CHAPTER II

'Ave Maria! 'Tis the hour of prayer!

Ave Maria! 'Tis the hour of love!'

Ave Maria! 'tis the hour of dinner, too; and towards that dinner, about

to be spread at the Big House, the inmates of the little one are

hastening on foot through the park. Brougham have they none; goloshes

and a lanthorn their only substitute. The apricot sunset and the harvest

moon will be their two lanthorns to-night; but upon the goloshes Peggy

has, in the case of her sister, sternly insisted. Hastening through the

park--alternately hastening, that is to say--and loitering, as Prue's

fear of being too late, and Peggy's better-grounded apprehension of

being too early, get the upper hand.

'How calm you are!' cries the young girl feverishly, as Margaret stops

for a moment to

'Suck the liquid air'

of the ripe harvest evening, and admire the velvet-coated stags

springing through the bracken. 'How _can_ you be so calm? Were you calm

at your first dinner-party?'

'I cannot recollect,' replies Peggy, honestly trying to recall the now

five-years-old dead banquet referred to. 'I can only remember that I

felt swelled.'

'Do not you think that we might go on now?' asks Prue, anxiously kicking

one golosh against the other. 'We cannot be much too soon; our clocks

are always slow. It would be awkward, would not it, if we sailed in

last of all?'

Though inwardly convinced that there is very little fear of this

catastrophe, Peggy good-humouredly complies; and still more

good-humouredly refrains from any 'told-you-so' observation upon their

finding themselves sole occupants of the flamboyant Louis Quatorze

chairs and Gobelin sofas in the large drawing-room, where the housemaids

have evidently only just ceased patting cushions and replacing

chair-backs.

'Never mind!' says Prue joyfully; 'we shall have all the more of it, and

we shall see everybody come in. I shall love to see everybody come in.

Who will be first? Guess! Not Lady Betty! she will be last. I remember

your saying last year that she was always late, and that she never

apologised.'

'That was very ill bred of her,' replies Margaret austerely.

'And that one night Mr. Harborough scolded her, and you saw her making a

face at him behind his back. Oh! how I wish'--breaking out into

delighted laughter--'that she would make a face at him to-night, and

that he could catch her doing it!'

Her laughter is checked by the thrilling sound of the folding-doors

being rolled back to admit some new arrivals. It is nobody very

exciting, however; only Mr. Evans, the clergyman of the parish, whom

they see every day, and that household angel of his, upon whose

testimony lies the weight of Lady Betty Harborough's conversational

laxities.

A stranger would be thunderstruck to hear that Mrs. Evans is in her

wedding-dress, as the sable rook is less black from head to heel than

she; but to those who know and love her, it is _le secret de

Polichinelle_ that her gown--through having since taken an insignificant

trip or two to the dye-pot, and been eked out with a selection of

funeral scarves and hat-bands--is verily and indeed the one in which

she stood in virgin modesty beside Mr. Evans at the altar, fifteen

rolling years ago. During a transition stage of red, it has visited the

Infirmary Ball for five years; it had an unpopular interval of

snuffy-brown, during which it did nothing remarkable; and in its present

inky phase it has mourned for several dead Evanses, and for every

crowned head in Europe.

'I am so glad we are not last,' says Mrs. Evans, relaxing her entrance

smile, and sinking into an easy conversational manner, as she sees that

she has only her two young parishioners to accost; 'not that there is

ever much fear of that in this house, but Mr. Evans could not get the

horse along. Have you any idea'--looking curiously round--'whom we are

to meet? Lady Roupell's note merely said, "Dear Mrs. Evans," or "My dear

Mrs. Evans"--I forget which--"will you and Mr. Evans come and help us to

eat a haunch of venison?" She knows that Mr. Evans would go any distance

for a haunch of venison.'

To this somewhat extravagant statement of his appreciation of the

pleasures of the table the pastor is heard to make a captious demurrer;

but his wife goes on without heeding him.

'Of course that gave one no clue. I think people ought to give one some

clue that one may know what to put on. However, I thought I could not go

far wrong in black; never too smart, and always smart enough, you know.'

Peggy assents, and, as she does so, a trivial unbelieving wonder crosses

her mind as to what the alternative 'toilette,' which Mrs. Evans

implies, but upon which the eye of man has never looked, may be.

