The Real Charlotte - Edith Somerville [92]
“You are very punctual,” he said. “I don’t know why you are in such a hurry to go away.”
“Oh, I think you’ve had quite enough of me,” Francie replied with a desperate attempt at gaiety. “I’m sure you’re all very glad to be shut of me.”
“That isn’t a kind thing to say, and I think you ought to know that it is not true either.”
“Indeed then I know it is true” answered Francie, preparing in her agitation to plunge into the recesses of the landau without any further ceremonies of farewell.
“Well, won’t you even shake hands with me?”
She was already in the carriage; but at this reproach she thrust an impulsive hand out of the window. “Oh, gracious—! I mean—I beg your pardon, Mr. Dysart,” she cried incoherently, “I—I’m awfully grateful for all your kindness, and to Miss Dysart—”
She hardly noticed how tightly he held her hand in his; but, as she was driven away, and, looking back, saw him and Pamela standing on the steps, the latter holding Max in her arms, and waving one of his crooked paws in token of farewell, she thought to herself that it must be only out of good nature they were so friendly to her; but anyhow they were fearfully nice.
“Thank goodness!” said Lady Dysart fervently, as she moved away from the open hall-door—”thank goodness that responsibility is off my hands. I began by liking the creature, but never, no, never, have I seen a girl so abominably brought up.”
“Not much notion of the convenances, has she?” observed Miss Hope-Drummond, who had descended from her morning task of writing many letters in a tall, square hand, just in time to enjoy the sight of Francie’s departure, without having the trouble of saying good-bye to her.
“Convenances!” echoed Lady Dysart, lifting her dark eyes till nothing but the whites were visible; “I don’t suppose she could tell you the meaning of the word. ‘One master passion in the breast, like Aaron’s serpent, swallows up the rest,’ and of all the man-eaters I have ever seen, she is the most cannibalistic!”
Miss Hope-Drummond laughed in polite appreciation, and rustled crisply away towards the drawing-room. Lady Dysart looked approvingly after the tall, admirably neat figure, and thought, with inevitable comparison, of Francie’s untidy hair, and uncertainly draped skirts. She turned to Christopher and Pamela, and continued, with a lowered voice:
“Do you know, even the servants are all talking about her. Of course, they can’t help noticing what goes on.”
Christopher looked at his mother with a singularly expressionless face.
“Gorman hasn’t mentioned it to me yet, or William either.”
“If you had not interrupted me, Christopher,” said poor Lady Dysart, resentful of this irreproachably filial rebuke, “I would have told you that none of the servants breathed a word on the subject to me. Evelyn was told it by her maid.”
“How Evelyn can discuss such things with her maid, I cannot imagine,” said Pamela, with unwonted heat; “and Davis is such a particularly detestable woman.”
“I do not care in the least what sort of woman she is, she does hair beautifully, which is more than I can say for you,” replied Lady Dysart, with an Uhlanlike dash into the enemy’s country.
“I suppose it was by Davis’ advice that Evelyn made a point of ignoring Miss Fitzpatrick this whole morning,” continued Pamela, with the righteous wrath of a just person.
“It was quite unnecessary for her to trouble herself,” broke in Lady Dysart witheringly; “Christopher atoned for all her deficiencies—taking advantage of Mr. Hawkins’ absence, I suppose.”
“If Hawkins had been there,” said Christopher, with the slowness that indicated that he was trying not to stammer, “it would have saved me the trouble of making c-conversation for a person who did not care about it.”
“You may make your mind easy on that point, my dear!” Lady Dysart shot this parting shaft