in her eyes; she said, timidly: “Do you ever go to the seaside, and take your dear little girl with you?”
The request, at which she had only dared to hint, touched on the idea which was at that moment in Mr. Rayburn’s mind.
Interpreted by his strong prejudice against John Zant, what she had said of her brother-in-law filled him with forebodings of peril to herself; all the more powerful in their influence, for this reason—that he shrank from distinctly realizing them. If another person had been present at the interview, and had said to him afterward: “That man’s reluctance to visit his sister-in-law, while her husband was living, is associated with a secret sense of guilt which her innocence cannot even imagine: he, and he alone, knows the cause of her husband’s sudden death: his feigned anxiety about her health is adopted as the safest means of enticing her into his house,”—if those formidable conclusions had been urged on Mr. Rayburn, he would have felt it his duty to reject them, as unjustifiable aspersions on an absent man. And yet, when he took leave that evening of Mrs. Zant, he had pledged himself to give Lucy a holiday at the seaside: and he had said, without blushing, that the child really deserved it, as a reward for general good conduct and attention to her lessons!
IX.
THREE days later, the father and daughter arrived toward evening at St. Sallins-on-Sea. They found Mrs. Zant at the station.
The poor woman’s joy, on seeing them, expressed itself like the joy of a child. “Oh, I am so glad! so glad!” was all she could say when they met. Lucy was half-smothered with kisses, and was made supremely happy by a present of the finest doll she had ever possessed. Mrs. Zant accompanied her friends to the rooms which had been secured at the hotel. She was able to speak confidentially to Mr. Rayburn, while Lucy was in the balcony hugging her doll, and looking at the sea.
The one event that had happened during Mrs. Zant’s short residence at St. Sallins was the departure of her brother-in-law that morning, for London. He had been called away to operate on the feet of a wealthy patient who knew the value of his time: his housekeeper expected that he would return to dinner.
As to his conduct toward Mrs. Zant, he was not only as attentive as ever—he was almost oppressively affectionate in his language and manner. There was no service that a man could render which he had not eagerly offered to her. He declared that he already perceived an improvement in her health; he congratulated her on having decided to stay in his house; and (as a proof, perhaps, of his sincerity) he had repeatedly pressed her hand. “Have you any idea what all this means?” she said, simply.
Mr. Rayburn kept his idea to himself. He professed ignorance; and asked next what sort of person the housekeeper was.
Mrs. Zant shook her head ominously.
“Such a strange creature,” she said, “and in the habit of taking such liberties that I begin to be afraid she is a little crazy.”
“Is she an old woman?”
“No—only middle-aged.” This morning, after her master had left the house, she actually asked me what I thought of my brother-in-law! I told her, as coldly as possible, that I thought he was very kind. She was quite insensible to the tone in which I had spoken; she went on from bad to worse. “Do you call him the sort of man who would take the fancy of a young woman?” was her next question. She actually looked at me (I might have been wrong; and I hope I was) as if the “young woman” she had in her mind was myself! I said: “I don’t think of such things, and I don’t talk about them.” Still, she was not in the least discouraged; she made a personal remark next: “Excuse me—but you do look wretchedly pale.” I thought she seemed to enjoy the defect in my complexion; I really believe it raised me in her estimation. “We shall get on better in time,” she said; “I am beginning to like you.” She walked out humming a tune. Don’t you agree with me? Don’t you think she’s crazy?”
“I can hardly give an opinion until I have seen her. Does she look as if she might have been a pretty woman at one time of her life?”
“Not the sort of pretty woman whom I admire!”
Mr. Rayburn smiled. “I was thinking,” he resumed, “that this person’s odd conduct may perhaps be accounted for. She is probably jealous of any young lady who is invited to her master’s house—and (till she noticed your complexion) she began by being jealous of you.”
Innocently at a loss to understand how she could become an object of the housekeeper’s jealousy, Mrs. Zant looked at Mr. Rayburn in astonishment. Before she could give expression to her feeling of surprise, there was an interruption—a welcome interruption. A waiter entered the room, and announced a visitor; described as “a gentleman.”
Mrs. Zant at once rose to retire.
“Who is the gentleman?” Mr. Rayburn asked—detaining Mrs. Zant as he spoke.
A voice which they both recognized answered gayly, from the outer side of the door:
“A friend from London.”
X.
“WELCOME to St. Sallins!” cried Mr. John Zant. “I knew that you were expected, my dear sir, and I took my chance at finding you at the hotel.” He turned to his sister-in-law, and kissed her hand with an elaborate gallantry worthy of Sir Charles Grandison himself. “When I reached home, my dear, and heard that you had gone out, I guessed that your object was to receive our excellent friend. You have not felt lonely while I have been away? That’s right! that’s right!” he looked toward the balcony, and discovered Lucy at the open window, staring at the magnificent stranger. “Your little daughter, Mr. Rayburn? Dear child! Come and kiss me.”
Lucy answered in one positive word: “No.”
Mr. John Zant was not easily discouraged.
“Show me your doll, darling,” he said. “Sit on my knee.”
Lucy answered in two positive words—“I won’t.”
Her father approached the window to administer the necessary reproof. Mr. John Zant interfered in the cause of mercy with his best grace. He held up his hands in cordial entreaty. “Dear Mr. Rayburn! The fairies are sometimes shy; and this little fairy doesn’t take to strangers at first sight. Dear child! All in good time. And what stay do you make at St. Sallins? May we hope that our poor attractions will tempt you to prolong your visit?”
He put his flattering little question with an ease of manner which was rather too plainly assumed; and he looked at Mr. Rayburn with a watchfulness which appeared to attach undue importance to the reply. When he said: “What stay do you make at St. Sallins?” did he really mean: “How soon do you leave us?” Inclining to adopt this conclusion, Mr. Rayburn answered cautiously that his stay at the seaside would depend on circumstances. Mr. John Zant looked at his sister-in-law, sitting silent in a corner with Lucy on her lap. “Exert your attractions,” he said; “make the circumstances agreeable to our good friend. Will you dine with us to-day, my dear sir, and bring your little fairy with you?”
Lucy was far from receiving this complimentary allusion in the spirit in which it had been offered. “I’m not a fairy,” she declared. “I’m a child.”
“And a naughty child,” her father added, with all the severity that he could assume.
“I can’t help it, papa; the man with the big beard puts me out.”
The man with the big beard was amused—amiably, paternally amused—by Lucy’s plain speaking. He repeated his invitation to dinner; and he did his best to look disappointed when Mr. Rayburn made the necessary excuses.
“Another day,” he said (without, however, fixing the day). “I think you will find my house comfortable. My housekeeper may perhaps be eccentric—but in all essentials a woman in a thousand. Do you feel the change from London already? Our air at St. Sallins is really worthy of its reputation. Invalids who come here are cured as if by magic. What do you think of Mrs. Zant? How does she look?”
Mr.