Part 29 (1/2)

”But you'll stay for lunch? I'm not stinted in any way, and Mr. Bidlake sends me a liberal allowance for the expenses of the house. I can easily manage lunch, sir, and it would be such a joy to me.”

”You are very kind, and I appreciate it very much; but I really couldn't--after what took place. I'll go to the Hare and Hounds and have some bread and cheese.”

”Couldn't you, sir? I'm so sorry, and it's a long way to Lord Huntingford's.”

”Yes, of course, that's out of the question.”

”But you must have lunch somewhere, and you couldn't go to the Hare and Hounds.”

”Oh yes, I could. I dare say Blacketter would give me some bread and cheese. That will be all I shall need.”

The housekeeper began to rub her eyes. ”It's just awful,” she sobbed. ”To think that you who were master here, and whom we all liked so much, should have to go to a place like that. But I know. Mr. Stanmore is at home; he'll be glad to welcome you there.”

”Mr. Stanmore is at home, is he?”

”Yes, sir. He called here yesterday, and Miss Beatrice is at home too. They were both here. Mr. Stanmore brought Sir George Weston over to see the house.”

”Sir George Weston?” and d.i.c.k felt a strange sinking at his heart as he heard the words. ”I don't seem to remember the name.”

”He's from the west, sir, from Devons.h.i.+re, I think. It has been said that he came to see Miss Beatrice,” and the housekeeper smiled significantly.

”You mean----”

”I don't know anything, sir; it may be only servants' gossip. He's said to be a very rich man, and has been serving in Egypt. Some say that he came to discuss something about Egypt with Mr. Stanmore; but it was noticed that he was very attentive to Miss Beatrice.”

”He's been staying at the cottage, then?”

”For nearly a week, sir.”

”Is he there now?”

”I don't know, sir. All I know is that he was here with them yesterday. Mr. Stanmore brought a letter from Mr. Bidlake authorising me to show them over the house.”

”Is Sir George a young man? You said he was in the army, didn't you?” d.i.c.k could not understand why his heart was so heavy.

”About thirty, I should think, sir. Yes, I believe he had a high command in our Egyptian army. He's a great scholar too, and Mr. Stanmore said that this house was the finest specimen of an Elizabethan house that he knew of. A very pleasant gentleman too. It's not my business, but he'd be a good match for Miss Beatrice, wouldn't he? Of course Mr. Stanmore belongs to a very good family, but I suppose he's very poor, and Miss Beatrice has hardly a chance of meeting anyone. You remember her, sir, don't you? She was little more than a child when you were here, but she's a very beautiful young lady now.”

The housekeeper was fairly launched now, and was prepared to discuss the Stanmores at length, but d.i.c.k hurried away. He would have loved to have gone over the house, but he dared not; besides, in a way he could not understand, he longed to get into the open air, longed to be alone.

”I hope, oh, I do hope that something'll happen,” said the housekeeper as he left the house; but what she did not tell him.

A little later d.i.c.k found himself on the drive leading to Hugh Stanmore's cottage. He had not intended to take this road, but when he realised that he was in it, he did not turn back. Rather he hurried on with almost feverish footsteps.

Sir George Weston had been spending a week at the cottage, had he? Why? Was it because he was an Egyptologist, and interested in Hugh Stanmore's previous researches, or was he there because of Beatrice, as the servants' gossip said? It was nothing to him, but he had an overwhelming desire to know. Was Beatrice Stanmore a beautiful girl? She had not appealed to him in this light when her grandfather brought her to see him months before; but girls often blossomed into beauty suddenly. Still, wasn't it strange that Weston should stay at the cottage a week?

Of course he would not call. He was simply taking the longer road to the station. Yes, he could plainly see the house through the trees, and---- ”Is that Mr. Faversham? Well, this is a surprise; but I am glad to see you.”

It was old Hugh Stanmore who spoke, while d.i.c.k in a strangely nervous way took the proffered hand.

”Come to look at your old house, eh? I see you've come from that direction.”

”Yes, I have been--talking with my old housekeeper,” he stammered.

”And you've never been here before since--you left?”

d.i.c.k shook his head.

”Well, well, life's a strange business, isn't it? But come in, my dear fellow. You're just in time for lunch.”

d.i.c.k began to make excuses, but the other refused to listen, and they entered the cottage together.

”I'm afraid I couldn't presume upon your kindness so far.”

”Kindness! Nonsense. Of course you must. Besides, I see that you are a Member of Parliament, and a Labour Member too. I must talk with you about it. Lunch will be on the table in five minutes.”

”You are sure I shouldn't be bothering you?” He had an overwhelming desire to stay.

”Bother! What bother can there be? I'm only too delighted to see you. Come in.”

They entered the cottage together.

”Oh, by the way,” went on Hugh Stanmore, as they entered a cosy sitting-room, ”let me introduce you to Sir George Weston.”

A strikingly handsome man of about thirty rose from an arm-chair and held out his hand. He was in mufti; but it was impossible to mistake him for anything but a soldier. Head erect, shoulders squared, and a military bearing proclaimed him to be what he was.

”Glad to see you, Mr. Faversham,” said Sir George heartily ”I suppose you've come down to see----” He stopped abruptly. He felt he had made a faux pas.

”It's all right,” said d.i.c.k with a laugh. He felt perfectly at ease now. ”Yes, I came to see the old place which years ago I thought was mine. You've heard all about it, I've no doubt?”

”Jolly hard luck,” sympathised Sir George. ”But anyhow you----”

”Ah, here's Beatrice,” broke in Hugh Stanmore. ”Beatrice, my dear, here's an old friend dropped in to lunch with us. You remember Mr. Faversham, don't you?”

The eyes of the two met, and then as their hands met d.i.c.k's friendly feeling towards Sir George Weston left him. He could not tell why.

CHAPTER x.x.xII.

BEATRICE CONFESSES.

d.i.c.k Faversham saw at a glance that Beatrice Stanmore had ceased being a child. She was barely twenty. She was girlish in appearance, and her grandfather seemed to still regard her as a child. But her childhood had gone, and her womanhood had come. Rather tall, and with a lissom form, she had all a girl's movements, all a girl's sweetness, but the flash of her eyes, the compression of her lips, the tones of her voice, all told that she had left her childhood behind. But the first blush of her womanhood still remained. She retained her child's naturalness and winsomeness, even while she looked at the world through the eyes of a woman.

d.i.c.k was struck by her beauty too. When years before she had rushed into the library at Wendover, almost breathless in her excitement, she had something of the angularity, almost awkwardness, of half-development. That had all gone. Every movement was graceful, natural. Perfect health, health of body, health of mind had stamped itself upon her. She had no suggestion of the cigarette-smoking, slang-talking miss who boasts of her freedom from old-time conventions. You could not think of Beatrice Stanmore sitting with men, smoking, sipping liqueurs, and laughing at their jokes. She retained the virginal simplicity of childlikeness. All the same she was a woman. But not a woman old beyond her years. Not a woman who makes men give up their thoughts of the sacredness of womanhood.

No one could any more think of Beatrice Stanmore being advanced, or ”fast,” than one could think of a rosebud just opening its petals to the sun being ”fast.”

She had none of the ripe beauty of Lady Blanche Huntingford, much less the bold splendour of Olga Petrovic. She was too much the child of nature for that. She was too sensitive, too maidenly in her thoughts and actions. And yet she was a woman, with all a woman's charm.