giles, surely he must have turned nineteen, by now?” said Paul.

    “Er—well, yes. A few months since. But that don’t stop him from being a fool.”

    “Even though he may lack intelligence, you owe it to him to—to do more for him, in a personal way, than you have hitherto,” persisted Gaetana.

    “All RIGHT!” he shouted.

    There was a short silence.

    “Uh—no. Sorry,” he muttered. “I am doing more for him, he is coming at Christmas, I just said,” he said on a sulky note.

    “But so is old Mr Jerningham and half your horrible family!” she cried.

    “More than half,” he noted. “Er—well, yes, we shall have a rather full house for—er—at least the Christmas and New Year period,” he said with an odd look on his face.

    “Hogmanay,” said Jo on a wistful note. “It was always great fun, in Scotland.”

    “Yes, well, there’ll be other years for that, deary,” replied Mrs Urqhart briskly. “Your pa is keen to have you spend it with him, you know.”

    Then there was a short pause.

    “I shall have him down earlier,” said the Marquis, very low.

    “That would be very nice,” agreed Gaetana in a voice that shook a little.

    “I’m sorry I shouted,” he said, biting his lip. “I—to tell you the truth, I never know how to deal with the boy. I can see he is afraid of me… But dammit, I don’t do anything to make him so!” he ended, rather loudly.

    “You must just persist, Giles, dear friend, and—well, try to moderate your natural forcefulness. I expect he is of a nervous disposition.” said Paul kindly. “Like Cousin Sophia,” he added, less kindly.

    “Paul! That is unkind! And she is not afraid of Giles in general, only of his whist!” said Gaetana crossly.

    For some strange reason the Marquis was now beaming all over his face. So was Mrs Urqhart, actually, and Jo had to look into her lap and roll her lips tightly together.

    “I mean of the Marquis,” said Gaetana, very limply indeed.

    Most fortunately Deering came in and quietly cleared at this juncture, so those who needed to had time to recover themselves, and not make it too plain just how pleased they were to see Miss Ainsley thinking of the Marquis of Rockingham as just plain “Giles”.

     Lady Naseby had embraced her sister gracefully, but with genuine affection, and her son with great affection, and, having assured Agatha Hallam she was not in the least tired after the journey to Bath and would be glad to take tea as soon as she had tidied herself, had duly been upstairs and come down again. Julian stayed to take tea with the ladies, but as he had an engagement in the town, then kissed their hands and went off to it. Lady Naseby had noted placidly that they would have a comfortable cose before dinner, dearest, and he had agreed to this, but with rather a foolish look on his face.

    When he had departed there was a short silence in Mrs Hallam’s elegant sitting-room. Then she said determinedly: “Well, Elizabeth, it is as I said in my letter.”

    “I remember little Gerry as a very pretty, bright little girl,” returned Lady Naseby with her usual calm.

    “Yes. We are very pleased with how she has turned out, and I think you will find her quite a credit to her mamma’s careful upbringing.”

    Lady Naseby inclined her head.

    Agatha Hallam went on a trifle nervously: “She is, of course, very young.”

    “About two years younger than Miss Hildegarde Maddern, I would calculate.”

    Mrs Hallam had to swallow. “Well, yes, I suppose so, my dear.”

    “But then,” said Lady Naseby with her lovely smile, “we have always felt that dear Julian is a trifle immature for his age.”

    “Yes,” she said limply. “But the dearest boy!” she added hurriedly.

    “Thank you, my dear. Emily and I had hoped... Well, he has been very much hurt in the past, and his is not a nature which sustains disappointment very well. But much though I personally liked little Miss Hildegarde, I could never see that their natures would suit.”

    “Mm. Well, I must own I felt that Miss Hildegarde’s acute mind would not do for Julian, though I have seen such alliances answer very well—much depends on the personalities.”

    “Indeed,” Julian’s mother agreed.

    There was a little silence.

    “My dear, as I wrote, it is too early to say anything definite. But at least he has stopped moping after Miss Hildegarde!” said his aunt more vigorously.

    “I am glad of that. But I do hope,” said Lady Naseby with a little frown, “that he is not—not paying little Geraldine more attention than his true feelings might warrant.”

    On the rebound from having been slighted by Miss Hildegarde—yes, thought Mrs Hallam, in perfect agreement with her, though not voicing such a coarse sentiment. “On the whole I do not think so. His manner to her is frequently that of an older gentleman to a child!” she said with a little smile. “Well, we shall see what a few weeks’ separation will do. And Geraldine is as yet too young to have her affections seriously engaged.”

    “Yes. –A few weeks only, my dear?” said Lady Naseby, a little startled.

    “Er—well, yes,” said her hostess on a limp note. She opened a writing case which was to hand on a little occasional table, and from it produced some letters. “This came for you, my dear, at the same time as this for me. I would imagine it says very much the same thing.”

    Lady Naseby glanced at the very black writing and did not even have to examine the large wax seal in order to say limply: “Giles. What has he done now?”

    Mrs Hallam bit her lip. “You had best read it.”

    “I think I had, indeed, if you will excuse me, my dear Agatha?”

    Mrs Hallam watched her in silence. Lady Naseby’s refined features gave little away but at one point she raised her fine eyebrows.

    “I see,” she said at last. “Er—I do not know if you are aware that Giles and Julian had a silly falling-out?”

    “No, indeed.”

    Lady Naseby, had, of course, very speedily got the whole story out of Julian. She had not neglected to reproach him for his rudeness to his host and his unkindness to his little girls in ending the visit so abruptly. Nor to point out that, misguided as Rockingham’s action might have been, he had done it out of love for his friend. She gave her sister a very much abbreviated version of the affair, adding that she had lately received a letter from Julian apprising her that he had, as she had urged him to do, written to Giles in order to effect a reconciliation.

    The two ladies looked at each other limply.

    Finally Mrs Hallam said on a dry note: “Well, my dear, I would suppose that Rockingham makes it plain there that he is very glad for the reconciliation and will look forward to seeing the family at Christmas, as usual?”

    “Quite.”

    “My dear Elizabeth,” said Mrs Hallam, now frankly laughing, “I confess I am bursting with curiosity to see Daynesford Place, and have urged Thomas to accept the Marquis’s most gracious invitation to partake in his New Year’s celebrations!”

    Lady Naseby merely looked at her wryly.

    “Complete with little Geraldine!” she choked.

    “Giles will never learn,” she said, though a dimple quivered in her soft cheek.

    “Well, evidently! –One would not think, to meet him casually in society,” she said on a cautious note, “that he was a man with a heart.”

    “He does not show it to many. Nor the fact that, as you may perceive, he is in some ways a very naïve man,” replied Lady Naseby.

    “No,” said Mrs Hallam limply. “Oh, dear! Well, I have not broached it to Geraldine’s mamma, my dear, for I thought, if you should not quite care for it—?”

    Lady Naseby hesitated; then she said: “I believe the Madderns will be at Ainsley Manor for the whole of the Christmas period.”

    Mrs Hallam was by far too well-mannered to say: “Well, quite!” but her look spoke volumes.

    “Yes,” Julian’s mother decided: “you had best speak to Mrs Anthony, my dear, and see if she will permit Geraldine to accompany you. I think it would be the sensible course, on the whole.”

