The Real Charlotte - Edith Somerville [172]
“He’s been looking at it a long time now,” said Francie with a laugh that was intended to be careless, but into which a sneer made its way. “I wonder Roddy isn’t in,” she continued, changing the subject to one in which no pit-falls lurked; “I wouldn’t be surprised if he’d gone to Gurthnamuckla to see you, Charlotte; he’s been saying ever since we came back he wanted to have a talk with you, but he’s been so busy he hadn’t a minute.”
“If I’m not greatly mistaken,” said Charlotte, standing up so as to be able to see out of the window, “here’s the man of the house himself. What horse is that he’s on?” her eyes taking in with unwilling admiration the swaggering ease of seat and squareness of shoulder that had so often captivated her taste, as Lambert, not unaware of spectators at the window, overcame much callow remonstrance on the part of the young horse he was riding, at being asked to stand at the door till a boy came round to take him.
“Oh, that’s the new four-year-old that Roddy had taken in off Gurthnamuckla while we were away,” said Francie, leaning her elbow against the shutter and looking out too. “He’s an awful wild young brat of a thing! Look at the way he’s hoisting now! Roddy says he’ll have me up on him beofe the summer’s out, but I tell him that if he does I won’t be on him long.” Her eyes met her husband’s, and she laughed and tapped on the glass, beckoning imperiously to him to come in.
Charlotte turned away from the window, and when, a few minutes afterwards, Mr. Lambert came into the room, the visitor had put her gloves on, and was making her farewells to her hostess.
“No, Roddy,” she said, “I must be off now. I’m like the beggars, ‘tay and turn out’ is my motto. But supposing now that you bring this young lady over to lunch with me to-morrow—no, not to-morrow, that’s Sunday—come on Monday. How would that suit your book?”
Lambert assented with a good grace that struck Francie as being wonderfull well assumed, and followed Miss Mullen out to put her in her phaeton.
Francie closed the door behind them, and sat down. She was glad she had met Hawkins and got it over, and as she reviewed the incidents of his visit, she thought that on the whole she had come very near her own ideal of behaviour. Cool, sarcastic, and dignified, even though she had, for one moment, got a little red, he could not but feel that she had acted as became a married lady, and shown him his place once for all. As for him, he had been horrible, she thought bitterly; sitting up and talking to her as if he had never seen her before, and going on as if he had never —she got up hastily as if to escape from the hateful memories of last year that thrust themselves suddenly into her thoughts. How thankful she was that she had shown him she was not inconsolable; she wished that Roddy had come in while he was there, and had stood over him, and overshadowed him with his long legs and broad shoulders, and his air of master of the house. Why on earth had Charlotte praised him? Gurthnamuckla must have had the most extraordinarily sweetening effect upon her, for she seemed to have a good word for everybody now, and Roddy’s notion that she would want to be coaxed into a good temper was all nonsense, and conceited nonsense too, and so she would tell him. It was not in Francie’s light, wholesome nature to bear malice; the least flutter of the olive branch, the faintest glimmer of the flag of truce, was enough to make her forgive an injury and forget an insult.
When her husband came back she turned towards him with a sparkle in her eye.
“Well, Roddy, I hope you squeezed her hand when you were saying good-bye! I daresay now you’ll want me to believe that it’s all in honour of you that she’s asked us over to lunch to-morrow, and I suppose that’s what she was telling you out in the hall. Aren’t you sorry you didn’t marry her instead of me?”
Lambert did not answer, but came over to where she was standing,