steward brought her another letter that had been taken out of a later
mail-bag. It was a _mot d'adieu_ from Lady Campstown, containing, among
other items of information, a statement that Posey's wedding was
"indefinitely postponed."
The perennial Miss Bleecker, although smarting still under the
contemptuous dismissal given her by Mr. Carstairs at Taormina, was next
seen that Spring at Cadenabbia, hanging on, rather miserably, to the
skirts of Mrs. Vereker. The two ladies, waiting there for Mr. Vereker
(who had been walking barefoot at Brixen, in wet grass), were heard to
bicker continually, to the discomfort of all within earshot. In due
time they were joined by and accompanied Mr. Vereker to a new cure he
had heard of, at a place in Switzerland, where the _regime_ consisted of
skim milk and electricity.
The hotel which sheltered the party proved to be situated upon a sylvan
hill-top, surrounded by a park stocked with tame deer, with "Verboten"
placarded over every spot where one most desired to go. A merry Swiss
lad was hired by the management to jodel in an adjacent grove, but there
were no visible cows. One beheld, instead, a flock of theatrical sheep,
perpetually conducted up and down verdant slopes by a shepherd and a
dog. Also, a band of native singers, the men in tweeds and Derby hats,
the women in custom-made blouses and gored skirts, who came often to
warble disconsolately upon the terrace. There was even a cuckoo
sequestered in the woods, of which Miss Bleecker snappishly complained,
as a horrid clock, striking all out of order to wake people up at 5
A.M., until some one told her it was the genuine bird of Shakespeare,
when she called it a darling little thing.
For a long, long time it rained at this resort, and the guests sat on
damp iron chairs in the veranda and looked at where the view had been
some weeks before. After that it was grilling hot, and as Mrs. Vereker
and Miss Bleecker were obliged to stay on for the completion of Mr.
Vereker's treatment, the temper of the party became something too awful
for words.
The chief solace of the two ladies was to read French novels and English
weekly newspapers. When the "Queen" published, among "Americans in
London," a picture of the beautiful Miss Winstanley in her presentation
gown, describing the glories of its "white and silver, with
lilies-of-the-valley bunched around the train," together with details of
the young lady's success in the fashionable world under the sponsorship
of Lady Campstown, Miss Bleecker may have been said to have received her
punishment for many follies in the past.
A perfect day of early July saw the visit of Miss Winstanley and her
father to Beaumanoir, so long projected and so rudely interrupted, at
last an accomplished fact. Lady Campstown, who had taken up her
residence with her nephew under the supposition that he still needed her
care, sat outside, after luncheon, with Mr. Winstanley, between whom and
herself an excellent comradeship had sprung up. She saw nothing odd in
the old fellow's quaint manners, his homely exterior, his shyness and
reverence toward women. She had always liked his having come out of the
Southern rather than the Northern portion of the States, feeling,
somehow, more in touch with people from below the fabled line of Mason
and Dixon than with their aggressively prosperous neighbors. She liked
his showing nothing of his wealth and potentiality, and enjoyed his
shrewd talk. Above all, it must be said she liked him for being the
progenitor of Posey, who had finally wound herself and tangled herself
in the dowager's heart-strings, not to be dislodged.
They had been talking of the girl, and the fact that despite her
brilliant little sortie into London society, she did not look quite
happy--quite herself.
"It will be as well for her when it is all over," said Lady Campstown,
plying her knitting-pins. "But I don't think it's done her real harm to
have seen things the way we do them. And another year, perhaps--who
knows? There are always changes." She ended with a sigh.
"If you are alluding to my daughter's marriage, ma'am," said Herbert
Winstanley, speaking with authority and swallowing a lump of final
disappointment, "I was wanting a chance to tell you that she's about
concluded that John Glynn and she will be better friends than lovers. I
had been suspecting something of the kind when she told me--on the
Fourth it was, and I had to laugh when she said she chose that day on
account of George Washington and the cherry tree, because she couldn't
tell a lie. That's Posey, Lady Campstown. Always a laugh on her lip
when a tear is in her eye. I saw how hard it went with her to have to
rob me of a dear hope. But I reckoned if her mother'd been living it'd
not have been let go so far. It's a hard thing for a man of my age to
play on a little delicate musical instrument like a girl's heart. It's
over, anyhow, and she's written giving Glynn his freedom. I think Posey
would like you to know these circumstances, ma'am, seeing you're the
best substitute for a mother the little girl has had. She doesn't want
you to think her light or triflin' in such things; she tried hard to be
loyal to him and me.... But even if she'd loved John well enough to be
his wife, there was an obstacle. He had kept company with another young
lady first, and they'd been separated by his being poor.... I presume
you'll agree that a young fellow who'd once been in love with Miss Helen
Carstairs couldn't find giving her up as easy as it seemed."
"So that's the meaning of it all?" cried her ladyship, dropping her
knitting, which the Schipperke proceeded to guard as if it were a Dutch
baby asleep in a canal-boat. "I often wondered, but could not be sure.
I almost thought it was M. de Mariol."
"Well, I shouldn't think that would suit, exactly," said the old man,
cautiously nodding his Anglo-Saxon head. "Not but what he's a nice man,
the Monseer. But, as things look now, my boy is a better match for Mr.
Carstairs' daughter, and John'll feel more sure of himself to ask her
again. She's had a hard time, that sweet lady, and I wish her many
years of happiness to forget it in. You see, ma'am, my Posey thinks
John _will_ ask her again."
Lady Campstown, who had long since resigned herself to see the vision of
Helen at Beaumanoir fade from her imagination, here felt a great new jet
of hope spring up in her heart and water everything around it. Her
withered cheek glowed rosy red, her eyes had a girlish lustre. She
hardly presumed to put her thoughts into words, and yet the mild blue
orbs of old Mr. Winstanley had fixed themselves upon hers with a
singular significance.
"Mr. Winstanley! You have another idea?" she exclaimed, nervously
trembling.
"Several, ma'am," said Herbert Winstanley. "You know by this time, I
reckon, that your nephew got that bad hurt on the cheek and just missed
losing his eyesight, to save Posey from a mad woman. Girls set store by
such experiences, I suppose. But long ago, on the steamer, I saw she
fancied him mightily.... I won't conceal from you, ma 'am, it isn't
what I'd have picked out for Posey. Doesn't seem suitable for such a
Hail Columbia sort of girl, now, does it? But Clandonald's a white man,
I'll say that for him.... And m' wife set a great store by English
people and their homes.... They're staying away a good long time, those
young folks.... The doctors threaten I'll have to spend my winters in
Cannes, the years that are left to me, but I reckon Villa Rain des Fays
is big enough for us all."
When Clandonald and Posey came back at last from seeing the white
peacocks they were walking hand in hand, and a great peace had settled
upon their faces.
THE END
* * * * * * * *
*Other Works by Mrs Burton Harrison*
*A BACHELOR MAID*
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