    Mrs Hallam breathed a stealthy sigh of relief, for to say truth she had not been at all sure how Elizabeth would take the thing. For the Anthony Hallams, though respectable, were really small-town nobodies, and if Julian’s affections had been weaned off Miss Hildegarde, he might well have looked very high indeed for a bride.

    “Very well, my dear, I shall do so.”

    “And I think,” said Lady Naseby thoughtfully, “that we need not mention the matter to Julian. I shall take him home with me at the end of the week, and we shall go on to the Place for Christmas, just as usual.”

    Agatha Hallam always had thought that her sister Elizabeth was a master strategist. She therefore agreed to this proposition with the utmost placidity, and did not allow herself even to smile until Lady Naseby was safely ensconced in her pretty guest room. But it must be admitted that she later had a good laugh in the privacy of her bedchamber. Poor, dear Julian! Well, it was the fate of weaker natures to be at the mercy of the good intentions of their stronger-willed friends and relatives, no doubt!

    Mr Henry Kernohan, at about the same period, had also received a letter, and he did some pacing up and down. Then he called his second son to his study.

    “Papa, even if you put a bag over my head, I should not offer for Miss Beatri—”

    “Silence!” he shouted.

     Dorian’s jaw dropped.

    “I’m sorry, old man,” he said glumly. “Look,” he said, running his hand over his pepper-and-salt curls, “it is this letter from Roly. You had best read it for yourself.”

     Dorian went very white. “Is Aurry not well?”

    “No, no, my dear boy, in fact if anything the arm seems improved—though remark, he breathed nothing of this splinter affair himself, the—the dashed fellow! But—well, read it for yourself, my boy.”

    Mr Roland had written as follows:

 My Dear Papa,

    Do not fear, there is nothing Wrong, and I dare say Aurry would be mad as Fire if he knew I had writ, only after his last letter to you on thinking it over I decided I had best tell you because the Dear Fellow must always be giving you the Bright side but with Winter now fast upon us it is not as Bright as All That and so I thought you would wish to be apprised of it and though of course Uncle Francis would Scoff I do not think it a scoffing Matter and so determined I would write if he is mad with me and trust you will not be also.

    Do not be Alarmed he is perfectly well except he was having considerable pain which he would not admitt to the other week and Dollery who is a splendid fellow and we can all be thankful he has him, was massaging the arm as he does night and morning and I said, Hold on, Dollery, for I think that is hurting him and Aurry said at once, not to heed my Rubbish and Dollery goes on rubbing it and then Aurry makes a face and out pops this great black thing as long as my fingernail and Dollery grunts and says so it is another Splinter, he thought there was another in there and this is even Longer than that other one and it seems to him the London Surgeons earn their money easy. So of course I said What do you mean man another one? And Aurry says to Hush, you know his way and Dollery says it is the second one as has come out by the elbow since they are down at Beaubois and there is some black blood with this one he had best put some James’s Powder on it and Aurry tells him not to fuss. So he rubs it and more black blood comes out only not enough to worry so pray do not, Papa, only a very little and then it flows clean and Dollery rubs it and the blood stops directly, I hope you are not thinking I mean it was a Torrent for no such thing. Less than when you are cut shaving. And so he bathes it and puts some Powder on it and Aurry starts objecting only the good fellow binds it up. And next day we looked at it and it had healed until you cannot see the spot hardly and Dollery massages it again and then Aurry says it is easier than it has been in weeks, well that is so like him, of course! Only you must not worry dearest Papa it is Nothing at all as Dollery says.

     Dorian had gone very white. “Sir—splinters and black blood?” he faltered.

    Mr Henry sat down in his big chair and shaded his eyes with his hand. “Yes. I will consult with the doctor, but I think there is no need to worry, as the place healed immediately.”

    Dorian’s hands trembled and he said: “I have heard stories, Papa, about—about how such a splinter may travel to the heart.”

    “They are old wives’ tales and I will not have them told in my house!” he said angrily.

    “No, Papa,” said Dorian, licking his lips.

    “I’m sorry, dear boy, Lord knows I didn’t mean to shout at you. But two splinters—! Well,” he said, sighing, “we must be very glad they are out, and that the arm is easier.”

    “Yes. Roly seems very sure of that.”

    “Yes. Finish it, dear boy.”

    Dorian read on. Roly had spared their papa very few details. At the end of it he looked at Mr Henry uncertainly. “Aurry is eating rabbits and roots from the garden? Roly has bought him a rug? Sir, how much of this did you know?”

    Mr Henry bit his lip. “All of that about the—the shooting, dear boy: in fact he had said to me, should he give Roly his good gun, and I... I suppose I was hoping too much,” he said in a low voice.

    Dorian hesitated. “I see.”

    Mr Henry sighed. “And of course I was aware the house was empty: Aurry is having it replastered throughout and some of the upper floors are being replaced, I know not how Roland imagined that could be done with the chattels in situ!” He smiled faintly. “And as to sinking his capital into it—naturally he discussed it with me. He was determined to do it, and— Well, to say truth, I thought it could not be a bad thing. For I very much wished to see him determined upon a course of action and—and taking charge of his life again.”

    “I see,” said Dorian.

    There was a little silence.

    Mr Henry clenched his fist upon the arm of his chair. “I had no idea about the rabbits and roots.”

    Dorian looked at him doubtfully. “No... Papa, I do not think you should be too upset. Aurry’s claim that he is used to such conditions must surely be correct. I think possibly Roly has panicked, a little. Well, it is as Aurry wrote you: the boy has been a little overcome by the realization that we might have lost him, and—well, he is taking all this to heart. But a man who has been used to bivouacking in the Peninsula must feel himself in positive luxury, sleeping in a kitchen!”

    “Yes,” he said with a sad little smile.

    Dorian hesitated. All of a sudden his rubicund, cheery Papa appeared to him very tired and drawn and—well, not the capable figure who was very much in charge of their household at all times, but a creature as vulnerable as any thing of flesh and blood, with his own burden of weaknesses and fears. Dorian was very much shaken by this discovery.

    After quite some time he managed to say: “Sir, would you care for me to go down there? I don’t say I could get him out of his kitchen, but I could make damn’ sure he ate a decent dinner every night! And I could bring the pair of ’em back for Christmas—well, we could make that my excuse for going!” he ended with a smile.

    Mr Henry gave a deep sigh. “Yes, my dear boy, that would be splendid, if you would not mind? It will only be for three weeks, after all. Well, a little more.”

    A little more if he left tomorrow, yes. Dorian was rather taken aback to find his offer accepted so eagerly. “Er—yes, certainly, sir, I would be glad to. Possibly I could take him some home comforts?”

    “Some home comforts?” cried Mr Henry strongly. “You will take him a decent bed, for a start! And the fireguard out of his room: why in God’s name he did not at least write for that—! And every damned quilt your mother has in the house, whether they are put by for Tarry’s trousseau or not!”

    “I am sure Tarry will be only too glad to donate them!” he said with a laugh.

    “Aye, but seriously, my dear boy, I think we had best purchase a fur-lined carriage rug, he may put it upon his bed with dear young Roly’s rug and be cosy,” he said with a smile.

