"Mr. Coventry, of Bollinghope?" (He bowed.) "Yes; I had the pleasure of knowing your mother in former days."
"You, have deserted us too long."
"I do not flatter myself I have been missed."
"Is anybody ever missed, Mrs. Little? Believe me, few persons are welcomed back so cordially as you are."
"That is very flattering, Mr. Coventry. It is for my son's sake I have returned to society."
"No doubt; but you will remain there for your own. Society is your place. You are at home in it, and were born to shine in it."
"What makes you think that, pray?" and the widow's cheek flushed a little.
"Oh, Mrs. Little, I have seen something of the world. Count me amongst your most respectful admirers. It is a sentiment I have a right to, since I inherit it."
"Well, Mr. Coventry, then I give you leave to admire me--if you can.
Ah, here they come. Two minutes! I am afraid it was neither gossip nor flirtation, but only botany."
Grace and Henry came back, looking very radiant.
"What do you think?" said Grace, "I never was more surprised in my life, there really is a cactus, and a night cereus into the bargain.
Mrs. Little, behold a penitent. I bring you my apology, and a jardenia."
"Oh, how sweet! Never mind the apology. Quarrel with me often, and bring me a jardenia. I'll always make it up on those terms."
"Miss White," said Grace, pompously, "I shall require a few dozen cuttings from your tree, please tell the gardener. Arrangements are such, I shall have to grow jardenias on a scale hitherto unprecedented."
There was a laugh, and, in the, middle of it, a servant announced Miss Carden's carriage.
"What attentive servants you have, Miss White. I requested that man to be on the watch, and, if I said a good thing, to announce my carriage directly; and he did it pat. Now see what an effective exit that gives me. Good-by, Miss White, good-by, Mrs. Little; may you all disappear as neatly."
Mr. Coventry stepped smartly forward, and offered her his arm with courteous deference; she took it, and went down with him, but shot over his shoulder a side-glance of reproach at Little, for not being so prompt as his rival.
"What spirits!" said a young lady.
"Yes," said another; "but she was as dull as the grave last time I met her."
So ended that evening, with its little ups and downs.
Soon after this, Henry called on Miss Carden, and spent a heavenly hour with her. He told her his plans for getting on in the world, and she listened with a demure complacency, that seemed to imply she acknowledged a personal interest in his success. She told him she had always ADMIRED his independence in declining his uncle's offer, and now she was beginning to APPROVE it: "It becomes a man," said she.
From the future they went to the past, and she reminded him of the snow-storm and the scene in the church; and, in speaking of it, her eye deepened in color, her voice was low and soft, and she was all tenderness.
If love was not directly spoken, it was constantly implied, and, in fact, that is how true love generally speaks. The eternal "Je vous aime" of the French novelist is false to nature, let me tell you.
"And, when I come back from London, I hope your dear mother will give me opportunities of knowing her better."
"She will be delighted; but, going to London!"
"Oh, we spend six weeks in London every year; and this is our time.
I was always glad to go, before--London is very gay now you know--but I am not glad now."
"No more am I, I can assure you. I am very sorry."
"Six weeks will soon pass."
"Six weeks of pain is a good long time. You are the sunshine of my life. And you are going to shine on others, and leave me dark and solitary."
"But how do you know I shall shine on others? Perhaps I shall be duller than you will, and think all the more of Hillsborough, for being in London."
The melting tone in which this was said, and the coy and tender side-glance that accompanied it, were balm of Gilead to the lover.
He took comfort, and asked her, cheerfully, if he might write to her.
She hesitated a single moment, and then said "Yes."
She added, however, after a pause, "But you can't; for you don't know my address."
"But you will tell me."
"Never! never! Fifty-eight Clarges Street."
"When do you go?"
"The day after to-morrow: at twelve o'clock."
"May I see you off at the train?"
She hesitated. "If--you--like," said she, slowly: "but I think you had better not."
"Oh, let me see the last of you."
"Use your own judgment, dear."
The monosyllable slipped out, unintentionally: she was thinking of something else. Yet, as soon as she had uttered it, she said "Oh!" and blushed all, over. "I forgot I was not speaking to a lady," said she, innocently: then, right archly, "please forgive me."
He caught her hand, and kissed it devotedly.
Then she quivered all over. "You mustn't," said she with the gentlest possible tone of reproach. "Oh dear, I am so sorry I am going." And she turned her sweet eyes on him, with tears in them.
Then a visitor was announced, and they parted.
He was deep in love. He was also, by nature, rather obstinate.
Although she had said she thought it would be better for him not to see her off, yet he would go to the station, and see the last of her.
He came straight from the station to his mother. She was upstairs.
He threw himself into a chair, and there she found him, looking ghastly.
"Oh, mother! what shall I do?"
"What is the matter, love?"
"She is false; she is false. She has gone up to London with that Coventry."
APPENDIX.
EXTRACT FROM HENRY LITTLE'S REPORT.
The File-cutters.
"This is the largest trade, containing about three thousand men, and several hundred women and boys. Their diseases and deaths arise from poisoning by lead. The file rests on a bed of lead during the process of cutting, which might more correctly be called stamping; and, as the stamping-chisel can only be guided to the required nicety by the finger-nail, the lead is constantly handled and fingered, and enters the system through the pores.