Young Ladies And Gentlemen

14

Young Ladies And Gentlemen

    “I shall not ask where Hildy has been all day,” said Mrs Maddern on a grim note, “for I doubt if my nerves could stand the reply! Just run and make sure she is wearing something suitable, dearest.”

    “Yes, Mamma, “ said Amabel obediently, going over to the door of her mother’s room.

    “Stay!” Mrs Maddern held up a commanding hand, in which she was incidentally grasping her pearl necklace.

    “Yes, Mamma? Shall I—?”

    “No, no, Mason may do it! Where is the woman?” she added crossly.

    “You sent her to help Christa, Mamma,” she murmured.

    Mrs Maddern sighed. “So I did. Though why I should bother, I really don’t— And now we shall have to invite this Lady Charleson person to dine, I suppose, as she is a connection of Mr O’Flynn’s, and I dare say she may be quite impossible!”

    “Her husband was a Member of Parliament, I think,” said Amabel dubiously.

    Mrs Maddern sniffed. “Now, what on earth was I—? I have lost my thread entirely!” she said crossly.

    Amabel just looked at her helplessly.

    “Oh, yes! Christabel!” she said. “t suppose there is no hope of her making a push to engage his interest, even if I lend her ten Masons!”

    Amabel was now a fiery red. She gulped.

    “Amabel,” said Mrs Maddern sharply, “if you are aware of something which it is your duty to report to your mamma, pray speak!”

    “No, Mamma!” she gasped. “It is only—”

    Mrs Maddern’s bosom swelled. “If she has turned down Captain Lord Lucas Claveringham without a word to me—”

    “No, Mamma!” she gasped. “l am sure not! I mean, he is the merest acquaintance, really, and Christa would never— I mean, you have it all wrong, Mamma!”

    “Do I?” she said grimly. “Then what is disturbing you, may I enquire?”

    Amabel swallowed convulsively and replied in a stifled voice: “Only that—that I fear Christabel cannot care for him, Mamma.”

    “You said yourself he is as yet only an acquaintance!” she returned indignantly. “If he is to come into the country, there will be plenty of time for—”

    “No, Mamma!” cried Amabel in anguish. “Mr O’Flynn!”

    “Oh. Well, never mind,” she said grimly, “I dare say you may be wrong, and in any case I am sure poor Dorothea is not interested in him. –And in the case you were thinking he might do for Miss Dewesbury, let me just remind you who her grandpapa was! l shall never allow Lady Lavinia to say that I encouraged her daughter to form an unsuitable connection in my house!”

    “No, Mamma, but I was not going to say any such thing.”

    “Well, we shall see. Eligible gentlemen do not come along every day of the week,” she said grimly, “and in the case Captain Lord Lucas should not—” She had almost said “come up to scratch.” She swallowed. “Er—make her an offer after all, there is no reason whatsoever why she should not take Mr O’Flynn!”

    “No, Mamma,” said Amabel faintly.

    “I am sure she has by far more countenance, more vivacity and far better looks than poor little Mrs O’Flynn!” said Mrs Maddern airily.

    Amabel bit her lip. “Poor Dorothea is rather pulled by the journey. I am glad you encouraged her to dine quietly in her room this evening, Mamma.”

    Mrs Maddern sighed, momentarily forgetful of her schemes. “Poor little thing.”

    Amabel looked at her with affection. “Yes. Well, I shall just go along and check on Hildy.”

    “What? Oh—yes, my dear! And Amabel, dearest, you and Dorothea had best spend a quiet day at home tomorrow, be sure you do not let Christabel drag her off for one of her everlas— One of her walks,” she ended limply.

    “No, Mamma. Those of a very vigorous constitution, like dearest Christa,” said Amabel gently, “cannot really understand when others do not have the energy for such expeditions.”

    “Exactly, my dear, and so I have always said!” said the vigorous Patty Maddern, nodding hard. “Run along, now, dearest!”

    Amabel smiled faintly, and withdrew.

    Having made up his mind to it that Miss Hildegarde Maddern was merely a graceless scamp and far too young to be considered as a possible helpmate by one who had lately had several very serious conversations with his bishop on the pros and cons of a celibate clergy, the Reverend Mr Parkinson was very disconcerted indeed to see her once more transformed into the delicately lovely young lady she had appeared on the luckless occasion of the encounter at Almack’s. His heart pounded, and he found himself wishing fervently that she would not treat him again with such unjust and capricious cruelty as she had on that occasion. And this in spite of the fact that he had believed himself to have made up his mind once and for all to put Miss Hildegarde out of his mind and look for a young woman the delicacy of whose mind would be matched by the propriety of her conduct. In short, a fit mate for one of his calling: a woman with whom he could achieve that quiet domestic happiness of which he and the bishop had spoken.

    Reaching this decision, head in his hands in the library of Ainsley Manor, had taken some time, and although he had come down well before the dinner hour in order to give himself time to search for a work at the least on the anatomy of small animals and, in the best case which could possibly be looked for, with a detailed illustration of the mole, he reached the small drawing-room where the company had gathered to await Deering’s announcement of dinner only just before the butler himself appeared. He therefore had no opportunity for speech with Hildy before they sat down to table.

    However, after dinner, when the company had reconvened, he ventured in a very low voice: “May I say you look lovely tonight, Miss Hildegarde?”

    There was little danger of his being overheard: Mrs Maddern at this moment was debating aloud whether to permit Marybelle, Maria and Floss to descend for spillikins, the main trouble with this notion being that it would be very difficult indeed to prevent the twins’ doing so, too, and really it was time they should be in bed, Paul was assuring her that he’d see to it that the twins went to bed and stayed in it, Tom was assuring her that he’d help, Hal was assuring them that his right hand was at their disposal, and Mrs Parkinson was assuring her old friend that she would be delighted to see the dear little twins.

    Hildy went very red and returned in an equally low voice: “I thought we had agreed you were to speak to me like a sensible man, sir?”

    “It is very difficult,” he said.

    Hildy glared at the floor.

    The Vicar swallowed. “Miss Hildegarde, if I appeared—uh—surprized to see you earlier in the bookroom—”

    “You appeared shocked out of your wits,” she said drily.