    “Aye: I wish I had seen the dear lad marching into a shop and buying a wool rug!” said Dorian, laughing a little.

    Mr Henry trumpeted into a large handkerchief. “Quite.”

    Dorian hesitated: then he went and put his hand on the older man’s shoulder. “Papa, I know I am no substitute for Aurry,” he said haltingly, “but I mean to do my best.”

    Mr Henry put his hand up to his and squeezed it hard. “Of course you do, dear boy.” After a moment he added bracingly: “Why, we are talking as if we had lost him, and it is no such thing! He will have that place in order before we can turn round, and then I intend descending upon him in force, I can tell you!”

    “Aye: poor Aurry!” said Dorian with a laugh. “Er—well, shall I speak to Mamma about putting him up some preserves and so forth?”

    “Good idea, my boy. And any such things as potted meat, y’know. And a fine ham would not come amiss. Er—just tell her there are no decent shops anywhere near,” he added cautiously.

    Dorian laughed. “Trust me! I am not that green!” He went out on this.

    “No,” said his father slowly. “Well, perhaps all this will help to make a man of you, my dear lad.” He crossed the room slowly and picked up Roly’s letter. “Rugs!” he said with a little chuckle shaking his head. “Well, well, even if you have panicked a little, l think Aurry is right, and you are growing up, too.” He sighed a little and smiled, and sat down at his desk to perform the sufficiently difficult task of penning a letter to Aurry which would ensure that his gifts were accepted without his oldest son’s suspecting that his papa was aware of the true state of affairs at Beaubois House.

    “‘The fur that warms a monarch, warmed a bear,’” quoted Hildegarde thoughtfully.

    Johanna choked, and tried unavailingly to turn it into a cough.

    Dorian looked at the pair of them uneasily. “Er—yes. Well, I would not swear it is bearskin. Though it is thick enough. Papa insisted on buying it himself: he had every rug in the shop spread out.”

    “Aye, well, ain’t it natural?” said Mrs Urqhart kindly.

    He looked at her gratefully. “Yes, ma’am. –Oh, and I had almost forgot: Papa sends his grateful thanks for your very kind offer to put Aurry up, and he has asked me to give you this little note, ma’am.”

    Mrs Urqhart accepted the note with gratification, opening it on the spot. “Well! Ain’t that a thing! But there was no need for your pa to thank me, I has this huge great house, and there is only Jo and me rattlin’ round in it, y’know!”

    “Nevertheless, the family is most grateful for your offer, ma am. –And I could only wish the silly fellow had had the sense to accept it,” he said in a cross undertone.

    “ls—is the house so very cold and uncomfortable, Mr Dorian?” asked Hildy.

    “Er—well, it is empty, y’see, Miss Hildy. But he is living in the kitchen and his man has managed to make it cosy enough. And as I said, Papa has sent him a decent bed and all sorts of comforts, so he goes on very nicely,”

    “Aye, that do sound all right!” said Mrs Urqhart, nodding reassuringly at her. “And he do strike me as a sensible man, me dear! But we could drive over and make sure for ourselves: now, what does you say to that?” She beamed.

    Jo bit her lip. “Dear Aunt Betsy, I am afraid it would not be the thing. Not for three ladies to call upon an unmarried gentleman, at his house.”

    “But I is a respectable widder and old enough to be his ma!” she cried.

    “I know, but truly, it would not do.”

    Mrs Urqhart sniffed. “Well, if you is afraid of that Purdue cat I shall go by myself!”

    “In that case,” said Jo, straight-faced but with a twinkle in her dark eye, “I fear the Bishop’s wife would give you the cut direct.”

    Mrs Urqhart, to Dorian’s mystification, immediately went into a terrific choking, wheezing fit. “She don’t—receive me—anyways—dear boy!” she gasped. “Nor that sister-in-law of hers, Mrs Dean, neither!”

    “No, though when she hears you have been invited to Daynesford Place,” said Hildy in an evil voice, “she will speedily change her tactic, I can tell you. His Lordship was furious to hear that the woman will not recognize you, dear Mrs Urqhart.”

    Mrs Urqhart looked very gratified, but said: “Well, his Lordship is above such considerations, and may fancy himself lucky. –Here: would your mamma say it was all right for us to call on the Major?” she added hopefully.

    Hildy went very red. “I am afraid not.”

    “Er—dare say Aurry might be shocked, too, ma’am, if the young ladies were to come,” said Dorian apologetically. “He is quite nice in his notions, you know. Er—well—strict, I suppose. Do you recall that time he was passing in a closed carriage, Miss Hildegarde, when it came on suddenly to rain, as we were out walking? He made you ride back to grandmamma’s in the carriage but said we must not accompany you, even though there would have been the two of us.”

    “I remember,” said Hildy, again blushing.

    “Those boots of mine have never been the same since,” noted Dorian moodily. “Er—well, it was the proper thing, y’know,” he added hurriedly.

    “I see,” said Mrs Urqhart glumly.

    … “Well,” she said to Jo when her two visitors had departed, Dorian having offered Hildy a ride with him in the curricle so that she would not have to trouble her kind hostess’s coachman, who had earlier fetched her to The Towers: “at least he was not wearing fourteen capes on his coat!”

    “No, I suppose it was quite an ordinary driving coat,” said Jo without interest. “Aunt Betsy, if you should not mind,” she said, looking longingly at the book Hildy had brought her, “I thought I might—”

    “Lord, you settle down to your book by the fire, child, I shall take my forty winks upon my bed!” said Mrs Urqhart, patting her shoulder and departing the room forthwith. In the hall, she shook her head and laughed to herself.

    “Memsahib?” said old Ranjit.

    “Oh—nothing!” she said, laughing again. “Three capes, it was! But Someone did not count ’em, that is for sure!”

    It being a fine, windless afternoon, Dorian and Hildy took the long way back to the Manor, along the meandering lane which came out near Willow Court. They had not long emerged from this lane onto the road proper and had just passed the gates of Willow Court, Dorian remarking it looked a handsome house, when he exclaimed, on rounding a bend: “Hullo! What have we here?”

    “An accident!” gasped Hildy.

    “Aye.” Dorian whipped up the nags and they hurried along to where a coach was lying in a state of collapse, a wheel having evidently come off, its pair of horses tangled in the traces.

    “Are the horses all right?” she gasped.

    “Yes, they look so. Can you take the reins, Miss Hildy?” Hildy nodded and Dorian drew up and, handing her the reins, jumped down.

    As he did so the door of the coach swung open, or rather was heaved upwards and open, since the coach was lying tilted at an angle, and a fair young gentleman in a greatcoat, very red in the face and ruffled-looking, and minus his hat, clambered out and jumped down. From inside the coach a lady’s voice, very cross, said: “Well? What is it, Vernon? And where are we: in the middle of nowhere, as I would suppose?” And following hard upon the heels of this voice came a high-pitched yapping sound.

    Dorian meanwhile was conferring with the post-boy, who was reassuring him as to the state of the horses.

    “I’m afraid a wheel has come off, Lady V.,” said the young man unhappily.

    “What?” cried the lady’s voice with huge indignation.