'And you are no wiser than we?' pursues the vicar's wife

interrogatively. 'I wonder at that, living so near as you do. Have not

you heard of anybody at all?' with a rather discouraged intonation.

'I am not sure--I think--the Harboroughs----'

'The Harboroughs?' cries the other eagerly. 'Mr. and Lady Betty? Her

father died last winter; he was the second duke; succeeded by his eldest

son, her brother. The Harboroughs!--and Mr. Talbot, of course?' with a

knowing look.

'I do not know,' replies Margaret cautiously; 'perhaps.'

'I am afraid it is more than perhaps,' rejoins Mrs. Evans significantly.

'I am afraid it is----'

But her sentence dies unfinished, killed by the frou-frou of silk that

announces the approach of a smart woman, and of the white-waistcoated

gentleman who has bought the privilege of paying for the silk. Then

follows an unencumbered man, whose speech bewrayeth him to be a

diplomate, and who has a great deal to say to the smart woman.

After five minutes more frou-frou is audible, heralding the approach of

a second smart woman--Lady Betty herself this time--with her lawful

Harborough stepping somewhat insignificantly behind her.

Lady Betty is so exceedingly glad to see the two girls that Peggy asks

herself whether her memory has played her false as to the amount of

intimacy that existed between them last year. She has not overheard the

aside that passed between her ladyship and her husband as she sailed up

the long room:

'Who are they? Have we ever met them here before? Are they all one lot?'

Nor, indeed, would it ever have entered into the guileless Peggy's mind

as possible that a woman who took her by both hands, and smiled into

both eyes, could have clean forgotten, not only her name, but her very

existence.

Once more the folding-doors roll wide, to admit this time, at last, the

hostess, Lady Roupell, and her nephew, Freddy Ducane, who--both

chronically late for everything--arrive simultaneously; the one still

fastening his sleeve-link, and the other hastily clasping her bracelets.

'I beg you all a thousand pardons, good people,' cries the old lady,

going round and dealing out hearty handshakes to her injured guests. 'I

am sure you must all have been blessing me; but if you had seen me five

minutes ago, you would wonder that I am here now--ha! ha! Well, at all

events we are all assembled at last, are not we? No! Surely we are short

of somebody; who is it? John Talbot, of course! Where is John Talbot?'

looking round, first at the general company, who are quite unable to

answer her; and turning, secondly, as if involuntarily, towards Lady

Betty. 'Where is John Talbot?'

But at this instant, in time to save Lady Betty's blushes, which indeed

are in no great hurry to show themselves, John Talbot appears to answer

for himself--John Talbot, the third occupant of the brougham, the 'man

whom Lady Betty always takes about with her.'

His entry is not quite what is expected, as he enters by no means alone.

Clasped in his embrace, with her fat arms fastened round his neck, and

her face buried--a good deal to its detriment--in his collar, is a young

person in her nightgown; while running by his side is a little barefoot

gentleman, with a long dressing-gown trailing behind him.

'We hope that you will forgive us,' says the young man, advancing

towards his hostess; 'but we have come to say good-night. I suggested

that our costume was not quite what is usual, but I was overruled.'

As he speaks his fair burden makes it clear by a wriggling movement that

she wishes to be set down; and, being obliged in this particular,

instantly makes for her mother, and, climbing up into Lady Betty's

splendid lap, begins to whisper in her ear. The boy stands shamefaced,

clutching his protector's hand, and evidently painfully conscious that

no other gentleman but himself in the room is in a dressing-gown.

'Do you know what she is asking me?' cries Lady Betty, bursting into a

fit of laughter. 'Freddy, I must congratulate you upon a new bonne

fortune. She is asking whether she may kiss Freddy Ducane! There, be off

with you! Since'--with a look of casual careless coquetry at

Talbot--'you have introduced my family, perhaps you will be good enough

to remove them.'

Mr. Talbot complies; and, having recaptured Miss Harborough--a feat of

some difficulty, as, unlike her brother, she enjoys her _deshabille_,

and announces a loud intention of kissing everybody--departs in the same

order in which he arrived, and the pretty little couple are seen no

more.