CHAPTER IX

Too late the poor little stranger realized that even such truisms and commonplaces of conversation as the relations of climbing millionaires and smart women for their mutual weal had no place in the wretchedly limited conversational _répertoire_ of the well-brought-up young girl. It was a very flat and flagging conversation that replaced her lucid word-paintings, for which she, too late, felt that the Dower House schoolroom was not the place, and with a very unfeigned relief she received the message sent up by Mr. Tancred, a message of inquiry as to her readiness to depart.

_Readiness to depart!_ There could be little doubt as to that! The state of mind expressed in that hackneyed line, “Ready to go, but not afraid to stay,” had certainly no reference to her; she was horribly afraid to stay.

Miss Barnacre shook hands with her with brusque manliness, and uttered a condescending and rather dry query, which did not seem eager for an affirmative answer, as to her making a long stay in the neighbourhood.

Miss Aylmer politely accompanied her downstairs. The party they had left in the hall was diminished by two. Flora Tennington and her attendant swain were gone. Perhaps, after all, it would have been the lesser of two evils, though at the time for decision it seemed much the greater, to have abode below; at least, there would have been no danger of corrupting _Flora’s_ mind, and, judging by the undiminished kindliness with which the hostess bade her good night, and the heartiness with which she invited her to repeat her visit, Lady Tennington must have judiciously suppressed all that was damaging--and, when you came to think of it, how little there was that, according to these people’s standard, was not damaging--in Miss Ransome’s past. Flora was always a “good old sort.”

While Bonnybell was accepting with dove-like coos of gratitude the hospitable offer made her, Mr. Tancred was having a word apart with the daughter of the house. Their taste for each other’s society had been long so patent in its perfect and harmless openness, that their acquaintance had grown tired of giving them to each other _en secondes noces_. He was now testing her friendship, and trying delicately and tactfully, but still with a bias which was quite apparent to her, to extract some favourable judgment upon his new _protégée_ from this tried comrade. As a rule, their opinions coincided with curious nicety; and in the girl’s family circle it had become a proverbial phrase that what Edward Tancred said Catherine would always swear to. The nearest thing to a compliment that she produced was the ejaculation, “She is _amazing_!” If the adjective was used in a flattering sense, it was too big for the occasion, and if it was not?

“_Amazing?_” he repeated, conveying a question with the repetition of the word, adding, as no explanation seemed forthcoming, “Amazingly pretty, do you mean?”

“She is that too, of course,” replied his friend, without excessive haste to make the admission, yet, in accordance with her character, making it conscientiously all the same. “But that was not the sense in which I meant to apply it.”

He knew that it would be wiser not to press her further; that after such an exordium no good for Bonnybell could come out of this Galilee, yet he heard himself say--

“How, then?”

“I am not good at defining, and besides, I think that before long you will find out for yourself,” she answered, her smooth, fair face, which, as all her acquaintance said, ought to be better looking than it was, assuming an expression than which her ally thought he had never seen any that became it less. Was it the case, as Toby always told her, that Catherine had a slight cast in her left eye?

The night into which Mr. Tancred and his amazing young person stepped out of the Dower House seemed at first even darker than it was, by contrast. Moon there was none; but when eyes grew used to the windless gloom, stars in plenty showed through the light fog that had gathered.

Had it not been for the ominous last words that had passed between Miss Aylmer and himself, Edward would have begun at once, and naturally, to question his companion as to how she had fared in the Dower House schoolroom. But a species of dread as to what he might hear made him avoid the subject. Instead--partly for something to say, and partly because the nightly heavens had always a fascination for himself--he directed her attention to some of the constellations, making a trifling comment upon their beauty. She assented in tones of heartfelt admiration, without, as he somehow was aware, lifting her head to glance at them, her attention being indeed chiefly occupied in guiding her steps through the darkness, having again refused his aiding hand or arm. This was more from habit and prudence than from any very active alarm, but though he might be, and apparently was, an anomally, it was as well not to tempt Providence. Although in point of fact her misgivings about the success of her late visit were even graver and better founded than his, she, unlike him, did not shirk the subject, but opened the campaign gallantly, in her usual spirit of strict veracity.

“What a charming girl Miss Aylmer is!” The remark was dictated by the fact that Bonnybell’s quick eye had detected the intimate-looking aside that had passed between her escort and the daughter of the house, and drawn from it conclusions of a dimension which would have startled both.

“I am glad that you think so.”

“How could any one think anything else?”

“She is one of the best.”

He said this, because it was a tribute due to loyalty, and because he knew that it was his real opinion, but at the moment he did not feel it.

“And that sweet Meg! And then Toby! I lost my heart to them all.”

“Toby! Oh, he was there?”

