is Richmond.’
‘Kew and Richmond!’ exclaimed the Bride, innocently. ‘How rum! We have a Kew and a Richmond in Melbourne.’
‘Ah!’ said Gran. ‘I don’t fancy the theft was on our side. But look at this gray old bridge – picturesque, isn’t it? – and I dare say you have nothing like it out there. And there, you see – up on the left yonder – is Richmond Hill. Rather celebrated, Richmond Hill: you may have heard of it; there was a lass that lived there once.’
‘Yes – what of her?’
‘Oh, she was neat and had sweet eyes – or sweet, with neat eyes – I really forget which. And there was a somebody or other who said he’d resign any amount of crowns – the number wasn’t specified – to call her his. He was pretty safe in saying that – unless, indeed, he meant crown-pieces– which, now I think of it, would be rather an original reading.’
‘Alfred,’ said the Bride abruptly, ‘are we nearly there?’
‘Not far off,’ said Alfred.
Granville bit his lip. ‘We are very nearly there,’ he said; ‘this is the beginning of Twickenham.’
‘Then where’s the Ferry?’ said the Bride. ‘I know all about “Twickenham Ferry”; we once had a storekeeper – a new chum – who used to sing about it like mad. Show it me.’
‘There, then: it crosses by the foot of the island: it’s about to cross now. Now, in a minute, I’ll show you Pope’s old place; we don’t go quite so far – in fact, here we are – but you’ll be able just to see it, I think.’
‘The Pope!’ said Gladys. ‘I never knew he lived in England!’
‘No more he does. Not the Pope —Pope; a man of the name of Pope: a scribbler: a writing-man: in fact, a poet.’
The three were leaning over the rail, shoulder to shoulder, and watching eagerly for the first glimpse of the Judge’s retreat through the intervening trees. Granville was in the middle. The Bride glanced at him sharply, and opened her lips to say something which – judging by the sudden gleam of her dark eyes – might possibly have been rather too plain-spoken. But she never said it; she merely left Granville’s side, and went round to the far side of her husband, and slipped her hand through his arm. Granville walked away.
‘Are we there?’ whispered Gladys.
‘Just, my darling. Look, that’s the house – the one with the tall trees and the narrow lawn.’
‘Hoo-jolly-ray!’
‘Hush, Gladdie! For Heaven’s sake don’t say anything like that before my mother! There she is on the lawn, waving her handkerchief. We’ll wave ours back to her. The dear mother! Whatever you do, darling girl, don’t say anything of that sort to her. It would be Greek to my mother and the Judge, and they mightn’t like it.’
CHAPTER III
PINS AND NEEDLES
Slanting mellow sunbeams fell pleasantly upon the animated face of the Bride, as she stepped lightly across the gangway from the steam-launch to the lawn; and, for one moment, her tall supple figure stood out strikingly against the silver river and the pale eastern sky. In that moment a sudden dimness came over Lady Bligh’s soft eyes, and with outstretched arms she hurried forward to press her daughter to her heart. It was a natural motherly impulse, but, even if Lady Bligh had stopped to think, she would have made sure of being met half-way. She was not, however, and the mortification of the moment was none the less intense because it was invisible. The Bride refused to be embraced. She was so tall that it would have been impossible for Lady Bligh to kiss her against her will, but it never came to that; the unbending carriage and man-like outstretched hand spoke plainly and at once – and were understood. But Lady Bligh coloured somewhat, and it was an unfortunate beginning, for every one noticed it; and the Judge, who was hurrying towards them across the lawn at the time, there and then added a hundred per cent of ceremony to his own greeting, and received his daughter-in-law as he would have received any other stranger.
‘I am very happy to see you,’ he said, when Alfred had introduced them – the Judge waited for that. ‘Welcome, indeed; and I hope you have received agreeable impressions of our River Thames.’
‘Oh, rather!’ said Gladys, smiling unabashed upon the old gentleman. ‘We’ve no rivers like it in Australia. I’ve just been saying so.’
Granville, who had been watching for a change in his mother’s expression when she should first hear the Bride speak, was not disappointed. Lady Bligh winced perceptibly. Judges, however, may be relied upon to keep their countenances, if anybody may; it is their business; Sir James was noted for it, and he merely said dryly, ‘I suppose not,’ and that was all.
And then they all walked up the lawn together to where tea awaited them in the veranda. The Bride’s dark eyes grew round at sight of the gleaming silver teapot and dainty Dresden china; she took her seat in silence in a low wicker chair, while the others talked around her; but presently she was heard exclaiming: —
‘No, thanks, no milk, and I’ll sweeten it myself, please.’
‘But it’s cream,’ said Lady Bligh, good-naturedly, pausing with the cream-jug in the air.
‘The same thing,’ returned Gladys. ‘We never took any on the station, so I like it better without; and it can’t be too strong, if you please. We didn’t take milk,’ she turned to explain to Sir James, ‘because, in a general way, our only cow was a tin one, and we preferred no milk at all. We ran sheep, you see, not cattle.’
‘A tin cow!’ said Sir James.
‘She means they only had condensed milk,’ said Alfred, roaring with laughter.
‘But our cow is not tin,’ said Lady Bligh, smiling, as she still poised the cream-jug; ‘will you not change your mind?’
‘No, thanks,’ said the Bride stoutly.
It was another rather awkward moment, for it did seem as though Gladys was disagreeably independent. And Alfred, of all people, made the moment more awkward still, and, indeed, more uncomfortable than any that had preceded it.
‘Gladdie,’ he exclaimed in his airiest manner, ‘you’re a savage! A regular savage, as I’ve told you over and over again!’
No one said anything. Gladys smiled, and Alfred chuckled over his pleasantry. But it was a pleasantry that contained a most unpleasant truth. The others felt this, and it made them silent. It was a relief to all – with the possible exception of the happy pair, neither of whom appeared to be over-burdened with self-consciousness – when Lady Bligh carried off Gladys, and delivered her in her own room into the safe keeping of Miss Bunn, her appointed maid.
This girl, Bunn, presently appeared in the servants’ hall, sat down in an interesting way, and began to twirl her thumbs with great ostentation. Being questioned, in fulfilment of her artless design, she said that she was not wanted upstairs. Being further questioned, she rattled off a string of the funny things Mrs ‘Halfred’ had said to her along with a feeble imitation of Mrs ‘Halfred’s’ very funny way of saying them. This is not a matter of importance; but it was the making of Bunn below stairs; so long as Mrs Alfred remained in the house, her maid’s popularity as a kitchen entertainer was assured.
The Bride wished to be alone; at all events she desired no personal attendance. What should she want with a maid? A lady’s-maid was a ‘fixing’ she did not understand, and did not wish to understand; she had said so plainly, and that she didn’t see where Miss Bunn ‘came in’; and then Miss Bunn had gone out, in convulsions. And now the Bride was alone at last, and stood pensively gazing out of her open window at the wonderful green trees and the glittering river, at the deep cool shadows and the pale evening sky; and delight was in her bold black eyes; yet a certain sense of something not quite as it ought to be – a sensation at present vague and undefined – made her graver than common. And so she stood until the door was burst suddenly open, and a long arm curled swiftly round