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Lesbia went to the garden with her book and with Fräulein the inevitable Fräulein as Hammond thought her in close attendance. It was a lovely morning, sultry, summer-like, albeit September had just begun. The tennis lawn, which had been levelled on one side of the house, was surrounded on three sides by shrubberies planted forty years ago, in the beginning of Lady Maulevrier's widowhood.
It was not for him to precipitate Lady Maulevrier's end by prying into her secrets. Granted that shame and dishonour of some kind were involved in the existence of that strange old man, he, Lord Hartfield, must endure his portion in that shame must be content to leave the dark riddle unsolved.
Even music, which had once been her strong point, was neglected in this trying weather. It was such a cold journey from the oven to the piano. Mary played a good deal in her desultory manner, now that she had the drawing-room all to herself, and no fear of Lady Maulevrier's critical ear or Lesbia's superior smile.
A week's Westmoreland weather gray skies and long rainy days, would send these young men away. The peril had to be faced, for the weather did not favour Lady Maulevrier's hopes. Westmoreland skies forgot to shed their accustomed showers. Westmoreland hills seemed to have lost their power of drawing down the rain.
A pair of post-horses brought Lady Kirkbank and her maid from Windermere station, in time for afternoon tea, and the friends who had only met twice within the last forty years, embraced each other on the threshold of Lady Maulevrier's morning-room.
The horse had swerved to one side, reared a little, and then spun on for a few yards, leaving her standing in the middle of the road. 'Why, it's Molly! cried the driver, who was no less distinguished a whip than Lord Maulevrier, and who had recognised the terriers. 'I hope you are not hurt, said the gentleman who had alighted, Maulevrier's friend and shadow, John Hammond.
No wonder he and his wealth had turned poor Belle Trinder's head. How could a rural vicar's daughter, accustomed to poverty, help being dazzled by such magnificence? Maulevrier stayed in the box only a short time, and refused Lady Kirkbank's invitation to supper. She did not urge the point, as she had surprised one or two very unfriendly glances at Mr. Smithson in Maulevrier's honest eyes.
She yearned for the shelter of Fräulein Müller's wing, albeit the company of that most prosaic person was certain death to romance. Miss Müller was in her accustomed seat by the fire, knitting her customary muffler. She had appropriated Lady Maulevrier's place, much to Mary's disgust.
You think, perhaps, you will marry a duke, if you wait long enough for his Grace to appear: but the number of marrying dukes is rather small, Lady Lesbia, and I don't think any of those would care to marry Lord Maulevrier's granddaughter. Lesbia started to her feet, pale as ashes. 'Why do you fling my grandfather's name in my face and with that diabolical sneer? she exclaimed.
She had never been gay as young lambs and foals and fawns and kittens and puppy dogs are gay, by reason of the well-spring of delight within them, needing no stimulus from the outside world. She had been just a little inclined to murmur at the dulness of her life at Fellside; yet she had borne herself with a placid sweetness which had been Lady Maulevrier's delight.
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