“Yes, Mr. Toby was there.”

“Did you get much out of him?”--in a tone tinged with incredulity.

“It was not so much what he said”--since the young gentleman in question had never opened his mouth except to admit jam, this was strictly true--“as his looks; such a nice, frank, straightforward English boy.” Men are jealous and grudging about other men’s praises, and it is more than likely that this encomium would never be repeated to its object; but, on the other hand, it might, and the attempt cost nothing.

“And you found plenty to talk about to them all?” returned he, going circuitously round his own alarm, and thinking that he might as well know the worst. He could not see her face, but he heard a slight hesitating catch in her breath.

“The governess--Miss Barnacre, is she?--monopolized the conversation a good deal; she talked very brilliantly, but I was not quite up in the subjects she mentioned. I think”--very tentatively--“that I was a little afraid of her.”

“A _little_?” repeated he, with much emphasis and less of doubtful suggestion than was generally the case in his utterances.

“Oh, you are afraid of her too, then!” cried Bonnybell, with an accent of joyful relief, but added, reverting cautiously to her rule of uttering no opinion about her new acquaintances that might not handsomely be repeated to its objects, “Of course, I saw what a treasure she must be to Mrs. Aylmer.”

“Did you?”

Tact told her that her praise of the detestable Barnacre had reached--perhaps a little exceeded--the limits of his power of swallowing, and she desisted gladly.

“And the girls, Catherine and Meg, had not they a chance of getting a word in?”

“Not very much”--rather slowly, as her thoughts reverted not quite comfortably to the sudden door shut upon her budding friendship with the younger Miss Aylmer. “I saw most, perhaps, of Meg. What a darling she is!”

“She is a good child, but she is a great baby for her age,” replied he, in a tone which she heard to be touched with surprise. “I should not have thought”--reviewing in his mind certain choice flowers of his present companion’s speech--“that you and she would have much in common.”

“A great baby for her age!” repeated Miss Ransome, in a key of relieved enlightenment. “Ah, that accounts for it, then.”

“Accounts for what?”

“For the surprise she showed--the ignorance of such very ordinary things--things that everybody knows.”

His heart quailed. “What sort of things?”

But Miss Ransome was all at once on her guard. It might be one’s misfortune to be shown up; but to show one’s self up was a sin against common sense not to be committed by any one even moderately wide-awake.

“I cannot recollect any particular instance,” she answered with apparent carelessness; “it was only a general impression, and I dare say quite a wrong one; but, anyhow”--returning to safe ground--“they are all darlings, and you are very lucky to have them so near. I do not say anything about _their_ luck!” she added in a witching lower key.

All the same, she was relieved that, when the small family was reseated round the supper-table, spread with enticing cold foods, in Sunday leniency to the admirably treated and very much underworked servants, Camilla put her through no catechism as to her afternoon’s experiences. The note of alarm in Edward’s voice had made Miss Ransome resolve to be wholly reticent as to the slight _contretemps_ about stupid Meg; and beyond a message sent by Mrs. Aylmer to his wife and faithfully delivered by Edward, to the effect that a day’s shopping in London would prevent her fulfilling a promise to visit Mrs. Tancred on the morrow afternoon, the Dower House remained for some good while unmentioned.

To Bonnybell it would have been an unmixed blessing that this silence should last through the evening. To pick Camilla’s brains upon any subject would require the courage and dexterity of a lion-tamer, and by a series of delicate feelers, veiled suggestions, and innocent-looking suppositions on the dusky homeward walk, Bonnybell had wiled out of Edward all the information about the Aylmer family that it was really of any consequence to her to know, viz. that through the bequest of a distant kinsman the suave Toby was independent, and at the death of a decrepit great-uncle would be more independent still of his father. She had also learnt that he was called a woman-hater; but, so far from being daunted by this information she, put her own encouraging gloss upon it. “A woman-hater! Pooh! that only means that he is bored with respectable women; and though I _am_ respectable, and mean to remain so, I am not sure that I look it.”

In this soothed and hopeful mood Miss Bonnybell sat down to supper. Not for long, however, did she remain quietly seated. Since from the Sunday supper servants were banished, and that on Edward devolved the whole onus of handing _chaudfroids_ and pouring claret, an instant desire to help him sent her circling round the table too. He had rather that she did not. It gave him the same sense of superannuation as if she had offered to help him into his greatcoat, but after one gentle protest he desisted, fearing to hurt her feelings. Camilla’s sarcastic-sounding observation that, decrepit as Edward looked, he was capable of waiting upon two people, had its sting taken out by the lenient smile that accompanied it, and that seemed almost to approve of the eager rejoinder--

“Oh, but I _love_ waiting upon people!” There was no denying that this praiseworthy ejaculation was uttered chiefly because its author hoped that it might advance her in the good graces of her benefactress, but it was also accidentally and incidentally true. Bonnybell was one of those born obliging and _serviable_; and her terrible education had at least had the merit of developing these qualities in her. She added humbly, “But if it fidgets you--either of you--to see me capering round, please say so, and I will try to sit still and be waited on.”