    “I— One cannot but approve your desire to share your little sister’s interests, but surely, Miss Hildegarde, you could have encouraged her to a less—less— Well, to a more suitable pastime for a young lady?” he gulped.

    Hildy stared at him in genuine amaze. “You do not imagine the expedition was Floss’s idea, do you?”

    The Vicar’s jaw sagged.

    “She has a certain amount of daring, but she lacks initiative and besides is really quite conventional at heart,” said Hildy dispassionately. “I have been accused most of my life of dragging her and Marybelle into mischief, and I do most earnestly assure you, sir, that the accusations were all well founded!”

    Hilary gulped. After a moment he said: “But surely at your age, Miss Hildegarde, if I may be permitted to say so, such conduct is most—most...”

    “Go on,” said Hildy drily.

    “I can only say, reluctant though I am to do so, most unbecoming,” he said.

    “Yes, is it not?” she returned cordially.

    Reddening, he said: “Why do you do it, then?”

    “In the first place because being a young lady bores me to distraction—I had thought I had mentioned that? And in the second place because I enjoy it. I suppose I could add, because there is no harm in it, but that would be a prevarication, I never gave that aspect of the matter a thought.”

    “No,” he said tightly.

    Hildy eyed him mockingly. “I cannot even say that I am sorry to have shocked you, Mr Parkinson. Though I am sorry that you were shocked.” She walked away on this.

    After a moment the Vicar went very red and bit his lip.

    Mrs Maddern’s prediction about Mr O’Flynn’s connection turned out not to be well founded and in fact Lady Charleson, who called with her daughter the following day, no doubt at her cousin’s urging, for he certainly accompanied them, was found to be a ladylike, soft-spoken woman whose blonde prettiness belied her status as the mother of two grown children.

    Gaetana spent the entire visit sitting in a remote chair, silent and scowling, but as Paul had taken the other young gentlemen out for a little rough shooting and they were not yet returned there was no-one present who could have elucidated this mysterious behaviour for her aunt.

    “Gaetana, my dear, do you not feel quite the thing?” said Mrs Maddern when the visitors had departed, with assurances from Mr O’Flynn of seeing them tomorrow for a drive to view a delightful ruin.

    “I suppose I still have a little headache from yesterday,” said Gaetana dully.

    “If you had not had, the chatter of that terrible ‘Muzzie’ Charleson would have been enough to induce one!” said Hildy roundly. “Muzzie by name and muzzy in brain, I fear!”

    Gaetana smiled reluctantly. “She is certainly not an intellectual type of girl. In fact, she reminds me forcibly of—” She broke off, flushing.

    “Carolyn Girardon?” suggested Miss Maddern.

    “Sí,” she said in n a low voice, getting up. “I think I might lie down, if I may, Tia Patty.”

    Mrs Maddern rose, looking concerned. “Of course, my dear! I shall come with you, and consult with Mason. Christa, do you think we should call a doctor to her? It is not like Gaetana to be ill, at all!”

    “No, Mamma, if it is merely the headache, I think she will be well by this evening. But if she is still not the thing by tomorrow morning, then I would say she should have a doctor.”

    “Oh!” cried Gaetana wildly. “Stop fussing, all of you! I cannot bear it!” She ran out of the room.

    “Oh, dear,” said Mrs Maddern limply. “Well, I will go to her: we cannot leave her in that state.”‘

    “I shall accompany you, dear Patty,” decided Mrs Parkinson. “I think my mamma’s cure of lavender water and elderflower water rubbed upon the wrists and temples may be the very—”

    “Nay, my dear!” cried Mrs Maddern in astonishment. “Not lavender water with elderflower: why, they are incompatible! No, I will grant you the lavender water, but a solution of feverfew—”

    The two ladies went out, looking determined.

    “Well,” said Christabel with a smile, “I confess I am greatly looking forward to seeing this ruined priory which of which Mr O’Flynn spoke!”

    “Indeed,” said Miss Dewesbury eagerly. “How Romantick it does sound, to be sure!”

    Hildy got up, looking cross. “Pooh, I dare say it will be all earwigs,”—she looked hard at Christabel—“and spiders,”—she looked hard at Amabel—“not to say damp and gloom, and certain of those here present will end up being unable to convince themselves it is Romantick at all! –I am going to go and read, and if Mamma wants me you do not know where I am.” She went out.

    There was silence in the little sitting-room. The Maddern sisters and Mrs O’Flynn avoided Miss Dewesbury’s eye.

    “I suppose it is true we do not know,” said Amabel weakly at last.

    Hurriedly Miss Maddern changed the subject. “You must be sure and take your sketching block to the ruined priory tomorrow, Dorothea!”

    She and Amabel looked at their friend anxiously but before Dorothea could speak Miss Dewesbury agreed eagerly: “Yes, indeed! I am sure I intend to! I am convinced that in spite of Hildy’s common-sensical warnings it will be the most Romantick thing imaginable!”

    “Then perhaps I will,” said Mrs O’Flynn faintly.

    “Good,” said Miss Maddern briskly, as if she did not think the thing very particular at all. “It is kind of you to call Hildy common-sensical, Susan,” she added with a grim smile. “I would not have applied the phrase to her.”

    Miss Dewesbury smiled a little. “But I think she is, Christa. In spite of her fairy-like appearance and her unconventional turn of mind, she is quite a practical and unromantic person, it seems to me.”

    “Yes, so I have always thought,” said Mrs O’Flynn, nodding. “Although of course I do not know her very well.”

    “We have always called her our dreamer,” said Amabel faintly.

    “Yes, indeed! Practical? When she cannot set a stitch and will not go near the stillroom?” said Miss Maddern.

    “There are other forms of practicality. I would not claim that dear Hildy is domestic,” said Miss Dewesbury with a twinkle in her mild blue eyes. “But I would say that of all of us she, and perhaps Gaetana, have the least of romance in their dispositions!”

    There was a short silence. Then Miss Maddern said slowly: “Possibly you are right. It is a question of how one looks at it.”

