Part 16 (1/2)
CHAPTER NINETEEN.
THE SCATTERED NEST.
Two days later a happy party were disporting themselves on the lawn at Cloudsdale. Rex and Edna Freer had driven over to spend the afternoon with their friends, and just as Mary placed the tea-tray on the wicker table, the postman came marching up the drive, and delivered the only thing which was necessary to complete the happiness of the party--a letter from Lettice!
”She has written so little lately, and her letters have been so unlike herself, that I have been quite uneasy,” said Hilary, turning the envelope round and round, and feeling its proportions with undisguised pleasure. ”I'll give you each a cup of tea, and then I'll read it out, while you listen in comfort.”
The three years which had pa.s.sed since we saw her last had dealt very kindly with Hilary. The consequential air had given place to an expression of quiet serenity which was by no means unbecoming. Her complexion was pink and white as of yore, and as she presided over the tea-table, her blue cambric dress fitting closely to the line of her neat little figure, her tiny feet crossed before her, and her s.h.i.+ning brown hair arranged in its usual fastidious order, it would have been difficult to find a more favourable specimen of a young English girl.
Norah, seated opposite on the long hammock chair, was still very girlish in appearance, despite the dignity of eighteen years. She was thin and lanky, and her cheeks had none of Hilary's delicate bloom, but the heavy eyebrows and expressive lips lent a charm to a face which was never the same in expression for two minutes together, and though there could be no question as to which was the prettier of the two, it was safe to predict that few people who looked at Norah would be tempted to return to the study of Hilary's more commonplace features.
Edna was narrow-chested and delicate in appearance, but Rex had developed into an imposing looking personage; broad-shouldered, muscular, and with such a moustache as was unequalled by any young fellow of his age in the country-side. He wore a white flannel suit, and though there were several unoccupied seats at hand, chose to loll on the gra.s.s, his long legs stretched out before him, his blue cap pushed well back on his curly head. Nestled beside him sat Geraldine, a little taller, a little older in appearance, but with the same grave, earnest little face which had characterised her three years before. Perhaps the member of the family who was the most changed, was the tall, young fellow who sat beside Norah. Raymond had only lately returned from a two years' sojourn in Germany, where he had acquired an extra four inches, a pair of eye-gla.s.ses, and such ”a man of the world” manner, that it had been a shock to his sisters to find that his teasing propensities were as vigorous as when he had been a schoolboy. Faithful Bob hovered near, ready to obey his leader's commands, and take part in any mischief which might be at hand, but for the moment all other interests gave way to the hearing of the letter from London.
Hilary handed the last cup to its owner, and opening the envelope, ran her eye rapidly down the sheet. The next moment a loud ”Oh!” of amazement startled the hearers into eager curiosity.
”What is the matter?”
”Oh--oh! It can't be true--it can't! Lettice is engaged to be married!”
”_Engaged_!” A moment's breathless silence was succeeded by a very babel of questioning.
”Engaged?” ”Who to?” ”When?” ”Where.” ”What does she say?” ”Oh, read it aloud. Let us hear every word she says!”
But Hilary folded up the sheet with an air of determination. ”Not yet.
I'll read it by-and-by; but first you must guess. I'll give you fifty guesses who it is...”
”The painter fellow who did her portrait!”
”That what-do-you-call-him man--the Polish n.o.bleman who sent her the verses!”
”The curate!”
”Sir Neville Bruce!”
”One of the men she met at Brighton!”
”Wrong! wrong! wrong! Guess again. Nearer home this time. Someone you know!”
”Not Mr Rayner?”
”Oh, dear me, no! I should think not. He and Lettice never get on well together. Someone else.”
”Someone we know! But we know so few of her friends. Only Mr Neville, and the Bewleys, and--_oh_! No, it can't--it can't possibly be--”
”What? what? Who--who? Never mind if you are wrong. Say whom you are thinking of.”
”It--_can't_ be Arthur Newcome!”
”Arthur Newcome it is, my dear!” said Hilary tragically; whereupon Raymond instantly dropped his teacup on the gra.s.s, and fell heavily on Norah's shoulders.
”Smelling salts! Brandy! I am going to faint! Oh, my heart!”
But, for once, no one paid any attention. Even Norah sat motionless, forgetting to push him away, forgetting everything but the appalling nature of the news which she had just heard.