Part 48 (2/2)

”And are you glad to see me?”

”No!” said Mary, plainly.

”Now,” said Mrs. Buckley to herself, ”she is going to give us one of her tantrums. I wish she would behave like a reasonable being. She is always bent on making a scene;” but she kept this to herself, and only said aloud: ”Mary, my dear! Mary!”

”I am sorry to hear you say so, Mrs. Hawker,” said Frank; ”but it is just and natural.”

”Natural,” said Mary, ”and just. You are connected in my mind with the most unhappy and most degraded period of my life. Can you expect that I should be glad to see you? You were kind to me then, as is your nature to be, kind and good above all men whom I know. I thought of you always with love and admiration, as one whom I deeply honoured, but would not care to look upon again. As the one of all whom I would have forget me in my disgrace. And now, to-day of all days; just when I have found the father's vices confirmed in the son, you come before me, as if from the bowels of the earth, to remind me of what I was.”

Mrs. Buckley was very much shocked and provoked by this, but held her tongue magnanimously. And what do you think, my dear reader, was the cause of all this hysteric tragic nonsense on the part of Mary? Simply this. The poor soul had been put out of temper. Her son Charles, as I mentioned before, had had a scandalous liason with one Meg Macdonald, daughter of one of the Donovans' (now Brentwood's) shepherds. That morning, this brazen hussy, as Mary very properly called her, had come coolly up to the station and asked for Charles. And on Mary's shaking her fist at her, and bidding her be gone, had then and there rated poor Mary in the best of Gaelic for a quarter of an hour; and Mary, instead of venting her anger on the proper people, had taken her old plan of making herself disagreeable to those who had nothing to do with it, which naturally made Mrs. Buckley very angry, and even ruffled the placid Major a little, so that he was not sorry when he saw in his wife's face, the expression of which he knew so well, that Mary was going to ”catch it.”

”I wish, Mary Hawker,” said Mrs. Buckley, ”that you would remember that the Dean is our guest, and that on our account alone there is due to him some better welcome than what you have given him.”

”Now, you are angry with me for speaking truth too abruptly,” said Mary crying.

”Well, I am angry with you,” said Mrs. Buckley. ”If that was the truth, you should not have spoken it now. You have no right to receive an old friend like this.”

”You are very unkind to me,” said Mary. ”Just when after so many years'

peace and quietness my troubles are beginning again, you are all turning against me.” And so she laid down her head and wept.

”Dear Mrs. Hawker,” said Frank, coming up and taking her hand, ”if you are in trouble, I know well that my visit is well timed. Where trouble and sorrow are, there is my place, there lies my work. In prosperity my friends sometimes forget me, but my hope and prayer is, that when affliction and disaster come, I may be with them. You do not want me now; but when you do, G.o.d grant I may be with you! Remember my words.”

She remembered them well.

Frank made an excuse to go out, and Mary, crying bitterly, went into her bedroom. When she was gone, the Major, who had been standing by the window, said,--

”My dear wife, that boy of hers is aggravating her. Don't be too hard upon her.”

”My dear husband,” said Mrs. Buckley, ”I have no patience with her, to welcome an old friend, whom she has not seen for nearly twenty years, in that manner! It is too provoking.”

”You see, my love,” said the Major, ”that her nerves have been very much shaken by misfortune, and at times she is really not herself.”

”And I tell you what, mother dear,” said Sam, ”Charles Hawker is going on very badly. I tell you, in the strictest confidence, mind, that he has not behaved in a very gentlemanlike way in one particular, and if he was anyone else but who he is, I should have very little to say to him.”

”Well, my dear husband and son,” said Mrs. Buckley, ”I will go in and make the AMENDE to her. Sam, go and see after the Dean.”

Sam went out, and saw Frank across the yard playing with the dogs. He was going towards him, when a man entering the yard suddenly came up and spoke to him.

It was William Lee--grown older, and less wildlooking, since we saw him first at midnight on Dartmoor, but a striking person still. His hair had become grizzled, but that was the only sign of age he showed. There was still the same vigour of motion, the same expression of enormous strength about him as formerly; the princ.i.p.al change was in his face.

Eighteen years of honest work, among people who in time, finding his real value, had got to treat him more as a friend than a servant, had softened the old expression of reckless ferocity into one of good-humoured independence. And Tom Troubridge, no careless observer of men, had said once to Major Buckley, that he thought his face grew each year more like what it must have been when a boy. A bold flight of fancy for Tom, but, like all else he said, true.

Such was William Lee, as he stopped Sam in the yard, and, with a bold, honest look of admiration, said--

”It makes me feel young to look at you, Mr. Buckley. You are a great stranger here lately. Some young lady to run after, I suppose? Well, never mind; I hope it ain't Miss Blake.”

”A man may not marry his grandmother, Lee,” said Sam, laughing.

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