    “She once said to me that she did not suffer from Romantick illusions,” recalled Amabel weakly. “I suppose that that is what she meant.”

    “Indeed!” agreed Mrs O’Flynn.

    “Yes,” said Susan. “And she mentioned to me that one of the things that most appeals to her about dear Miss Ainsley is the clarity of her mind. She said that she sees things as they are and not as others would wish her to see them or in the way in which society suggests it would be proper for her to see them.”

    “That certainly sounds like Hildy,” said Amabel weakly.

    “Yes, and it certainly sounds the opposite of Romantick!” said Miss Maddern with a laugh. “You have given us quite some food for thought, Susan!”

    Susan smiled a little. “Sometimes one from outside the immediate family circle may see things a little more clearly than one’s nearest and dearest.”

    “Yes, indeed,” said Miss Maddern on a grim note, remembering her mamma’s report of what Lady Lavinia had said of Susan. Lady Lavinia had spoken in entirely proper terms, of course, but without enthusiasm, and Mrs Maddern had not scrupled to say to Christa: “I do not scruple to tell you, my dear one, that the woman meant the poor girl is a dull pudding!” It was very apparent to Miss Maddern, now that they had all got to know her better, that Susan was not a dull pudding at all. She was a girl of considerable intelligence and a most kindly and sympathetic nature, but she was certainly lacking in the wilful spirit that would have allowed her to stand up to her formidable mamma. Which possibly promoted domestic harmony—imagine, for example, the clash of wills that would have resulted had Lady Lavinia been the mother of Hildegarde—but did not all that much for Susan’s happiness.

    “In any case,” said Amabel on a firm note, picking up her work, “I am quite sure that the priory will be delightful.”

    “I do hope there are no earwigs,” said Mrs O’Flynn faintly. Miss Maddern repressed a shudder at the recurrence of this word, trying hard not to envisage the creatures.

    “I am sure that if there are there will not be very many!” replied Susan with a kind smile. “If Mr O’Flynn has recommended it for a visit, I think we may be very sure that it will be entirely pleasant. What a very kindly, considerate gentleman he does seem, to be sure.”

    “Yes, indeed, he is everything of the most thoughtful,” sighed Dorothea. “And so fond of Baby! She was so naughty the last time he called, too: she was cutting another tooth and when he said she was the prettiest little thing imaginable and would have her on his knee, she cried ‘No, no!’ and struck him with her new rattle!”

    This was a long speech for Dorothea: her friends looked at her hopefully.

    The morrow having dawned fine, but cool with much high cloud and not a little wind, Mrs Maddern enjoined the young ladies, more than once, to wrap up warmly and to be sure and keep their shawls round them. And Hildy had best wear her heaviest pelisse, she was looking pulled.

    Not surprizingly, Hildy was annoyed to learn she was looking pulled, and vetoed this suggestion angrily, but relented on Miss Maddern’s saying calmly that they would all wear their pelisses. Yes, and their shawls as well: it was turning out a very cool summer. And she would be very much surprized if Lady Charleson sent Miss Charleson over without her pelisse on a day such as this.

    Miss Maddern was not destined to be surprized, for Miss Charleson and Mr O’Flynn—whom she addressed charmingly as “Uncky Cousin,” an expression which made Hildegarde, for one, feel violently unwell—arrived very soon and she was seen to be looking delightfully in a very, very pale blue pelisse. Which inspired Mrs Maddern to say in a very, very low voice in her old friend’s ear: “Mark? My dear, figurez-vous!” and Mrs Parkinson to nod grimly; the more so since Dorothea was still entirely in black.

    Whether or not Miss Charleson’s powder blue would mark terribly, at the moment it looked delightful, as Amabel did not delay to assure her, though Miss Charleson expressed envy of Amabel’s smart topaz and added wistfully that she herself had never been to London. Muzzie Charleson was only just turned seventeen. Or, as she herself had phrased it to the nauseated Hildegarde: “Leventy-seven, we say at home: it was how I counted when I was little!”

    At the London reference Mrs Maddern gave an airy laugh and said: “Oh, my dear! My girls have all had these old things for this age!”—not revealing that her daughters were not dressed by a London modiste but were all wearing the pelisses which had been made for them by Miss Cutty from the village from the stuffs acquired in Tunbridge Wells. Even Christabel, though she had demurred at parading about the country in blue— No, very well, Mamma, if you desire it. Mrs Maddern had desired it and she had not scrupled to say that she was very tired of being flouted by Christabel in this manner!

    Miss Maddern, very much surprized, had flushed up and apologized. Though she could not see in what she had flouted her Mamma’s wishes, apart from the rather natural desire not to appear particular in rural surroundings. She was not much comforted by her brother Hal’s startled laugh on her appearing downstairs in deep sapphire and his informing her that she looked as fine as fivepence and he wouldn’t have recognized her in the street.

    “Hal, my dear,” said Mrs Maddern on a hopeful note, “since you are still here, perhaps you could accompany—”

    “Not I!” said Hal in horror. “Tom and I are going to see if we can bag a few rabbits: why the Devil don’t you accompany us, Hilary?”

    While Mrs Maddern was still shutting her eyes in anguish at her son’s use of language to a vicar, Mr Parkinson smiled and replied: “But I have a strong desire to see the ruins, Hal. Besides, did not the good Berthe point out that yesterday’s bag was sufficient to stock her larder for a fortnight?”

    “Is that what she said?” said Hal with a grin. “Don’t speak Frog, meself! Well, I dare say she was exaggerating, a rabbit pie will never go amiss! And we might get a few wood pigeons!”

    “Are they not the Marquis of Rockingham’s pigeons?” murmured Mr Parkinson.

    Hal winked. “Not if they’re flying over Paul’s land, they ain’t! –I say, Paul, why the Devil don’t you come with us?” he said, as Paul came into the front hall.

    “Hein? Oh—no,” said Paul, while Mrs Maddern’s eyes were closed in renewed anguish: “I am looking forward to seeing these ruins. I wonder whether they will be exceeding Gothick?”