    “Aye. Here is a curricle: dare say they can give us direct—”

    “Never mind about curricles, we could have been killed! I knew it would be so, when you insisted upon hiring this shabby vehicle with only the one pair of horses! Help me out of this horrid thing—and mind dearest little Fluffkin, what are you about?” she cried, as he reached into the coach.

    “Well—well, give me your hand— Dash it!” he panted.

    “Be careful!” cried the lady’s voice, getting ever sharper.

    “May I help, sir?” said Dorian.

    “Much obliged!” he panted. “Ow—dash it, Lady V., will you just— OW!” he screeched as the yapping, which had started up again, rose to a climax. He backed hurriedly away from the coach, sucking at his hand.

    “Possibly if I took the little dog, sir?” said Dorian smoothly, bowing.

    Hildy by this time was shaking helplessly. The more so as she had a very good notion of who the participants in this drama must be.

    The young man glared over the wounded hand and said in a sulky voice. “Aye. Do that. Only watch out for the little devil.’’

    From inside the coach the lady’s voice was cooing: “Poor ’ickle Fluffkin! Was a diddums, den! Did a horrid man squeeze his teeny, teeny paw! Poor little darling! Dere, dere!” By Hildy’s reckoning, remarks not calculated to soothe the breast of the young gentleman whom the dog had just assaulted.

    And sure enough, he was not soothed, for he went to the door of the vehicle again and said: “By Jove, that is doin’ it a bit too strong, Lady V.! It was me the pair of you fell on, may I remind you, and I have a fair idea this arm of mine is half out of its socket, what’s more!”

    “Pray allow me to take the little dog, madam,” said Dorian with a slight tremor in his voice.

    “Oh, but Fluffkin will not go to a stranger, sir! –Will ’oo, dear ickle pettikins? No, ’oo will not! No, ’oo will not!” she said on a high-pitched crescendo.

    “Then I fear it is stalemate,” said Dorian very politely.—Hildy was in agony.—“Unless perhaps you would care to entrust the dog to the gentleman, madam, and allow my humble self to assist you?”

    “Actually,” said the gentleman uneasily, “it ain’t too warm out here, and there ain’t a house in sight—well, that place we passed back there, I suppose. But apart from that— Are you sure you would not be best to stay in the coach, Lady V.?”

    “What? Certainly not! How can you be so horrid!” she cried with a wobble in her voice. “Stay in this nasty, smelly coach all upside-down and tumbled about? I will do no such thing!”

    “You had best take the dog, then, sir,” said Dorian in a perfectly neutral voice.

    Hildy gave an agonized snort.

    “Aye, but— Oh, very well.” To Hildy’s delight the young gentleman then withdrew a pair of gloves from the pocket of his greatcoat and solemnly put them on.

    After that, and not without difficulty and a volley of panted instructions to the lady inside the coach, all of which she either apparently ignored or else audibly contradicted, he extracted from the vehicle a small, fluffy dog with a large lilac bow round its neck and narrow lilac ribands round its front paws. Enough to make any dog snap: quite.

    It was now Dorian’s turn to assist the lady out: not an easy task. The postboy, having calmed the horses, hurried to help and was screamed at for his pains and eventually told to turn his back. But finally, with a flurry of petticoats and a series of shrieks, she was extracted.

    She stood revealed as a shortish, plumpish lady, of quite astounding prettiness but, Hildy saw with some amaze, and a growing certainty of who she must be, of probably something like twice the age that the childish, petulant voice had indicated. Her cheeks were very pink and Hildy could not but think that some of this might be due to her recent exertions but some of it was not. And her curls were very, very yellow. There was, however, nothing particularly suspect about her large, very blue eyes—except, if one had a suspicious nature, the darkness of the lashes. She was wearing shades which Hildy’s mamma and older sisters unhesitatingly condemned as unsuitable with yellow hair: to wit, a bright violet velvet pelisse, heavily trimmed with pale lilac braiding that did not manage to give her a military air, though such might have been its intention, and a matching velvet bonnet, the poke lined with lilac watered silk, and the exterior trimmed with a profusion of lilac ostrich plumes, lilac silk bows and lilac silk roses.

    She did not thank Dorian but said in a pettish voice to her escort: “Where is my wrap? I vow, I shall catch my death in this wind,”—there was, of course, no wind—“and you do not care a fig!”

    “My Lady, you are too hard on a fellow,” he said miserably. “Er—would you mind very much, sir?” he added, attempting to hand Dorian the little dog.

    The lady gave a little scream. “No! Give him to me! What are you about? Oh, my darling, darling little Fluffkin! Was the horrid man squeezing his little tum-tum? Come to Muzzer, den, precious boy!” –And more of the same.

     The young man, looking gloomy, scrambled up onto the coach and delved into its interior, after much panting and scrabbling and a few muffled curses producing a large wrap which was bright violet velvet on the one side and very bright brown fur on the other. Hildy’s female relatives would not have approved of that combination, either.

    Nor would they have approved of Lady Violet Cunninghame, for such, of course, she proved to be, upon the young gentleman’s awkwardly presenting her as such, and himself as Lord Welling. Even had Hildy not recognized him and been able to deduce the lady’s identity from his mode of address to her she would, she thought, have identified her from her outfit, for Lady Violet was well-known for dressing in the shades which reflected her name: she had made it her hallmark.

    Dorian bowed gracefully. “Delighted to make your acquaintance, Lady Violet, Lord Welling. Only sorry it had to be under such unfortunate circumstances. May I introduce myself? Dorian Kernohan, very much at your service.”

    Lady Violet appeared to register for the first time that he was a young, personable, and well-dressed gentleman. Her lashes fluttered very much, and she dropped a shy curtsey, and holding out a small, plump hand in a lilac kid glove, said with a little, pouting smile: “Oh! How do you do? Oh—so kind! –Oh!” This last exclamation apparently being apropos of his having bowed over her hand in a perfectly unexceptionable manner.

    “It was my entire pleasure,” said Dorian. Hildy could not see, but she was sure there was a naughty sparkle in his eye.

    And sure enough, Lady Violet gave a delighted trill of laughter and said on a breath: “Oh! Naughty man!” Then she added: “Kernohan? Why, I know that name!  Vernon, dear boy, do I not know that name?”

    Young Lord Welling coughed and said: “Er—mm. Brussels,” in a strangled squawk.

    “Oh, why yes!” she cried. “That very handsome and quite, quite terrifying General Kernohan! He did not in the least approve of little me, I fear,” she added, dropping her voice with a pout, and giving Dorian a look from under the lashes.

    “I am sure he could not but have admired you, ma’am,” said Dorian promptly. “That would have been my Uncle Francis.”

    “Indeed? I danced with him at the Richmond ball, and he was so stern, you know: I was quite, quite terrified!” she said, shuddering all over her plump person.

    Hildy was now frankly rivetted. She had never seen anything like this combination of the ultra-feminine, the mincingly ladylike, and the frankly vulgar in her life. Lady Charleson’s languishing manner came nothing near it. True, she had seen Lady Violet once or twice before, but only from a distance, in large gatherings, so she had not by any means got the full effect.

    “Dare say,” said Lord Welling glumly.

    “Oh! Of course! You had gone home to England by then, you naughty, naughty boy!” she cried, with a long, trilling laugh.

