They moved on towards the villa. Isabel was still uneasy. There was something in Moody's silent submission to all that she said and all that she did which pained and humiliated her. 'You're not jealous?' she said, smiling timidly.
He tried to speak lightly on his side. 'I have no time to be jealous while I have your affairs to look after,' he answered.
She pressed his arm tenderly. 'Never fear, Robert, that new friends will make me forget the best and dearest friend who is now at my side.' She paused, and looked up at him with a compassionate fondness that was very pretty to see. 'I can keep out of the way to-morrow, when Mr. Hardyman calls,' she said. 'It is my aunt he is coming to see—not me.'
It was generously meant. But while her mind was only occupied with the present time, Moody's mind was looking into the future. He was learning the hard lesson of self-sacrifice already. 'Do what you think is right,' he said quietly; 'don't think of me.'
They reached the gate of the villa. He held out his hand to say good-by.
'Won't you come in?' she asked. 'Do come in!'
'Not now, my dear. I must get back to London as soon as I can. There is some more work to be done for you, and the sooner I do it the better.'
She heard his excuse without heeding it.
'You are not like yourself, Robert,' she said. 'Why is it? What are you thinking of?'
He was thinking of the bright blush that overspread her face when Hardyman first spoke to her; he was thinking of the invitation to her to see the stud-farm, and to ride the roan mare; he was thinking of the utterly powerless position in which he stood towards Isabel and towards the highly-born gentleman who admired her. But he kept his doubts and fears to himself. 'The train won't wait for me,' he said, and held out his hand once more.
She was not only perplexed; she was really distressed. 'Don't take leave of me in that cold way!' she pleaded. Her eyes dropped before his, and her lips trembled a little. 'Give me a kiss, Robert, at parting.' She said those bold words softly and sadly, out of the depth of her pity for him. He started; his face brightened suddenly; his sinking hope rose again. In another moment the change came; in another moment he understood her. As he touched her cheek with his lips, he turned pale again. 'Don't quite forget me,' he said, in low, faltering tones—and left her.
Miss Pink met Isabel in the hall. Refreshed by unbroken repose, the ex-schoolmistress was in the happiest frame of mind for the reception of her niece's news.
Informed that Moody had travelled to South Morden to personally report the progress of the inquiries, Miss Pink highly approved of him as a substitute for Mr. Troy. 'Mr. Moody, as a banker's son, is a gentleman by birth,' she remarked; 'he has condescended, in becoming Lady Lydiard's steward. What I saw of him, when he came here with you, prepossessed me in his favor. He has my confidence, Isabel, as well as yours—he is in every respect a superior person to Mr. Troy. Did you meet any friends, my dear, when you were out walking?'
The answer to this question produced a species of transformation in Miss Pink. The rapturous rank-worship of her nation feasted, so to speak, on Hardyman's message. She looked taller and younger than usual—she was all smiles and sweetness. 'At last, Isabel, you have seen birth and breeding under their right aspect,' she said. 'In the society of Lady Lydiard, you cannot possibly have formed correct ideas of the English aristocracy. Observe Mr. Hardyman when he does me the honor to call to-morrow—and you will see the difference.'
'Mr. Hardyman is your visitor, aunt—not mine. I was going to ask you to let me remain upstairs in my room.'
Miss Pink was unaffectedly shocked. 'This is what you learn at Lady Lydiard's!' she observed. 'No, Isabel, your absence would be a breach of good manners—I cannot possibly permit it. You will be present to receive our distinguished friend with me. And mind this!' added Miss Pink, in her most impressive manner, 'If Mr. Hardyman should by any chance ask why you have left Lady Lydiard, not one word about those disgraceful circumstances which connect you with the loss of the banknote! I should sink into the earth if the smallest hint of what has really happened should reach Mr. Hardyman's ears. My child, I stand towards you in the place of your lamented mother; I have the right to command your silence on this horrible subject, and I do imperatively command it.'
In these words foolish Miss Pink sowed the seed for the harvest of trouble that was soon to come.
CHAPTER XVI.
PAYING his court to the ex-schoolmistress on the next day, Hardyman made such excellent use of his opportunities that the visit to the stud-farm took place on the day after. His own carriage was placed at the disposal of Isabel and her aunt; and his own sister was present to confer special distinction on the reception of Miss Pink.
In a country like England, which annually suspends the sitting of its Legislature in honor of a horse-race, it is only natural and proper that the comfort of the horses should be the first object of consideration at a stud-farm. Nine-tenths of the land at Hardyman's farm was devoted, in one way or another, to the noble quadruped with the low forehead and the long nose. Poor humanity was satisfied with second-rate and third-rate accommodation. The ornamental grounds, very poorly laid out, were also very limited in extent—and, as for the dwelling-house, it was literally a cottage. A parlor and a kitchen, a smoking-room, a bed-room, and a spare chamber for a friend, all scantily furnished, sufficed for the modest wants of the owner of the property. If you wished to feast your eyes on luxury you went to the stables.
The stud-farm being described, the introduction to Hardyman's sister follows in due course.
The Honorable Lavinia Hardyman was, as all persons in society know, married rather late in life to General Drumblade. It is saying a great deal, but it is not saying too much, to describe Mrs. Drumblade as the most mischievous woman of her age in all England. Scandal was the breath of her life; to place people in false positions, to divulge secrets and destroy characters, to undermine friendships, and aggravate enmities—these were the sources of enjoyment from which this dangerous woman drew the inexhaustible fund of good spirits that made her a brilliant light in the social sphere. She was one of the privileged sinners of modern society. The worst mischief that she could work was ascribed to her 'exuberant vitality.' She had that ready familiarity of manner which is (in