    “Bound to be!” said Hal breezily. “Can’t imagine anything worse, meself! –No, hang on, though: yes, I can: remember that time Papa dragged us to that dashed cathedral?” he said to his mamma.

    “Bath Abbey. You were only the tiniest thing,” said Mrs Maddern faintly, “no more then seven. We had taken you and Christa to see dear Uncle Hildebrand. Fancying your remembering that!”

    “Remember it? It’s seared into me soul! It was like a great mausoleum! And was there or was there not a huge fat fellow in a dashed enormous wig who kissed my curls?”

    “No, it was a nightmare induced afterwards by the visit!” choked Paul.

    “It was not! It was the Rector of the Abbey himself!” cried Mrs Maddern crossly.

    “Never!” gasped Hal. “Oh, here he is at last! Come along, old fellow, what the Devil were you doing?” he said crossly as Tom appeared with a shot-gun under his arm. –Mrs Maddern’s eyes remained open, tacitly conceding defeat.

    The Maddern brothers exited hastily, Tom so hastily that he forgot his hat, but as it was a windy day his brother assured him loudly that he’d be better off without it. Upon this assurance he went off to slaughter the Marquis’s pigeons quite happily.

    From all of which it was plain to see that, if Tom Maddern was clearly cut out to be a sporting parson, Hal Maddern was the very model of a sporting country squire, and it was no wonder his mamma had not been able to tempt him to London for the Season with the promise of dances and young ladies.

    Since the gentlemen were riding Gaetana had elected also to ride. Her new habit was black, but very much adorned with deep amethyst braiding in a very dashing, military style, and the hat was a daring shako with an amethyst plume, the whole outfit set off by a frill of white lace that peeped at her neck. This last, according to the unfeeling Hal, calculated to startle the horses, and didn’t she know it wasn’t the done thing to wear a dashed frilly neckcloth in the country? So it was plain to see that one at least of Mrs Maddern’s ambitions for her offspring was not to be gratified.

    They were taking an open carriage, the which Mrs Maddern had decreed would be more the thing, as she and Mrs Parkinson were not to accompany them—she fancied, she had said gaily, that Mr O’Flynn would be chaperon enough! And the two brothers, of course! Young Mr Charleson had looked at her in bewilderment, for there was only one of him, but Gaetana had taken pity upon him and explained that she meant him and Paul. No-one had argued with the arrangement, the more so as the two older ladies were clearly looking forward to a day of comfortable gossip. And even more so as no-one particularly desired her mamma to be present.

    As the party set off Mr O’Flynn ranged alongside the barouche—coincidentally on the side where Amabel was seated with her back to the horses. She and Susan had had a polite fight over this, and Amabel had won. Needless to say Christabel was next to Amabel, having beaten Mrs O’Flynn down kindly but firmly in the matter. Hildy, not giving two seconds’ thoughts to the subject, had merely squeezed in beside her sisters as a matter of course, so she had been surprized to see them both smile approvingly at her.

    After a little Mr Parkinson allowed himself to come up alongside her side of the carriage, saying gaily: “May I offer you a penny for your thoughts, Miss Hildegarde?”

    To which she replied glumly, and quite unselfconsciously: “They are not worth a penny, Vicar. To say truth I was wishing heartily you had offered to teach me to ride when you put Bunch and Bungo up on your Lightning.”

    The deluded Hilary thought this was a compliment: he flushed up very much and laughed and said: “Believe me, I would have offered, had I known you wished for such a thing, Miss Hildegarde!”

    Hildy came to herself with a little jump and said: “I didn’t mean that personally. It is so restricting, having to travel in a stupid carriage!”

    “Er—yes.” He glanced doubtfully at her companions.

    Miss Maddern, though rather occupied with her own thoughts and feelings over the past few days, and also very much occupied with their guests, had noticed that relations were strained between Hildy and the Vicar, and even though she could not think of a man of the cloth in that way herself, had felt most sympathetic towards both of them—though it was true Hildy treated the poor man shamefully, she hardly deserved his regard. So she leaned forward a little and said kindly across her sister: “Indeed, I quite agree with Hildy, Vicar: I have been admiring Gaetana’s example and mean to emulate her as soon my riding is up to scratch!”

    Mr Parkinson smiled and retried a polite reply but could not help confirming his very first impression of Miss Maddern as a terrifying woman: full of vigour and—and capability. Though he knew he should admire her for such qualities.

    “Do you ride, Mrs O’Flynn?” asked Susan kindly.

    “No; I—I am not very fond of horses,” she said, shrinking into her seat a little, and eyeing Mr O’Flynn’s nearby horse nervously.

     Little Muzzie, who had been placed between Susan and Dorothea, at this cried gaily: “Oh, but Daffa-Down-Dilly would not hurt a fly! Uncky Cousin always chooses him when he comes to visit! See how gentle his eye is!”

    “A male horse called Daffa-Down-Dilly? You cannot be serious,” said Hildy in a hollow voice, what time Miss Maddern swallowed hard.

    “But of course I am! We have had him ever since he was a baby colt, and he has always been the gentlest horse in our stables! I named him myself!”

    “No!” said Hildy incredulously.

    Mr Parkinson attempted to give her a warning look, for he could not approve of the sort of funning which might hurt another person’s feelings—though privately he too considered Muzzie Charleson a very silly, irritating little thing. Hildy glared at him defiantly, sticking out her pointed chin.

    “I expect he had big melting eyes, did he not?” said Susan kindly, though privately she was thinking what a silly little thing Muzzie Charleson was.

    The Vicar looked at her with great approval, smiling his lovely smile, what time Muzzie cried that indeed he had, and his baby coat was the most ’licious golden colour, and he had had the dearest tiny mane and the dearest tiny legs, and—

    Hildy took a very deep breath: Mr O’Flynn had assured them that the journey did not take over two hours.

    The journey did take two hours, but mainly because Miss Charleson insisted on getting down at two quaint inns they encountered on their way and therein drinking a glass of lemonade—though as the flustered wives of the innkeepers did not have lemonade, and she did not fancy a glass of milk, she ended up not after all drinking anything. Mr O’Flynn was not the sort of man who would have proposed a tiring expedition to a party of young ladies, and had it not been for these stops it would have taken but an hour and a half.