    Hildy was here obliged to clap her hand over her mouth. She knew, of course, precisely who had sent Lord Welling home, and why.

    “Well, all I can say is, Uncle Francis was a lucky man to have had the privilege,” said Dorian.

    She giggled again but before she could say anything else, he quickly presented Hildy.

    “How do you do, Lady Violet? I am sorry to find you in such a pickle,” she said kindly. “I think we could take you back to Willow Court, which is the house you must have passed a little while back.”

    “Well—could we not go on?” she said dubiously. “Dear Mr Kernohan, could not you take Fluffkin and me up in your curricle?” she added, giving him a melting look. “I have an appointment in Ditterminster; I fear I am looked for!”

    Lord Welling had gone very red. He now came up to the curricle and, not looking at Lady Violet and Dorian, said in a strangled voice: “How do you do, Miss Hildegarde?”

    “Hullo, Lord Welling,” said Hildy cheerfully. “We have met—at Almack’s, I think it was.”

    “Yes,” he gulped, redder than ever.

    “I collect you are on your way to Daynesford Place?” said Hildy, not without malice.

    “Yes,” he gulped. “I say, Miss Hildegarde,” he said in a lowered voice: “if you would be so awfully kind as—as not to mention this? She would come, you see, when she heard that I was heading this way, and—and I could not stop her!”

    Hildy glanced over at the other two, but they were not paying them any attention: Dorian was murmuring something and Lady Violet was trilling delightedly, with a series of little gasps and exclamations. So she said quietly: “We were under the impression you were with your tutor in the country, Lord Welling.”

    “Aye,” he said aggrievedly. “So I was, and then I came across her at a posting-house; and Cousin Rockingham will never believe me, but it was a pure coincidence, and she said it would be much more economical to take the one carriage, once she had heard where I was headed, and—and I could not refuse!” he said on a desperate note.

    Hildy now perceived that as well as his large, ingenuous face flushing up very much, his large, ingenuous blue eyes had actually filled with tears. And realized that the fair Lady V. had her hooks into the poor young man and he did not know how to free himself. “I see,” she said gently. “Do you know, I think it would be best to tell your cousin all. He will understand, he is a man of the world.”

    “He will say I have no backbone!” he gulped.

    “Well,” said Hildy kindly, if with a certain dryness, “if I were you I would admit that is so, and ask for his help. Most especially if you want to be free of—er—” She nodded delicately towards his travelling companion who now, holding her little dog under one arm, was managing to smack Dorian’s sleeve lightly and repeatedly with the other hand.

    Welling nodded convulsively. “Yes,” he said, swallowing. “I shall do it.”

    Hildy was not altogether sure his nerve would not fail him when the time came. She nodded, however, and called out: “Mr Dorian, I think the best plan might be to see if we can borrow Willow Court’s carriage, if Lady Violet has an engagement!”

    Lord Welling deciding to remain with the stranded coach, Dorian handed her up into the curricle forthwith. Whether it was pure coincidence that she ended up next to him, Hildy could not for the life of her decide. Though she could not but reflect that if he were serious about Johanna, it was to be hoped that it was coincidence.

    The short journey back was enlivened by Lady Violet’s endeavouring to discover, in the prettiest, most childish way imaginable, Dorian’s pecuniary status and station in life and by Dorian’s blocking of her. Lady Violet also let slip, again in the most naïve and childish manner, that she was going through a horrid divorce, and Cunning (her pet name for her husband) had been most disagreeable and unkind, and she was in the most horrid straits and Papa was being cruel and horrid. And it was her sister Phyllis with whom she was going to stay in Ditterminster, and it was horrid and prosy and dull at her house. Her husband was a clergyman and it would be all prayers before breakfast and sermons all evening!

    “Is your brother-in-law attached to the Cathedral, Lady Violet?” asked Hildy almost without a tremor.

    “No, the Palace. He is the bishop’s chaplain. And he does not approve of poor ickle me!” she said, fluttering the lashes at Dorian and pouting.

    Lady Charleson was not down: they were received by an awed Muzzle and a bulging-eyed Eric. Both of whom professed themselves delighted to afford Lady Violet the loan of the carriage.

    When Lady Violet had driven off in it, and Dorian, having refused her melting invitation to escort her, had assisted Hildy back into the curricle, he asked: “Who is her father, Miss Hildy?”

    “Oh, he is Lord Stretton, the horridest man!” She looked at him doubtfully and added: “It is said that he sold Lady Violet to the highest bidder. She had been married once before, when she was very young, but that husband died. And when Mr Cunninghame offered, Lord Stretton accepted, although—although he is not precisely a gentleman. He is said to be very rich.”

    Dorian made a face. “I see.”

    “There is much gossip about her,” said Hildy tentatively.

    “I can see that!” he said with a laugh. “That poor boy is properly caught, is he not?”

    “Well... It is true she seems to have victimized him shamelessly, but—” Hildy related how their meeting had been but the purest chance: he looked sceptical, but she added: “I think it may be so, for I have heard that—that one of Lady Violet’s admirers has—has paid Mr Cunninghame a great deal of money to—to have a divorce bill brought down.”

    “Aye—expensive business. So she is in the country on a repairing lease until the divorce is over, eh?”

    “Yes, that is it,” Hildy agreed.

    “Mm. Well, doubtless Rockingham will manage to keep her off that poor weak fellow!” he said with laugh in his voice. “Terrifying, ain’t she?”

    “Yes,” agreed Hildy in considerable relief that he did not after all, in spite of his flirtatious manner earlier, seem inclined to pursue Lady Violet himself.

    They took Lord Welling up with them at the stranded coach, what time the postboy took the horses on towards Dittersford.

    By the time the curricle reached the Manor gates it was almost dark.

    “Oh, Lord, those are Cousin Giles’s greys!” gasped the young lord in pure dismay, as they reached the sweep in time to see a beautiful team being led away.

    “I think they must be, though I have not seen him driving greys before,” admitted Hildy, “for we do not know anyone else who drives a curricle and four.”

    “‘What shall little T.O. do more?’” murmured Dorian.

    “Ssh!” she said, laughing. “Well, since he is here, I think you had best come in with me and get it over with, Lord Welling.”

    “Um—yes,” he gulped, giving her a humble look. “If you say so, Miss Hildegarde.”

    Hildy led the way up the steps, silently thinking he was the weakest and most biddable young man she had ever encountered.

    Deering himself opened the door to her, with an expression of plain relief. “Miss Hildy, thank goodness!” he said.

    In the hall, Gregory was relieving Lord Rockingham of his whip and gloves. Next to him, Major Kernohan was handing Thomas his hat.

    “Thank God, here’s Hildy,” said the Marquis simply before she could utter.

    “Good afternoon, Lord Rockingham—Major. What on earth is the matter?” she asked. “Are the others not yet home, Deering?”

    “No. indeed, Miss Hildy. Er…” Deering looked plaintively at Lord Rockingham, and coughed.

    “This is the matter,” he said grimly. “Come HERE!” he shouted at the top of his lungs.

    There was a panting, scuffling noise and from the direction of the sitting-room appeared a very grubby but smiling—

    “Bunch!” gasped Hildy. “What are you doing home?”

