On the morning after their arrival at Dering, a letter was received from Clive, which told that his journey to Florence had been a lost one, Madame Verdi having neither seen nor heard of Ida, and knowing nothing whatever of her intentions.
The letter, although addressed to Juliet, was brief and formal in tone, decidedly not the sort of missive that a betrothed damsel would read in an ecstasy of smiles and tears, carry about with her all day long, and hide under her pillow at night.
Neither its brevity nor its formality, however, seemed to trouble Juliet. She took it at once to her father, and read it aloud to him, word for word. There was added a postscript to the letter, in which Clive said that, mindful of a certain suggestion of hers, he intended to break his return journey at Paris, and would be glad if she would send to him at the Hôtel Bristol the present address of her cousin, Captain Culvers.
“What has he got into his head now?” said Lord Culvers, irritably, turning to his daughter. “Juliet, take my word for it, if those two men meet, mischief will come of it. What could have possessed you to make such a foolish suggestion?”
It was beginning to dawn upon him that Clive was throwing, not too much energy, but energy of not quite the right kind into his search for Ida.
“Dear love, is it possible that such a suggestion came from you?” said Lady Culvers, looking up from her embroidery-frame, and throwing a glance at her husband, which said, plainly enough, “Oh, these girls, when will they cease to get us into hot water?”
Juliet narrowed her eyes and looked at her. Then, with polite circumlocution, told her to mind her own business.
“Embroidery, Peggy,” she said, “requires an undivided attention. Otherwise you will be turning your daisies into dandelions.”
Then, before “Peggy” could recover herself, or her father find words in which to mark his sense of her employment of the objectionable nickname, the girl had taken her hat from a side table and had wandered out into the garden, through one of the open French windows.
“Don’t expect me back till luncheon,” she said to her father, as she passed. “I’m going to have a long talk with Goody.”
This was said by way of adding fuel to fire.
“Goody,” or, to call her by her right name, Margaret Pearson, had been in her young days nurse to the first Lady Culvers, and subsequently had officiated in the same capacity to Lady Culvers’s twin daughters. Her devotion to her mistress and to her mistress’s children had known no limit. The latter, so to speak, had never grown out of her care. When they quitted the nursery for the schoolroom, she had acted guardian-angel to them still; and woe to the governess who was rash enough to assert her authority against “Goody’s.”
She could never bring herself to forgive Lord Culvers for his second marriage; and when the new Lady Culvers wished to take the management of affairs entirely into her own hands, it became necessary to find a cottage for Goody, and to pension her off. Otherwise, the house would have been kept in an even worse state of ferment than it actually was, for the girls espoused Goody’s cause heartily, and thoroughly enjoyed playing the champion to her at their stepmother’s expense.
They were in the habit of styling Goody’s cottage “The Sanctuary,” and their “refuge in times of persecution.” That meant that to Goody were carried reports of their skirmishes and their victories, their flirtations and their love-affairs, in the full assurance that all would be viewed with eyes that could not see fault or folly in her darling nurslings.
Juliet had a pleasant half-mile down shady lanes to go before she could reach her “sanctuary” that morning.
A quaint, pretty little cottage it was, with a great, glorious tea-rose smothering its porch, running riot up its redbrick front, and peeping, unrebuked, into every one of its diamond-paned windows. Surrounding the cottage was a garden planted thick with old-fashioned flowers, where sweet-peas and mignonette mixed their fragrance with that of cabbage-roses and carnations, and tall sunflowers stood like sentinels on either side of the rose-covered porch.
A great, sleepy, black cat aroused itself from a bed of purple thyme, and came down the path to meet the young lady as she swung back the garden gate. From out the open cottage door came a bright-faced little country lass—Goody’s great-niece—dragging by one arm a much-battered wooden doll; and following her came Goody herself, tall, trim, and comely, in lilac cotton gown, and white cap and kerchief.
The greeting between nurse and nursling was more than cordial—affectionate.
“No end to tell you, Goody. Let us go into your little parlour; it’s too hot to talk out here,” said Juliet, putting her arm within the old body’s. “No, don’t ask after Clive, he’s out of favour now,” she said, as she seated herself in the cool little room, as fragrant of flowers as the outside garden. “He has had his day, and his sun has set. By-and-by I shall talk to you about someone else; but not yet awhile. No, and you mustn’t ask after Sefton—he’s out of favour, too. I used to like him; but I hate—yes, hate him now. Today I’m going to talk about Ida—no one but Ida from first to last.”
This was tantamount to granting Goody license to ask any amount of questions upon a subject that lay very near her heart “darling Miss Ida’s wedding-day.”
Juliet answered them everyone in her liveliest fashion, and with many a little passing touch of humour at the expense of “Peggy,” and some of “Peggy’s” friends. Then she glanced at the little girl playing in a corner with her big wooden doll.
“Send her away, Goody,” she whispered, “I’ve something very special to say to you now.”
So the