    The priory was indeed very ruined and since it had been built in the Middle Ages it might well have been said to have been exceeding Gothick, and Miss Dewesbury expressed herself delighted with it, very soon sitting down upon a handy hummock and beginning to sketch.

    Mrs O’Flynn sat by her and watched. After a little she said: “I think I would rather do the view from over in that direction: one may catch the massy, cloud-like effect of that large elm, do you not think?”

    Miss Dewesbury smiled and said: “Indeed, striking! I perceive you have the artistic eye. I alas, have technique but no flair!”

    “Oh, no!” whispered Mrs O’Flynn distressfully. “Your draughtsmanship is very fine, Miss Dewesbury.”

    Susan smiled and said: “Thank you. I should be glad if you would call me Susan.” –Possibly Mrs O’Flynn should have made the first move in this direction but Susan by now had perceived that she was by far too timid to do so.

    Sure enough, Dorothea smiled and blushed and said: “Oh, I should like it of all things, Susan! And you must call me Dorothea! –Well, I think I shall go over there.”

    “I should,” agreed Susan with a twinkle. “I wish I had thought of it first!”

    “If you would wish—”

    “No, no, my dear Dorothea, I shall finish my prosaic view from here, do you go over there and catch the picturesque one; I am very sure you will do it far better than I could!”

    After further protestations, Mrs O’Flynn betook herself and a rug to the further hummock and there began to sketch. Amabel soon ceased wandering about the ruins and came and sat by her.

    Mr Parkinson had said to Hildegarde as she alighted from the carriage: “What a fine sight it is, to be sure. Perpendicular, I fancy.”

    Hildy had replied: “Some of it, yes. I fancy that those lower, more rounded parts may be earlier. I cannot say that I find it exciting.”

    “Buh-but my dear Miss Hildegarde!” protested the Vicar as she strode off towards the highest point of the low hill upon which the picturesque ruin stood. “Our finest cathedrals—!”

    This was not one, nor anything like it. “I do admire them. Though I admit,” said Hildy with a sigh, reaching the top of the hill, “that I have only seen them pictured in books.”

    “A great cathedral,” said the Vicar, looking at the tumbled ruins rather sadly, “is like, or so I always think, a standing hymn of praise to the Lord.”

    “Christa said something like that about the Abbey, when they visited Bath. But I was too little to go.”

    “It is a very fine edifice,” he agreed. He looked at her doubtfully: she was staring at the view and frowning a little, so he said nothing more.

    Hildy had unconsciously expected him either to proceed to flirt with her or to make a little joke to lighten the atmosphere—for Sir Julian would have done either in these circumstances. When Mr Parkinson did neither she was most disconcerted and felt at a loss. Finally she said in a stilted tone: “I think that grass has been mown: that is not very picturesque.”

    He had been about to say “How picturesque this spot is.” He swallowed. “Yes,” he said faintly, “I mean, no. I dare say... Well, I suppose someone looks to the place, it is a very popular spot with visitors.”

    “So I believe,” Hildy agreed colourlessly. She had thought the mown grass an amusing note—indeed, quite touching in its incongruity—and was rather cross that he evidently did not. She walked along a little way, not looking to see if he was following her.

    “This is a fine view,” he said behind her.

    “Yes!” she gasped, jumping.

    “A great mass of cloud gathering,” said the Vicar, removing his hat in the wind and looking up into a magnificent sky.

    “Yes,” said Hildy faintly, looking up at him and feeling quite dizzy at the sight of his head against the violent sky.

    “I hope we shall not have rain,” he said in worried voice, looking back at her and replacing his hat. “Dorothea is still not very robust, and the weather has been so cool this year.”

    “We could always have the hood of the carriage up for her,” said Hildy kindly, beginning to wish that he would spare her his  fraternal worries, however admirable, and leave her to enjoy the view.

    “Indeed,” he agreed, looking at her with obvious approval.

    Hildy suddenly felt a wave of impatience with him: what else could she have said in the circumstances? “I hope Mrs O’Flynn gets soaked to the skin and catches her death,” perchance! Really! “Perhaps you had better go down and see if the hood works, we have never had it up,” she said maliciously.

    “Oh. Er—well, I do not think...” He looked anxiously at the sky.

    This time Hildy did not looking admiringly at him: she stared out at the view of cloud shadows scudding across the rolling countryside.

    “I shall go down and check, and then come back!” he said on a desperately arch note.

    “Very well,” she replied grimly.

    He gave her a helpless look, and departed.

    Hildy had her back to the ruined priory and its grassy slope: she did not turn round. She made a ferocious face and mouthed something at the view. Had there been anyone to interpret this, they might well have discerned that what she would have liked to scream aloud into the wind was: “Wet fish!”

    After some time of standing in the wind her cheeks had cooled down sufficiently—and so had her temper—for her to be able to look about her with true appreciation of the beautiful landscape and she was almost glad she had come. She turned and looked down at the priory and was quite glad about that, too, though it was not really a very striking sight, after all. A gentleman was panting up the slope towards her but it was not Mr Parkinson. Hildy looked at him gloomily. Not on account of his not being the Vicar, for she did not feel they had anything left to say to one another, but on account of his being a gentleman at all.

    “What a splendid view!” gasped young Mr Charleson.

    “Yes. You had best mop your brow,” said Hildy with a smile. Mr Charleson was around her own age but he seemed much, much younger.

    “Oh, no, I say! I’m not such a poor fellow as that, you know!” he protested.

    Hildy gave a gratifying giggle.

    Much encouraged, Mr Charleson pursued: “I say, Miss Hildy, standing up here in the wind you look like a—a naiad, y’know!”

    “Not a naiad, you absurd creature!” said Hildy with a crow of laughter. “They are water nymphs!”

    “Eh? Oh, well, it could rain!” he said brazenly.

    Hildy gave another giggle.

    “Though I hope it don’t: Muzzie will go into hysterics if that dashed blue thing gets ruined, and somehow, I shall get the blame,” he said on a glum note.