    “I have come for Francisco’s wedding,” she said, sticking her chin out, “and I am not going back until I’ve been to it, I don’t care if there is a row! And where is Pierrot?” she added aggrievedly. “I’ve looked everywhere!”

    Hildy sagged where she stood. “Not here, he is at home— But Bunch, how did you get here?”

    “Directly, in my curricle,” said Rockingham grimly. “But you have Kernohan to thank: he found her in Ditterminster, attempting to blandish a carter into carrying her as far as Dittersford.”

    Bunch beamed. “Yes: Hildy, he’s a major, he was at Waterloo, and he has a wound in the arm that he received there! He’s a great gun, he—”

    “Bunch, we know Major Kernohan,” said Hildy, going very red indeed. “Sir, I cannot thank you enough.”

    The Major bowed, looking dry.

    “Pooh, you must not think I needed rescuing, for it was no such thing!” said Elinor Ainsley immediately.—Hildy winced.—“I’m not stupid, I know all about waybills, and I put myself upon the waybill and came in the stage!”

    “Two stages,” corrected Rockingham grimly. “Via London, you understand.”

    Hildy gasped in horror, clapping her hand to her mouth.

    Bunch directed a glare at his Lordship. “It was merely a matter of getting off the one and getting on the other at the staging inn! Only I should not have bought those pies, because it used up all my money, and they would not hire me a hack at the Hammond Arms, even though I swore my brother would gladly pay! So when I heard the carter say he was heading towards Dittersford—”

    “At that point I came upon the scene, heard the words ‘Ainsley Manor’ and thought I had best investigate,” explained the Major.

    “The carter would have taken me,” said Bunch, “only—”

    “Only not for nothing,” interpolated the Major, very drily. “So I—er—”

    “He put me up on his horse, and he is a splendid prad, and was with him on his campaigns, and his name is Thunderer!” said Bunch eagerly. “And we went all round the town doing errands, and the Major bought me breakfast!”

    “Breakfast?” said Hildy numbly. “What time of day was this?”

    “Oh, very early!” she said blithely.

    “The London stage gets in at crack of dawn,” said the Marquis drily.

    “And then Dollery took the cart with everything the Major had bought, and we went to the cathedral!” said Bunch, beaming. “It is huge, you know!”

    “I had an appointment, and did not well see that I could break it,” said the Major calmly.

    “He can sing,” added Bunch.

    “Oh, was that why you was in at the cathedral?” asked Dorian.

    “Yes: good afternoon, Dorian,” he said with a twinkle in his eye.”

    “Oh—er—yes: afternoon, Kernohan. –Hullo, Welling, what are you doing here?” said Lord Rockingham in surprize.

    “Never mind, just for the minute,” said Hildy grimly. “And then you met Lord Rockingham, I collect, Bunch?”

    “Ye-es... Well, the choirboys sang, first, it was not half great! And also the Major, and the man said he should have him for a soloist. And then the man played the organ and that was splendid, Hildy! The whole cathedral shook!”

    “Bach,” said the Major. He put his good hand on Bunch’s shoulder. “That will do: I think Miss Hildegarde is now fully in the picture.”

    “Then Lord Rockingham came,” admitted Bunch.

    “And was very angry indeed,” said the Major neutrally.

    “I should just think so!” agreed Hildy.

    “She has no idea of the risks she has run,” said the Marquis on a wry note.

    “No, but that does not mean she does not know very well she was wrong to do it,” said Hildy grimly. “And poor Miss Blake: have you given the slightest thought to what she must be feeling, Bunch?”

    Bunch looked vague. “I left her a note.”

    “I took the liberty of sending her another immediately, Miss Hildegarde,” murmured Aurry.

    “Yes; and he can hardly write, Hildy, he had to use his left hand—”

    “Be SILENT!” shouted the Marquis.

    “Thank you, Lord Rockingham,” said Hildy weakly when the echoes had finished quivering.

    “It was not the writing that posed the difficulty, actually, Miss Hildegarde, it was the obtaining of the address,” murmured the Major.

    “Damned brat,” agreed Rockingham grimly.

    Hildy gasped. “You mean she refused— Elinor Ainsley!”

    “I thought he meant to send me back,” she said, pouting.

    Hildy groaned.

    “Well, she is here now,” noted Dorian.

    “Er—yes. I see, you brought them the rest of the way in your curricle, Lord Rockingham? Thank you very much indeed.”

    “Thought it would be quicker,” he explained.

    “Hildy, we went like the wind! He put ’em along at furious rate! Only first we went to the Hammond Arms for a bite, and you never saw anything like! The Marquis of Crabapple just said: ‘Private parlour, Johnson, and quick about it,’ and that grouchy man positively jumped to it!”

    “What did you call me?” said the Marquis with a stunned look on his face.

    Hildy had gulped, but she managed to say, very weakly indeed: “I am afraid Bunch cannot wholly be blamed for that, sir, it—it is a stupid habit that the family fell into a while back and— Oh, dear!”

    “It was originally the Marquis de Carabas, of course,” said Bunch helpfully, “and—”

    “Yes, that will do,” said Hildy. “I think you had best go upstairs and— Oh, dear. I had best come myself and see that you take a bath.”

    “I can take a bath by myself!”

    “Aye, but will you?” choked Dorian, going into a paroxysm.

    Bunch gave him a look of loathing.

    Deering coughed slightly. “I am sure Madame Berthe would be happy to officiate, Miss Hildy,” he murmured.

    Hildy was very sure he had used the word “officiate” with malice aforethought. She preserved her gravity with an effort and said: “Of course. Well, would you ask her, please, Deering, and ask them to draw a bath for Miss Bunch.”

    “But I’m hungry!” she protested.

    “You will not eat until you are clean. If you were fed in Ditterminster you cannot possibly be starving. You may thank Major Kernohan and Lord Rockingham and get upstairs,” said Hildy grimly.

    Bunch’s lip quivered. “I thought you at least would be pleased to see me!”

    “You thought no such thing, and kindly do not try that sort of blackmail with me, Elinor Ainsley,” returned Hildy grimly.

    The gentlemen all looked at her in horror, but Deering looked upon her with extreme approbation. And, sure enough, Bunch made a face and said: “Well, it was worth trying. But I won’t have to go back before the wedding, will I?”

    “That is up to Paul,” returned Hildy steadily.

    “Could you not put in a word?”

    “Well, in view of the fact that you have had a great adventure, and really managed quite well, although it was an incredibly stupid thing to do,” said Hildy calmly, “I suppose I would vote for your being allowed to stay, were I asked. But I won’t be asked.”

    The Marquis choked.

    “Oh, pooh,” said Bunch, scowling. “All right, I’ll go up. But may I dine downstairs?” she added with a cunning look.

    Hildy replied drily: “You’ll have to, we have no nursery staff at the moment and I do not see that the servants should be put to the trouble of preparing and serving a separate meal for a little pest like you.”

    Bunch appeared satisfied with this. She curtseyed to the Marquis and the Major, said: “Thank you, Lord Rockingham, for bringing me in your curricle. And thank you for finding me, Major Kernohan. –Though I was not lost!”—with a quick glare at Hildy—and ran upstairs.