She was rewarded by a look that was almost benign.

“Is it so difficult to you to sit still?”

Edward smiled slightly too, a sudden senseless warmth, for which he at once chid himself, about his heart at these signs that his womenkind were beginning to “get on.”

“I used to wait hand and foot upon----”

She broke off, looking down; and Camilla’s conscience--always too painfully active for her own or her surroundings’ comfort--gave her a smart stab.

The poor child was--thanks to her, Camilla’s, severity--afraid to mention her own mother. She made her amends at once; but even the suavity of Camilla was gruff, and her “It is a fault on the right side, but to night I think I had rather you would keep quiet!” though received with the pretty gratitude of one led by rosy chains into the way she had been seeking provoked in the young stranger’s mind the inward comment, “What a surly old camel it is! I always heard that they were odious-tempered animals.” But her meek face gave no slightest indication of this reflection; and she sat down docilely, nor made any further protest against the host’s ministrations, beyond an occasional glance of deprecating gratitude when he offered her anything particularly appetizing, followed by a furtive peep at Mrs. Tancred, to ensure her not having noticed and thought too affectionate this proof of thankfulness.

The evening was halfway towards bedtime, and Bonnybell, lulled in a false security, was capering down the long morning-room with biscuit held aloft, in tantalizing education of Jock, pleased and pleasing, when the topic she had been dreading broke upon her ear.

“I hear that you paid the Dower House a visit this afternoon?”

The slender whiteness of the raised arm dropped to its owner’s side, and with a surprised and dishonest grab Jock mastered a practically “unearned increment.”

“Yes,” rather falteringly, “Mr. Tancred thought that a little exercise would do me good.”

“Are you fond of walking?”

“Oh yes, very, _very_ fond.”

“You will have to wear stronger shoes than the ridiculous things you went to church in, if you mean to indulge in that pleasure here.”

“Oh, of course”--with an eager snatch at the subject of shoe-leather, in the hope of thereby averting further inquiries as to her visit. “Perhaps you will very kindly give me the address of a good boot-maker.”

The elder woman looked at her with a something of incredulity at such an excess of acquiescence, and Bonnybell made an inward note that though she must always agree with Camilla, it was a mistake to do it too suddenly. That defeated its own end, as the mechanical unanimity of the laugh of supers on the stage destroys all impression of mirth.

“I hope that my friends made a pleasant impression upon you?” Camilla would not be put off by any boots, thick or thin, from her intended aim; and her strong eyes demanded truth even more than did her lips. It was the one commodity of which poor Miss Ransome’s warehouse was almost always empty, but she was able to scrape up quite a respectable amount of it for her answer.

“I thought them all delightful--perfectly delightful! There was only one”--with a diffident hesitation--“that I was not quite sure I liked.”

“And who is that unfortunate person?”

“I--I have no doubt that I am wrong, but I did not much fancy Miss Barnacre.”

“And do you always expect to fall in love with all humanity at first sight?”

There was no great severity in this mode of acceptance of her feeler, and Bonnybell rejoicingly told herself that for once she was on the right tack.

“I did not quite like the way she spoke of you.”

Camilla’s always rigid features grew rigider; and Bonnybell’s happy conviction of the right tack slid from under her.

“I have no opinion of tales told out of school,” answered Mrs. Tancred, coldly.

“Oh, but you must let me explain,” cried Bonnybell, in a key of anguished exegesis. “I have expressed myself so badly, as I always do. If you do not let me tell you what she really said, you will think it is much worse than it was.”

As Camilla maintained a disapproving silence, the young girl, too late conscious of a new blunder, threw a shipwrecked glance at Edward, and verifying that he looked thoroughly uncomfortable, made the lightning-quick shrewd reflection, “He wants to stick up for me, but he thinks it will make it worse for me if he does.”

“I have no doubt that she meant well, and, of course, she is a most valuable person; but I thought it impertinent in--in--a girl of her age to say that she meant to ‘tackle’ you about--about--your religious opinions.”

The austerity of Camilla’s face thawed a little, and something that might do duty for a smile turned upwards the corners of her thin-lined mouth.

“Did Miss Barnacre happen to mention the day and hour at which her investigations are to take place, so that I may not be found unprepared?”

Bonnybell breathed again; and so--or she thought so--did Edward.