   Hildy looked at him with great sympathy. “Do they blame you for everything in your family?”

    “Most things,” he said gloomily.

    “I do not know how it is, but somehow it is so with me, too!” cried Hildy, giggling again.

    “Oh, I say! Not really? Go on, you’re joking!” he said with a laugh.

    “No, indeed! Though I have to admit that in my case,” she said with a wicked look, “I am usually entirely to blame!”

    “No, never!” he cried, laughing.

    “Yes, I assure you! Stay, if I tell you of my latest exploit will you promise not to breathe a word? For Mamma and Christa do not know of it.”

    “Word of honour, Miss Hildy!” he grinned, frightfully pleased.

    Giggling, Hildy told him about poaching the trout from the Marquis’s stream. Mr Charleson almost choked to death laughing—though his amazingly elaborate neckcloth could have been a factor. Then she told him of the trout’s encounter with the Vicar. Mr Charleson gave a positive yelp.

    “Ssh!” she hissed, giggling frightfully.

    “Oh, I say!” he gasped. “Dreadful stick, ain’t he? Good fellow, though, of course!” he added quickly.

    Hildy made a little face. “Yes, of course. Though I am inclined to agree with you, he is a stick.”

    “Well, s’pose vicars have to be, eh? I’d rather be merely human, myself!” the young man said with his pleasant laugh.

    Hildy had not expected such perceptiveness from young Mr Charleson: she felt all at once as if, without even trying, and out of the very simplicity of his nature, he had put his finger on the very point that had been troubling her for many months in regard to Hilary Parkinson.

    She beamed upon him and said: “If you were to give me your arm, Mr Charleson, I might be persuaded to descend this hill and go into simulated rapture over these dashed ruins!”

    Grinning, young Mr Charleson proffered his arm. “Ain’t they, though? Don’t like broken things, meself. Oh, well. Makes a pleasant drive.”

    “Drive! You were on horseback, whilst I was forced to endure conversation!”

    “Yes, well, ride,” he said, grinning.

    Hildy had taken his arm. “Horrid creature!” she said, pinching it.

    “Ow! You’re a cruel one, Miss Hildy!” he said with a laugh.

    “Me? Never!”

    Mr Charleson laughed again.

    Hildy giggled again.

    They descended the not very arduous slope very slowly and carefully, in a state of perfect amity.

    “Eric is a shocking flirt, you know,” said Muzzie with a pout. “So Miss Hildegarde had best be warned!”

    Gaetana laughed. “She has coped with much more dangerous flirts than your brother, Miss Charleson, I do assure you!”

    “In London, I suppose!” she cried resentfully.

    “Sí. But you will be there next year. Perhaps we shall see you?” said Gaetana kindly.

    “I dare say you will not, for my Aunt Faith is not terribly fashionable. –Mamma was saying you know Lord Rockingham,” she added glumly.

    “Er—sí, we do, but so do you, do you not?”

    “No. Well, I have met him. Mamma says he is a most admirable man under that manner, but I do not like him, I do not care what anyone says! He scares me, with those dark looks!”

    “I suppose a man cannot help his complexion,” said Gaetana limply, looking round for help. But none came: Miss Maddern and Paul were consulting over a guidebook, Mr O’Flynn had this minute joined Amabel and Mrs O’Flynn, and Mr Parkinson was politely admiring Miss Dewesbury’s sketching.

    Muzzie pouted, revealing: “Besides, we are not… Well, it is true he visits sometimes, but it is largely because he needs to see our agent about something to do with the estate, and Mamma says he would not be so ill-mannered as not to call at the house if Eric is home to play host, you know.”

    Gaetana experienced a huge surge of relief at this artless confidence. “I see. Shall we sit down upon this rock, Muzzie? –I’m sorry,” she said, as they sat down: “may I call you Muzzie?”

    “Yes, please do! And I shall call you Gaetana, I never knew anyone with a Spanish name before!”

    “Please do,” said Gaetana limply. “So—so your land adjoins Lord Rockingham’s, is that it? I had thought his estates ended at our eastern boundary?”

    “Oh, no! Mamma says the whole of Dittersford is like a little pocket cut out of the huge cloth of the Hammond lands!” she said with a superior titter. “He owns all the farms to the north of our lands and the Ainsley lands, Miss— I mean Gaetana!”

    “Indeed?” she said weakly.

    “Yes. Mamma says it is vulgar to talk about money, but the Marquis must have an income of eighty thousand pounds a year!” she said, nodding impressively.

    “Eighty— No-one could have an income that size!” gasped Gaetana.

    “Well, I do not know... But Mamma said it.”

    “Help,” said Gaetana limply.

    Muzzie nodded, very pleased to have been able to impart this astonishing piece of intelligence. “Indeed. And you will come to our little dance, won’t you?” she said, squeezing her hand.

    This topic had already been mooted. Trying not to sound resigned, Gaetana replied: “If your Mamma should invite us, we would be very pleased.”

    “Oh, she will invite you, because I shall ask her!” said Muzzie confidently.

    Gaetana suppressed a sigh. No doubt.

    “Poor Gaetana: perhaps I should go and relieve her,” said Christabel in a low voice.

    Paul glanced up and smiled. “Nonsense, why should she not take a turn at the disagreeable tasks?”

    Miss Maddern bit her lip.

    “You may laugh,” he said sedately.

    Miss Maddern refused to laugh but her cheeks went very pink.

    “That’s better! Come over here: if this guidebook is correct, there is a grot. Er—grotto?”

    “Well, either. Those look like nettles to me,” she said suspiciously.

    “Nonsense, they are very young English oaks,” said Paul serenely, nevertheless steering her well away from them. “Through this arch—is this not pretty, dear Cousin?”

    “Very,” said Miss Maddern, wishing she could stop thinking that this grotto, if such it were, was just the sort of place for earwigs to drop upon one. For normally she was not in the least not squeamish and if that nuisance of a Hildy had not mentioned the subject she would never— Well, never mind that. “I would doubt of its being a grotto, though,” she added.

    “Mm. I think I have this upside-down.” Paul turned the guidebook solemnly the wrong way up.