    “I’m so sorry,” said Hildy limply to the two gallant rescuers.

    “Not half so sorry as I am: had a meeting with the boys’ home board and half the town council, which I had to cancel,” noted the Marquis.

    “Oh, dear!” she cried. “And poor Major Kernohan, you have wasted your whole afternoon, too!”

    “Think nothing of it,” Miss Hildegarde,” he said with a smile. “Your little cousin is a delightful companion.”

    “She’s a little pest, you mean,” noted the Marquis, peeling off his many-caped driving coat. “Still, no harm done. And since we’re here, dare say Paul would not mind feeding us—eh? Where is he, by the by?”

    “He had to go to the far side of Upper Daynesfold, to see a man called Makepeace about some sheep,” explained Hildy on a nervous note. “And he said he would not try to get back in time to dine, for Sir Clinton Gerrity very kindly invited him to his house.”

    “Never tell me a sensible man like Gerrity is thinkin’ of running those hump-backed runts old Makepeace raises!” he said in amaze.

    Paul had warned the family this would be Giles’s reaction. “I don’t know,” said Hildy limply.

    “Well, where’s the rest of ’em?” he asked simply.

    “Mrs Goodbody should be back very soon: she went into Ditterminster to call on the Bishop’s wife.”

    “I see. And where are Luís and Gaetana?”

    Hildy swallowed. An agonized look came over her face.

    “I apprehend,” said the Major quietly, “that they and my brother Roly have gone shooting, Marquis.”

    “On a tiger-shoot!” said Dorian with a chuckle, not noticing that his brother was giving him a warning look.

    “Eh?” said Rockingham.

    “Well,” said Hildy with a very weak smile, “they persist in referring to it so, after Mrs Urqhart’s tales of tiger-hunts in India. The cottagers up by our northern boundary are being plagued by a tribe of wild cats who attack their poultry—one poor woman lost all her ducklings this year—and who are said even to hunt pheasants and rabbits, so when Jake mentioned a plan to—to exterminate them, Luís and Gaetana decided they would go, too.”

    “I trust they’ll return with a fine skin or two!” he said with a laugh.

    Hildy winced.

    “As you know, sir, Miss Hildegarde is very fond of cats: I think this subject need not be pursued.” said the Major firmly.

    “Thank you, Major,” said Hildy in relief. “We should be very pleased indeed, to have you stay to dine, Marquis, and all you gentlemen.” She smiled at them shyly.

    “Indeed: Mr Ainsley would insist on it,” said Deering smoothly. “Allow me, my Lord.” He took his driving coat. “Gregory, Thomas: pray take the gentlemen’s coats,” he added in a low voice.

    The two footmen had simply stood there with their mouths agape throughout Bunch’s saga. They jumped and began to relieve the gentlemen of their outer garments.

    Deering then bowed the guests into the small sitting-room and Hildy escaped upstairs, ignoring the pleading look on Lord Welling’s face.

    When she came down again, in a fresh gown of a dark green wool, with a little lace collar but unadorned except for the little gold bow brooch that General Sir Francis Kernohan had given her, the Marquis was dispensing punch, which judging from the relaxed look on the gentlemen’s faces was not their first glass, in front of a roaring log fire.

    “Well, Vernon,” he said, “how is it you are jaunting round the countryside with Miss Hildy and Kernohan, here? Or did you meet upon the doorstep?”

    “Er—no,” he said, with an agonized glance at Hildy. “The coach broke down.”

    She took a deep breath. “Viscount Welling will tell you the whole story, sir, for we have agreed that he is in need of your help.”—The young man nodded, with the expression of a grateful spaniel on his large, blond face.—“And I beg you will just—just listen nicely,” she ended on a weak note.

    “Listen nicely?” said Rockingham in amazement, ladle suspended over the punchbowl.

    Hildy swallowed.

    “Oh!” he said. “I collect you mean, and not bully him, Miss Hildegarde?”

    “Weil, yes,” she said in some bewilderment.

    “Go on, then, Vernon, I shall not bully you. And you had best take another glass of this.”

    “Thank you, Cousin Rockingham,” said the young man, accepting the punch. “Er...”

    “If this is a private story, perhaps we should go into another room?” said the Major quickly.

    “Oh, Lord, no, Aurry, it ain’t that!” chuckled Dorian.

    “No,” said Lord Welling glumly. “Um, well, sir, it was like this. I was coming, like you had said. And Bagsby left me after the first stage, he—”

    “What?” he said terribly.

    “Well, sir, otherwise he would have had to go most of the way back. He was sure you would not mind. And his mamma is not very well—”

    The Marquis took a deep breath. “I shall have some words to say to the Reverend Mr Bagsby.”

    Welling gulped. “And so I thought I had best ride, for I was not very plump in the pocket—”

    “What?” he said terribly.

    “Truly I have not been gambling again, Cousin Rockingham! I do not really like it, even, and I only did it because a fellow does not want to look a fool when all the  other fellows are doing it!”

    “Aye, we have all been through that,” said Dorian kindly. “Remember that time when I lost five hundred guineas, Aurry?”

    Aurry winced. “Aye, and I remember the dressing-down Papa gave you, too. Though compared to the trimming my Colonel gave me when I dropped a mere hundred at play when I was a subaltern, you came off lightly!”

    “So you have always maintained!” he said with laugh. The brothers looked at each other with great affection.

    “It seems you are not alone, Vernon,” noted the Marquis drily. “Very well, you had not been gambling. But I think I furnished you with a large portion of your allowance only recently, did I not?”

    “Yes. But Bagsby took it. He said I was not to be trusted.”

    The Marquis stared at him.

    “Um, he bought a horse, Cousin Giles. For he had nothing to hunt upon and he said I had best not go into the field unaccompanied. And I thought you would say that if he wished for a horse I should provide him with one. Because he was in some sort my servant,” he said, blushing. The Marquis’s jaw sagged noticeably. “And then... I don’t know. He said the hire of the carriage was very expensive, and there was but little left.”

    “I shall not only have some words to say to the Reverend Mr Bagsby, I shall have some words to say to his bishop!” he noted.

    Welling gulped. “Yes, sir. Um—well, I was riding, and I came several stages, and racked up for the night at quite a decent little inn. And then I came one more stage and—and… There she was.

    “Who?” said the Marquis, goggling at him.

    “Lady V.,” he gulped.

    “WHAT?” he roared terribly.

    “Marquis, it was a coincidence; surely you can see the poor boy is quite overset by it?” said Hildy sharply.

    Rockingham took a deep breath. “Go on, tell me the worst.”

    “She made me share a carriage with her,” he said miserably.

    There was a short silence.

    “And?” said Rockingham.

    Welling looked puzzled. “Well, that was it, sir. She was headed for Ditterminster and she said it would be ch— more economical if we was to share. And then it broke down quite near here, but Mr Kernohan and Miss Hildegarde came and rescued us.”

    “Is that all?” said Rockingham feebly.

    “Um—well, yes, sir. Well, some very decent people a ways up the road lent her their carriage and she has gone on into Ditterminster, thank the L— Well, she has gone,” he amended quickly, glancing at Hildy.

    Rockingham passed his hand through his hair. “And you were afraid to tell me this?”

