ON THE HEIGHTS
In vain, at each meal, did Clifford Marsh await Cecily’s
appearance. A trifling indisposition kept her
to her room, was Mrs. Lessingham’s reply to
sympathetic inquiries. Mr. and Mrs. Bradshaw,
who were seriously making their preparations for journeying
northward, held private talk concerning the young
lady, and felt they would like to stay a week longer,
just to see if their suspicions would be confirmed.
Mrs. Denyer found it difficult to assume the becoming
air when she put civil questions to Mrs. Lessingham,
for she was now assured that to Miss Doran was attributable
the alarming state of things between Clifford and
Madeline; Marsh would never have been so intractable
but for this new element in the situation. Madeline
herself on the other hand, was a model of magnanimity;
in Clifford’s very hearing, she spoke of Cecily
with tender concern, and then walked past her recreant
admirer with her fair head in a pose of conscious
grace.
Even Mr. Musselwhite, at the close of the second day,
grew aware that the table lacked one of its ornaments.
It was his habit now— a new habit came
as a blessing of Providence to Mr. Musselwhite—
on passing into the drawing-room after dinner, to glance
towards a certain corner, and, after slow, undecided
“tackings,” to settle in that direction.
There sat Barbara Denyer. Her study at present
was one of the less-known works of Silvio Pellico,
and as Mr. Musselwhite approached, she looked up with
an air of absorption. He was wont to begin conversation
with the remark, flatteringly toned, “Reading
Italian as usual, Miss Denyer?” but this evening
a new subject had been suggested to him.
“I hope Miss Doran is not seriously unwell,
Miss Denyer?”
“Oh, I think not.”
Mr. Musselwhite reflected, stroking his whiskers in
a gentlemanly way.
“One misses her,” was his next remark.
“Yes, so much. She is so charming—don’t
you think, Mr. Musselwhite?”
“Very.” He now plucked at the whiskers
uneasily. “Oh yes, very.”
Barbara smiled and turned her attention to the book,
as though she could spare no more time. Mr. Musselwhite,
dimly feeling that this topic demanded no further
treatment, racked his brains for something else to
say. He was far towards Lincolnshire when a rustle
of the pages under Barbara’s finger gave him
a happy inspiration.
“I don’t know whether you would care to
see English papers now and then, Miss Denyer?
I always have quite a number. The Field,
for instance, and—”
“You are very kind, I don’t read much
English, but I shall be glad to see anything you like
to bring me.”
Mrs. Denyer was not wholly without consolation in
her troubles about Clifford Marsh.
On the following morning, as she and her daughters
were going out, they came face to face with a gentleman
who was announcing to the servant his wish to see
Miss Doran. Naturally they all glanced at him.
Would he be admitted? With much presence of mind,
Madeline exclaimed,—
