CHAPTER VII.

MR. FOSBROOK'S STORY.

LADY HALCOT sat in her favourite room, beside her davenport, writing letters—an occupation which filled many hours of each day. She was an active old lady, mentally as well as bodily, and took a keen personal interest in everything which concerned her estate and her tenants.

The letter-writing did not advance so well as usual this morning. Lady Halcot looked more than wontedly pale, and her bony hand trembled visibly. She laid down her pen and took it up again several times, as if struggling against the weakness.

The placid fair-haired Miss Withers sat in the bow-window, over a small work frame, and her eyes travelled repeatedly towards the old lady. She said at length, "Would you like me to send for Conrad?"

"What for?" asked Lady Halcot.

"I thought he might be a help; you seem scarcely equal to your work this morning."

"If I am not equal to the task of managing my own brains, Miss Withers, I certainly am not equal to the task of managing Mr. Withers' brains."

Miss Withers bore the remark meekly. After a pause she gave utterance to a low sigh, and a gentle, "Poor Conrad."

"He does his best. I am quite aware of that," said Lady Halcot, in a manner half satirical, half conciliatory. "He may improve in time. At all events, we can hope so a little longer. When did Mr. Fosbrook say he would be here?"

"At about eleven."

"Half-past eleven now. I shall not wait in for him much longer."

The pen was laid down again, and Lady Halcot leant back with a tired look.

"I think you have done too much lately," said Miss Withers.

"It is not 'doing.' Work never hurts me. I have a difficulty in making up my mind—"

Miss Withers said, "Yes?"

"I shall have to send for Mr. Selwyn again. His last visit was thrown away. I could come to no conclusion."

"About—?" said Miss Withers.

"Certain alterations which I desire to have made in my will. What else should I mean?"

Lady Halcot was, as a rule, reserved to a fault about her own affairs; but occasional little fits of unpremeditated frankness were among the signs of old age creeping over her. Miss Withers showed no excitement, but her pale blue eyes watched the face of Lady Halcot intently as a cat watches a bird.

"I supposed it was a question of some distant heir-at-law with you," she said slowly, and with seeming indifference.

"You supposed rightly, as regards the title and the landed estate. But I have also property at my own disposal. However, there is no need to carry on the subject. It concerns myself alone—only sometimes I have a wish to get things settled and off my mind. I am not so young as I was, and responsibilities weigh more upon me than they once did. Be so good as to order the pony-carriage to be ready for me in half an hour, Miss Withers. I shall not wait any longer for Mr. Fosbrook."

Miss Withers moved in her soft and gliding fashion to obey. She was absent about ten minutes, and on coming back the sound of voices told her of the doctor's arrival meantime. Miss Withers waited outside a little longer, and then re-entered the boudoir.

"Mr. Fosbrook does not think there is much the matter with me," Lady Halcot said, turning her head. "Not a break-up yet, by any means—eh, doctor? I am to take a tonic for a week or two. Not that I believe in tonics at my age. But it will do no harm. Mr. Fosbrook is giving me quite a glowing description, Miss Withers, of a young lady rescuing a little boy from drowning last week in Riversmouth. I cannot imagine how I have escaped hearing of it sooner. Did no report of the adventure reach your ears?"

"A mere report,—nothing of consequence," Miss Withers said hesitatingly, with a faint blush. "I imagined it to be an exaggerated story."

"The courage and self-devotion of the young lady were hardly capable of exaggeration," Mr. Fosbrook said.

"Mr. Fosbrook is quite carried away by his admiration," said Lady Halcot. "But we may depend upon the correctness of an eye-witness. Go on, doctor, if you please; or stay—begin again, for Miss Withers' benefit."

Mr. Fosbrook obeyed without reluctance. He spoke quietly, and with no superabundance of adjectives; but as he described Gwendoline's position, and her brave plunge into deep water, his sallow cheek glowed, and a curious light shone in the old lady's black eyes.

Yet Lady Halcot's first remark at the close of the tale was cynical. "So you were the rescuer, after all! Quite a poetical finale, Mr. Fosbrook. I suppose we may expect a third volume to the novel."

Mr. Fosbrook suddenly resumed his cool professional manner. "You were not present, Lady Halcot. If you had been—but time is getting on."

"Not twelve yet. Wait a minute," said Lady Halcot. "That girl ought to have a medal, Mr. Fosbrook."

"So I said; but she would not hear of its being made known."

"She can't help it. Such a deed must become known. I will take action in the matter myself. What is her name, and where does she live? 'A young lady' you call her."

"She was down in Riversmouth merely for a day or two,—quite a stranger to the place. Her name is Halcombe—Gwendoline Halcombe."

Mr. Fosbrook was, of course, aware of the relationship between Gwendoline Halcombe and Lady Halcot; doctors usually hear the little ins and outs of such matters. It was hardly likely that he should have practised sixteen years in Riversmouth, though originally not a native of the place, without knowing the tale of Lady Halcot's displeasure towards her niece. But he betrayed no consciousness in word or manner; and whether or no Lady Halcot believed in his unconsciousness, she did not betray herself either.

"Gwendoline Halcombe," she repeated.

"A young artist from London, whom I believe you kindly purposed taking some notice of, Lady Halcot."

"Mr. Selwyn had mentioned her to me. Yes, I invited her to dinner, and she did not come. There was a note next morning, which spoke of an 'accidental wetting' in the sea as the cause. I confess I was displeased."

"The 'accidental wetting' was of a serious nature," said Mr. Fosbrook.

Lady Halcot sat considering, some strong feeling visible through the quick motions of her eyebrows.

"A pretty girl," she said at length, half to herself.

"Very pretty and ladylike," assented Mr. Fosbrook.

"Yes—ladylike. One could see that at a glance. The story interests me a good deal, Mr. Fosbrook, I like heroism, and I like to see it rewarded. Gwendoline Halcombe interests me also. Perhaps I may get her down here some day on a visit. She must be a girl of character. Yes—I should not mind seeing something more of her. What do you say to the idea, Miss Withers?"

"I have not the pleasure of Miss Halcombe's acquaintance," said Miss Withers, trying to cover an unhappy expression with a smile. "She may no doubt be the kind of young person who would suit your ladyship."

"Young person!" said Lady Halcot, with an astonished air.

And, when Mr. Fosbrook was gone, she added, "You seem to forget that Gwendoline Halcombe is my relative."

"I did not know your ladyship wished the fact to be remembered," faltered Miss Withers.