    “Do not be absurd!” said Miss Maddern with a laugh.

    “No-o.... This is not a grotto at all, how very disappointing: it is merely the kitchen of the old priory.”

    “What a bouncer!” she gasped.

    “See for yourself,” said Paul in a dignified tone, passing her the book upside-down.

    Miss Maddern took it, but strangely, did not consult it. Instead she went into a cascade of giggles.

    “That’s better,” said Paul, sliding an arm around her waist. “Poor darling Christa: were you bored to screaming-point in that carriage?” he said in her ear.

    “No! And release me at once!” gasped Miss Maddern.

    “Mm,” said Paul into the curls that peeped at her neck.

    “Stop it!” she hissed.

    He squeezed her a little. “Nonsense, querida: I am protecting you from the ghost of the priory cook!”

    “You are doing no such thing!” said Miss Maddern sharply, wrenching herself away.

    She walked a little way from him and stared up at the view of ruined arch, ruined pillar, ruined something that looked more like a prosaic piece of brick chimney—oh, dear, was he right after all and it was merely the kitchen?—some young ashes, a struggling oak, and a quantity of ivy.

    “Are you not tempted to sketch it?” said Paul from just behind her.

    “No! You know I cannot draw!” snapped Miss Maddern.

    Paul sniggered slightly. “But it is exceeding Gothick; what a waste!”

    Miss Maddern turned, and gave him a hard look. “And do not dare to tell either Susan or Dorothea that their sketches are exceeding Gothick!” she warned.

    Paul’s shoulders shook. “But I am sure they will be, querida!”

    “No!” snapped Miss Maddern. “Oh!” she shrieked, throwing herself into his arms.

    Paul held her shuddering form tight. “What is it, my darling?”

    “An earwig! Do not let it come near me!” she shuddered.

    “An— I do not know what you mean, darling Christa, but if it be a very small, shiny brown insect with many tiny legs—”

    “Don’t!” moaned Miss Maddern, shuddering all over.

    Paul smiled to himself: having Christa shudder all over whilst plastered to his chest was the most delightful sensation he had ever experienced. “It is only sitting there on that piece of wall, not doing anything.”

    Miss Maddern shuddered again.

    Paul flicked the earwig away. “It is gone, though I am reluctant to have tell you this,” he said in her ear.

    “Really?” She looked round cautiously. “Oh, thank God!”

    Paul smiled. “No, no, it was not divine intervention, it was wholly my daring.”

    “I know you think I am very silly,” said Christabel, gathering herself together and gulping hard, “but the things give me the horrors, I cannot overcome it.”

    “I think you are delightful,” he said, smiling into her eyes.

    Christabel went very pink and said in a flurried voice: “We had best get back to the others: they must be wondering what we are up to in this grotto!”

    “Or possibly kitchen,” he murmured. “I don’t think so: if they have normal human instincts they will not be wondering at all, mi querida.”

    Miss Maddern at this went very pink indeed, gathered up her skirts and hurried out of the grotto without looking at him.

    Paul laughed a little, and followed her without haste. “Earwig?” he murmured to himself. ‘‘Delightful!”

    In view of Miss Hildegarde’s demonstrated preference for the company of young Mr Charleson, Mr Parkinson did not attempt to rejoin her. But he found it difficult to concentrate on Miss Dewesbury’s sketching and in fact discovered he had made the same remark three times over, and soon fell silent.

    Susan was aware of his disturbance, and very much distressed for him. She could not feel that Hildy was the right woman for him, however: she had searched her conscience deeply on this point and had decided that her own feelings towards Mr Parkinson were not prejudicing her in the matter: Mr Parkinson was both very proper and, Susan rather thought, of a Romantick disposition. Whereas Hildy was demonstrably indifferent to the proprieties and of course not subject to Romantick illusions at all—at least, thought the intelligent Susan Dewesbury with remarkable perspicacity, not to the commonly held sorts.

    She could see quite clearly that the revelation of Hildy’s true nature had considerably wounded Mr Parkinson’s sensibilities. She did not go quite so far as to tell herself that he was merely in love with a creature created by his own imagination, and not with the flesh-and-blood Hildegarde; nevertheless she could see that there was something of this in it. It was best that they should realize now that their natures were incompatible. She still felt very sorry for him, however, and put her own feelings quite aside, not attempting to draw him out, and certainly not making any effort to attract him. When he sat down beside her on the hummock and fell gloomily silent she said nothing, merely carried on with her sketching.

    Hilary was insensibly soothed by her quiet presence and after some time was able consciously to reflect what a restful woman she was.

    Meanwhile, Mrs O’Flynn was getting on splendidly with her sketch. Muzzie, who had wandered around with Gaetana for a while, had now joined the group and was sitting at her feet on a block of stone which she had assured the anxious Dorothea was: “Aw’fy, aw’fy ’liciously warm!” Neither Amabel nor Mr O’Flynn had been nauseated by this remark: they had both beamed upon her and then smiled at each other and gone a little pink as their eyes locked.

    Dorothea had observed this exchange with a little thrill. How wonderful it would be, if—! Because dearest Amabel was her best friend and Uncle O’Flynn was the best uncle (and great-uncle) anyone had ever been blessed with and not old, at all! Though for some time she had had secretly hoped that Amabel might one day be her sister—but it was very obvious that that was never to be.

    Gaetana had received her abandonment by Muzzie with nothing but enormous relief and had immediately headed for the top of the slope, where she was now standing silhouetted against the racing clouds, drawing in deep breaths of pure air. Being with Muzzie Charleson was like—like being forced to live in an atmosphere which was being inundated with continuous falls of soft, drifting powdered sugar! It got in your nose and eyes and you felt after a little as if it was even entering your brain! She could see that Muzzle’s mamma must encourage her to rattle on in her silly fashion and to talk baby-talk, and she had a fair idea that at a similar age Lady Charleson must have been just such a silly little blonde thing. So it was all the more ridiculous to think that he—

    Abruptly Gaetana stopped thinking of “he”, and, scowling terrifically, strode up and down on the crest of the slope, attempting to blank out her mind altogether by ferocious exercise.