    “Well, I— Well, yes,” he said, looking miserably at Hildy.

    “Good gad,” he muttered.

    There was a sufficient silence.

    “One has but to meet the lady,” said Dorian delicately, “to realize that most mere males would be as putty in her hands, Marquis.”

    “Absolutely! I have never seen anything like the way she took you arm, Mr Dorian!” said Hildy eagerly.

    Dorian’s face looked as if it were about to explode, but he managed not to laugh.

    “Well, yes,” said the Marquis in a shaken voice. “She has all the tricks of— Never mind. Er—well, you came off all right and tight in the end, Vernon, so least said soonest mended. –Were the horses all right?” he added anxiously.

    “Uh—why, yes, sir. It was a back wheel came off, and though the horses were tangled up a bit they was not hurt. And the post-boy took them to the village and—and I said to mention your name to the blacksmith, I hope that was all right, sir?” he said, blushing very much.

    “Oh, Lord, yes! Jem Meadows will see to it that all is put right! –My God, she is not staying in the district, is she?” he added in horror.

    Lord Welling nodded miserably, staring at his feet.

    Dorian coughed delicately. “Repairing lease. Sister’s married to the bishop’s chaplain. Not lookin’ forward to a régime of prayers before breakfast.”

    Rockingham smiled grimly. “I’ll be bound she ain’t.”

    “Cousin Rockingham, truly I don’t want to see her again!” Welling burst out.

    “Ah. Once bit, twice shy, is it?” he said, giving him a hard look.

    Welling shuddered, and nodded.

    “In that case. Lord Welling, I think you were best to stick close to your cousin,” said Hildy in a kind voice. “There is absolutely no fear she will invade the Place, you know. And even if she should, he has a most terrifyingly stately butler, and she will not get by him in a hurry, I assure you!”

    “Aye,” said the Marquis with a grin, “and if that miracle should occur—and Hollings would have to be prostrated with the lumbago for it to do so—she won’t get by me, I can swear to that!”

    “Thank you, sir,” he said limply.

    Hildy perceived that the poor creature—though he was over six foot tall and broader in the shoulder than any of them except the Marquis himself—was looking quite limp and wrung out. “As you have been travelling for two days, sir,” she said kindly, “would you not like to come upstairs? And perhaps change your neckcloth and take a little rest before dinner?”

    Lord Welling agreed with pathetic gratitude. He then bethought him of his baggage, which was still in the coach, and began to panick, but Hildy said that she would send a man to fetch it directly, and with various soothing noises of this sort, led him out.

    “By God,” said the Marquis limply, “I have never seen anything like it! A—a great, soft lump of an Alpine mastiff like that, being led by the nose by that perky little terrier of a girl!”

    The Kernohan brothers collapsed in laughter.

    “Aye, it is all very well,” he said, pouring them more punch, “but he is too biddable. Why, little Bunch has an hundred times his enterprise and a thousand times his determination! Getting herself across southern England on the common stage, while he lets a damned clergyman chisel him out of half his quarter’s allowance!”

    Aurry accepted a glass of punch and smiled at him. “You must find him a nice little wife who will be content to be the terrier to his giant Alpine mastiff, Marquis!”

    “Aye, well, at least he seems to be cured of Lady V.,” he noted.

    “Marquis,” said Dorian eagerly, “Miss Hildy was telling me the on-dit is that some fellow is paying for her divorce. You would not know the whole of it, I suppose?”

    “Ah!” he said, winking. “Well, the story is—”

    Gaetana, Luís and Mr Roly were very much stunned, on returning from their tiger-hunt, to find Miss Elinor Ainsley cosily ensconced in the small sitting-room on a stool at Major Kernohan’s feet. And Gaetana was almost equally stunned to find Lord Welling and Lord Rockingham seated side-by-side on a sofa, apparently upon terms of perfect amity.

    “You will see,” said the Marquis with a gleam in his eye, after the explanations had been gone through, and Luís had been dissuaded from putting Bunch over his knee forthwith, “that I have taken your sage advice, my dear young lady.”

    Gaetana took a deep breath and replied with every appearance of equanimity: “I am happy to hear it, sir.” But she was very glad indeed to escape upstairs in order to change her dress.

    Mrs Goodbody, of course, was most upset by Bunch’s exploit, but by the time the Marquis offered her his arm into dinner she had accepted the situation—though first he had had to suggest that she should dispatch one of the Manor grooms to Miss Blake’s, for she was worried that the Major’s letter might take some time, and that Miss Blake would be panicking at the loss of her pupil.

    “Er—yes, thank you, Lord Welling,” said Hildy on weak note, as the Viscount offered her his arm, with a pleading, spaniel-like expression on his broad, blond face.

    “We may go in, now. The Marquis and the Viscount have to precede us,” said Miss Elinor Ainsley informatively.

    Major Kernohan, a man who knew his cue, bowed, and offered her his arm.

    “I could help you cut things up, if you like!” she hissed.

    “Thank you very much, Bunch, I should be grateful,” he replied imperturbably. “Pray precede us, Miss Ainsley: the older sister must take precedence over the younger,” he added calmly.

    Giggling, Gaetana and Luís preceded them arm-in-arm.

    “Ladies before gentlemen,” said Dorian immediately to the ill-assorted couple.

    Bunch sailed off to dinner on the Major’s arm, looking very lofty.

    Dorian took Roly’s arm. “Aurry tells me they will give us a dashed good dinner,” he murmured. “How was the bag, dear boy?”

    “Ssh!”

    “It is all right, Miss Hildy and her pet viscount have gone in,” said Dorian, grinning.

    “Actually it was famous sport, old man, to tell you the truth. We bagged over thirty of the damned creatures, in all.”

    “Good gad!” said Dorian.

    “Aye. And—uh—there were a few quite young ones, and Miss Ainsley said of all things we is not to mention it to Miss Hildy.”

    “No, no, not for the world! –Here, you would have had enough skins to make Aurry another rug!” he choked.

    “Ssh!”

    The brothers went into dinner, chuckling.

   …  “I suppose,” Gaetana said somewhat limply, as Deering presented the soup to the Marquis, “that at least we may expect no further surprises tonight: indeed, I feel we have had a twelvemonth’s worth, all at once!”

    “Unless Bungo has run away from Winchester,” replied Luís.

    “Don’t!” she said, shuddering.

    Mrs Goodbody had overheard this and began to panic, but the Marquis assured her soothingly that Bungo had both far too much good sense and far too much propriety of feeling to do any such thing. And urged her to take some of this soup, it smelled wonderful: what was it, Deering? Deering replied it was chestnut soup with a base of giblet stock, my Lord, and the Marquis said: “Hah!”

    “Eh?” croaked Luís. “Bungo? Propriety of feeling?

    Gaetana giggled. “Silly! Of course he has! His is a far more conventional character than Bunch’s, you know, querido!”

    “Aye, well, s’pose it is. Just as well: me constitution won’t support another fugue tonight!” he said, chuckling.

    “No, well, it won’t have to; and I am sure Gaetana is right,” said Hildy, laughing a little: “we have had our twelvemonth’s worth of surprises!”

    They were, however, quite wrong about this: the Manor was due for even more surprises before the night was out. And not a few thereafter.