That walk through the Forest was very pleasant to Violet. It was a day on which mere existence was a privilege; and now that her spirits had been soothed by her confidential talk with Rorie, Vixen could enjoy those sights and sounds and sweet wild scents of the woodland that had ever been a rapture to her.
This Forest-born girl loved her native woods as Wordsworth loved his lakes and mountains, as Byron loved the bleak bare landscape round the city of Aberdeen. Their poetry and beauty filled her heart with a deep contentment. To walk or ride alone through pathless forest glades, or in the scented darkness of fir plantations, was enough for happiness. But it was comforting to-day — on this day when her heart had been so cruelly wounded — to have Roderick Vawdrey by her side. It was like a leaf out of the closed volume of the past.
They talked freely and happily during that long homewards walk, and their conversation was chiefly of bygone days. Almost every speech began with “Do you remember?” Vixen was gayer than she had been for a long time, save once or twice, when a pang shot through her heart at the idea that Bullfinch was being shaken about in a railway-box, oscillating helplessly with every vibration of the train, and panic-stricken in every tunnel.
The sun had declined from his meridian; he had put on his sober afternoon glory, and was sending shafts of mellower gold along the green forest aisles, when Miss Tempest and her companion drew near the Abbey House. They went in at the gate by the keeper’s cottage, the gate which Titmouse had jumped so often in the days when he carried his childish mistress. They went through the wood of rhododendrons, and past the old archway leading to the stables, and round by the shrubbery to the porch. The door stood open as usual, and the Squire’s old pointer was lying on the threshold; but within all was commotion. Dress-baskets, hat-cases, bonnet-boxes, gun-cases, travelling-bags, carriage-rugs, were lying about in every direction. Mrs. Winstanley was leaning back in the large chair by the fireplace, fanning herself with her big black fan; Pauline was standing by in attendance; and the silver tray, with the Swansee tea-set, was being brought in by Forbes the butler, whose honest old face wore a troubled aspect.
Captain Winstanley was standing with his back to the hearth, his countenance and whole figure wearing the unmistakable air of the master of a house who has returned to his domicile in an execrable temper.
Violet ran to Mrs. Winstanley, every other thought forgotten in the pleasure of seeing her mother again. These three weeks were the longest parting mother and daughter had ever known; and after all, blood is thicker than water; and there is a natural leaning in a child’s mind even to the weakest of parents.
Mr. Vawdrey stood in the background, waiting till those affectionate greetings natural to such an occasion should be over.
But to his surprise there were no such greetings. Mrs. Winstanley went on fanning herself vehemently, with a vexed expression of countenance, while Violet bent over and kissed her. Captain Winstanley swayed himself slowly backwards and forwards upon the heels of his boots, and whistled to himself sotto voce, with his eyes fixed upon some lofty region of empty air. He vouchsafed not the faintest notice of his stepdaughter or Mr. Vawdrey.
“It’s really too bad of you, Violet,” the mother exclaimed at last.
“Dear mamma,” cried Vixen, in blank amazement, “what have I done?”
“To go roaming about the country,” pursued Mrs. Winstanley plaintively, “for hours at a stretch, nobody knowing where to find you or what had become of you. And my telegram lying there unattended to.”
“Did you telegraph, mamma?”
“Did I telegraph? Should I come home without telegraphing? Should I be so mad as to expose myself knowingly to the outrage which has been offered to me to-day?”
“Dearest mamma, you alarm me. What has happened?”
“One of the deepest humiliations I ever had to endure. But you were roaming about the Forest. You were following the instincts of your wild nature. What do you care for my mortification? If I had telegraphed to my housekeeper, it would not have happened. But I trusted in my daughter.”
“Dear mamma,” pleaded Vixen, looking anxious and bewildered, “if you would only explain. You make me miserable. What has happened?”
“Violet, your stepfather and I had to drive home from the station in a fly!”
“Oh, mamma!” cried Vixen, with a gasp. “Is that all?”
“Is that all? Do you think that is not enough? Do you understand, child? — a fly — a common innkeeper’s fly — that anybody may have for half-a-guinea; a fly with a mouldy lining, smelling of — other people! And on such an occasion, when every eye was upon us! No; I was never so degraded. And we had to wait — yes, a quarter of an hour, at least, and it seemed ages, while Pycroft’s fly was got ready for us; yes, while a rough forest pony was dragged out of his wretched stable, and a man, whose face had not been washed for a week, shuffled himself into an old coachman’s coat. And there were all the porters staring at me, and laughing inwardly, I know. And, as a last drop in the cup, Colonel Carteret drove up in his phaeton to catch the up-train just as we were getting into that disgraceful looking vehicle, and would stop to shake hands with us both, and insisted upon handing me into the horrid thing.”
“Dear mamma, I am more sorry than I can say,” said Vixen gently; “but I was afraid it was something much worse.”
“Nothing could be worse, Vixen.”
“Then the telegram was to order the carriage to meet you, I suppose?”
“Of course. We telegraphed from the Grosvenor at nine o’clock this morning. Who would imagine that you would be out of doors at such an hour?”
“I am not often out so early. But something happened this morning to put me out of temper, and I went for a ramble.”
“A ramble lasting from ten in the morning till half-past four in the afternoon,” remarked Captain Winstanley, with his gaze still fixed upon empty space. “Rather a long walk for a solitary young lady.”
Vixen appeared unconscious that anyone had spoken. Roderick Vawdrey felt a burning desire to kick the new master of the Abbey House.
“Shall I pour out your tea, mamma?” asked Vixen meekly.
“If you like. I am utterly prostrate. To have no carriage to meet me on such an occasion! I daresay everybody in the Forest knows all about it by this time. When I came home from my honeymoon with your poor papa, the joy-bells rang all the afternoon, and the road was lined with people waiting to get a glimpse of us, and there were floral arches ——”
“Ah, mamma, those things cannot happen twice in a lifetime,” said Vixen, with irrepressible bitterness. “One happy marriage is as much as any woman can expect.”
“A woman has the right to expect her own carriage,” said Captain Winstanley.
“I am afraid I have paid my visit at rather at unfortunate moment,” said Roderick, coming forward and addressing himself solely to Mrs. Winstanley; “but I could not go without saying How do you do? I hope you had a pleasant journey from Scotland — bar the fly.”
“How do you do, Roderick? Yes; it was all pleasant except that last contretemps. Imagine the Duchess of Dovedale’s feelings if she arrived at the station adjoining her own estate, and found no carriage to meet her!”
“My aunt would tuck up her petticoats and trudge home,” answered Roderick, smiling. “She’s a plucky little woman.”
“Yes, perhaps on an ordinary occasion. But to-day it was so different. Everybody will talk about our return.”
“Most people are still away,” suggested Rorie, with a view to comfort.
“Oh, but their servants will hear it, and they will tell their masters and mistresses. All gossip begins that way. Besides, Colonel Carteret saw us, and what he knows everybody knows.”
After this, Roderick felt that all attempts at consolation were hopeless. He would have liked to put Mrs. Winstanley into a better temper, for Violet’s sake. It was not a pleasant home atmosphere in which he was obliged to leave his old playfellow on this the first day of her new life. Captain Winstanley ............