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You know what is, after all, your simple duty, and I trust you mean to do it. You can't be going to disappoint your father in this matter. And you really must marry soon Priscilla. It is getting serious. In fact, it worries me perpetually. By the way, here is a letter for you from Raffold. It must have got among mine by mistake. Mrs. Burrowes's handwriting, I imagine." She was right.
It was too bad of the young man to be late. She was just giving him up in despair, and preparing to proceed to the dining-room without him, when his name was announced. Lord Raffold went forward to meet him. Priscilla, sitting on a lounge with Lord Harfield's mother, caught the sound of a soft, leisurely voice apologising; and something tightened suddenly at her heart, and held its beating.
"I don't think any one will, except, perhaps, Dad; and he always knows where to find me." "Your father will certainly not leave town before the end of the season," said Lady Raffold, raising her voice slightly. "Poor dear Dad!" murmured Priscilla. "And so I escaped. Her ladyship didn't like it, but it was worth a tussle."
She turned with her most dazzling smile to receive the American Ambassador, and no one could have guessed that under her smile was real anger, because her stepdaughter was gracing the occasion in a robe of sombre black. All the guests had arrived with the exception of Ralph Cochrane, the heir-apparent, as Priscilla styled him, and Lady Raffold chatted with one eye on the door.
Moreover, it seemed to her that she had no right to speak until Carfax himself gave her leave. She did not see her stepmother till the following day. The greeting between them was of the coolest, though Lady Raffold, being triumphant, sought to infuse a little sentiment into hers. "I am really worn out, Priscilla," she said. "It is my turn now to have a little rest.
Priscilla did not at once reply. When at length she looked up, it was with the air of one coming out of a reverie. "Oh, yes, if you like, Charlotte," she said, in her deep, quiet voice. "No doubt he will amuse you. I know you always enjoy Americans." "And you, my dear?" said Lady Raffold, with just a hint of sharpness in her tone.
So Lady Raffold reasoned to herself as Priscilla poured out the tea in serious silence, and she gradually soothed her own annoyance by the process. "Come," she said at length, breaking a long silence, "I should think Ralph Cochrane will be in England in ten days at the latest. We must not be too formal with him as he is a relation. Shall we ask him to luncheon on the Sunday after next?"
Lady Priscilla raised her eyelids momentarily. "I don't think you would understand, Charlotte, if I were to tell you," she said, in a voice of such deep music that it seemed incapable of bitterness. "Some ridiculous sentimentality, no doubt," said Lady Raffold. "I am sure you would call it so." A faint flush rose in the girl's dark face.
Priscilla leaned back luxuriously in the housekeeper's room at Raffold Abbey, and laughed upon a deep note of satisfaction. She had discarded all things fashionable with her departure from London in the height of the season. The crumpled linen hat she wore was designed for comfort and not for elegance. Her gown of brown holland was simplicity itself.
"I?" Again her stepdaughter paused a little, as if collecting her thoughts. "I shall not be here," she said finally. "I have decided to go down to Raffold for midsummer week, and I don't suppose I shall hurry back. It won't matter, will it? I often think that you entertain best alone. And I am so tired of London heat and dust."
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