    Mrs O’Flynn’s sketch had reached the stage where she was wondering audibly if she ought to do more to it, and Amabel and Mr O’Flynn were assuring her it was perfect as it was, and Paul had reached the stage of muttering in his cousin’s ear: “I am starving: is O’Flynn never to lead us to this promised inn?” while he took her hand in an absent fashion; and Miss Maddern, snatching her hand away and after a disbelieving moment in which it gradually dawned on her that the pressure of her cousin’s boot against her foot as he sat by her on a large piece of fallen masonry was not accidental, also snatching her foot away, had very nearly reached the stage of reproving him for his appalling audacity—only she had no notion of how to phrase such a speech, never having had to do it before—when the popularity of the ruins with visitors was proven by the arrival of another carriage.

    It contained a party of very stout people, and indeed it was a wonder how they had all squeazed into it! There was a mamma, a papa, and two— Well, either they were brother and sister, which was very like, they were almost as stout as their elders, or else one of the offspring had married a person as stout as he or she. Keeping it in the family, you see, as Paul explained sedately to Miss Maddern. Christabel hurriedly clapped her handkerchief over her mouth, not even attempting to explain to him that that was not how the expression was intended to be used.

    The stout persons began to wander round the ruins in a somewhat disconsolate manner. The younger lady seemed concerned only for her skirts and stockings. The older gentleman had a guidebook which he kept consulting, remarking gloomily that the ruins were not near so fine as—such-and-such. The younger gentleman agreed with everything he said, so it was probable he was a son-in-law. Or perhaps a mere suitor! The older lady did not care for ruins and kept reminding the company of the fact.

    The younger lady finally said very loud: “Papa, I am sure we have seen enough ruins this week to last us all our lives, and I am terribly hungry and so, I am sure, is Mamma!”

    “Yes, my dear, indeed I am,” sighed the stouter lady.

    “Could we not have our picknick luncheon now?” pursued the younger lady.

    Her papa objected that he had thought she had intended to do him a picture of the ruin.

    “Mr Bullivant, you have I dare say as many as two dozen of Rose Anne’s drawings from this week alone, I declare we shall not have wall space enough in the entire house for them!” objected the mamma. Mr Bullivant returned crossly that he was making an album of them as a souvenir of the trip, and did she not listen to anything he said?

    Miss Bullivant—if such she was—with the support of her mamma carried the day, and the party retreated to the carriage, whence was speedily produced an huge picknick contained in several hampers.

   After some argument as to the best and most sheltered spot, with some resentful looks at Mrs O’Flynn’s group, who apparently had all unknowing captured the best spot, the Bullivants sat down on rugs in a little nooky corner and, all of them except the young man loudly ordering the unfortunate “Peter Footman” about at the same time, eventually were served with a Lucullan repast.

    “Chicken,” said Muzzie enviously.

    “Damn it, champagne, I shall speak to O’Flynn directly!” said Paul as a cork popped.

    “No! Ssh!” hissed Christabel. “He has it all quite worked out, I am sure, and the inn of which he spoke cannot be far.”

    “Oh,” he said slyly, “you would rather stay here on this nice rock with me, would you?”

    Christabel went very pink and bit her lip. After a moment she said airily: “I hope it will not rain and spoil their picknick.”

    “Indeed,” agreed Paul smoothly.

    Airily she added: “Why, here is another carriage!”

    “Indeed,” agreed Paul smoothly.

    Christabel took her lip firmly between her teeth.

    The party from the second carriage consisted of only three persons, of whom only one could be said to be stout: but they were as of much interest as the stout family, for they were very ill-assorted indeed: two very well-dressed, gentlemanly young men, escorting with great tenderness a much painted, loud-voiced lady (the stout one of the party), dressed in hugely bright tones of puce and purple, draped in wraps and furs, and much be-plumed as to the bonnet.

    “Oh, my dracious,” hissed Muzzie in horror after a few seconds’ startled staring: “it’s that drefful Mrs Urqhart from Lower Dittersford, what shall we do?”

    “What, not the lady who owns The Towers? The nabob’s widow?” asked Mr O’Flynn with great interest.

    “Yes, but she is not a lady, Uncky Cousin: Mamma says she is a drefful cit, and I am not to speak, only nod kindly but graciously, and I do not think I can do it!” hissed Muzzie.

    “Perhaps she will not notice us, she seems very occupied with her own party,” he said kindly, as the lady’s shrieks of laughter rent the air and she leaned on both young gentlemen’s arms at once.

    “Is that two strings to her bow, or two beaux to her string?” wondered Paul, very low, in his cousin’s ear.

    “Ssh! You are absolutely forbidden to make English puns, with that accent!” hissed Christabel with a smothered giggle.

    “Accent? I do not have an accent, do I?” he gasped in horror.

    Very flushed up, Miss Maddern said stiffly: “A very slight one; I assure you it is not unattractive.”

    “Help, I th’all be lithping ath Mamma doeth, nektht!” he lisped.

    Miss Maddern perceived the wretched creature had been teazing her again, and swallowed.

    “It ith becauthe I come from Theville, I cannot help it,” he said plaintively.

    “That is a lie, of course you can— Oh, my goodness,” said Miss Maddern faintly, glancing at the new arrivals. “It cannot possibly be—”

    Paul also looked at the new arrivals and his olive brow clouded over. Truth to say, though he knew himself to be very much attracted to Christabel and doubted he would ever find another woman who suited him so well, he had been dithering about the subject, rather. Not only because she was so much more capable than he but because— Well, she was a little older, and he knew, besides, that his parents had had rather more ambitious hopes for the Ainsley heir. Now all of a sudden he found his mind was definitely made up. He was seized by a determination that—though it was of course too soon yet to speak—he would make this fact very clear to her. The new arrival would not have a chance with her. Not a chance: Paul would stick very, very much closer than a brother to her, even if it should mean ignoring the rest of the company for the entire afternoon! And thank goodness for once it was not he who was the host!

    He got up and said: “I suppose we had best greet them. What a bore.”

    “Yes,” said Christabel faintly, very pink. She rose and took his arm without meeting his eye.