Your affectionate son,
K. C.
THE next morning Kenelm surprised the party at breakfast
by appearing in the coarse habiliments in which he
had first made his host’s acquaintance.
He did not glance towards Cecilia when he announced
his departure; but, his eye resting on Mrs. Campion,
he smiled, perhaps a little sadly, at seeing her countenance
brighten up and hearing her give a short sigh of relief.
Travers tried hard to induce him to stay a few days
longer, but Kenelm was firm. “The summer
is wearing away,” said he, “and I have
far to go before the flowers fade and the snows fall.
On the third night from this I shall sleep on foreign
soil.”
“You are going abroad, then?” asked Mrs.
Campion.
“Yes.”
“A sudden resolution, Mr. Chillingly.
The other day you talked of visiting the Scotch lakes.”
“True; but, on reflection, they will be crowded
with holiday tourists, many of whom I shall probably
know. Abroad I shall be free, for I shall be
unknown.”
“I suppose you will be back for the hunting
season,” said Travers.
“I think not. I do not hunt foxes.”
“Probably we shall at all events meet in London,”
said Travers. “I think, after long rustication,
that a season or two in the bustling capital may be
a salutary change for mind as well as for body; and
it is time that Cecilia were presented and her court-dress
specially commemorated in the columns of the ‘Morning
Post.’”
Cecilia was seemingly too busied behind the tea-urn
to heed this reference to her debut.
“I shall miss you terribly,” cried Travers,
a few moments afterwards, and with a hearty emphasis.
“I declare that you have quite unsettled me.
Your quaint sayings will be ringing in my ears long
after you are gone.”
There was a rustle as of a woman’s dress in
sudden change of movement behind the tea-urn.
“Cissy,” said Mrs. Campion, “are
we ever to have our tea?”
“I beg pardon,” answered a voice behind
the urn. “I hear Pompey” (the Skye
terrier) “whining on the lawn. They have
shut him out. I will be back presently.”
Cecilia rose and was gone. Mrs. Campion took
her place at the tea-urn.
“It is quite absurd of Cissy to be so fond of
that hideous dog,” said Travers, petulantly.
“Its hideousness is its beauty,” returned
Mrs. Campion, laughing. “Mr. Belvoir selected
it for her as having the longest back and the shortest
legs of any dog he could find in Scotland.”
“Ah, George gave it to her; I forgot that,”
said Travers, laughing pleasantly.
It was some minutes before Miss Travers returned with
the Skye terrier, and she seemed to have recovered
her spirits in regaining that ornamental accession
to the party; talking very quickly and gayly, and
with flushed cheeks, like a young person excited by
her own overflow of mirth.
