The wished-for Tuesday came at last, and with a fortune not always so favouring, brought with it a glorious morning, one of those bright, sharp, clear days, with a deep blue sky and frosty air, and with that sense of elasticity in the atmosphere which imparts itself to the spirits, and makes mere existence enjoyment. The girls were in ecstasy; they had set their hearts so much on this visit, that they would not let themselves trust to the signs of the weather on the night before, but were constantly running out to ask George the gardener, if that circle round the moon meant anything?—why were the stars so blue?—and why did they twinkle so much?—and was it a sign of fine weather that the river should be heard so clearly? Rickards, too, was importuned to consult the barometer, and impart his experiences of what might be expected from its indications. The gardener augured favourably, was pronounced intelligent, and tipped by Ada in secret. Rickards shook his head at the aspect of the mercury, and was called a “conceited old ass” for his pains. Not either of them treated with different measure than is meted by the public to those great organs of information which are supposed to be their guides, but are just as often their flatterers, for the little world of the family is marvellously like the great world of the nation.

“What a splendid day, Kate. How beautiful the waterfall will look, coming down in showers of diamonds, and how crisp and sharp the copper beech and the big ilex-trees over it. Oh, winter, if this be winter, is really the time for scenery! What makes you so grave, dear? I am wild with spirits to-day.”

“And so should I if I were you.”

“How can you say that,” said Ada, as she threw her arm around the other’s waist. “How can you, Kate, when you know how much cleverer you are, and quicker at everything—how you leave me behind at all I have been working at for years!”

“And never to need that same cleverness is worth it all, I am told!”

“How so? I don’t understand you.”

“I mean, that you are better off—better dealt with by Fortune to be a born lady than I, if I had all the gifts and all the powers you would bestow upon me.”

“This is one of your dark days, as you call them,” said Ada, reproachfully; “and you mean to make it one of mine, too, and I was so happy.”

“This, perhaps, is another of my gifts,” said she, with a mocking laugh, “and yet I was brought here to make you merry and light-hearted! Yes, dear, I overheard Mr. Grenfell tell your papa that his plan was a mistake, and that all ‘low-bred ones’—that was the name he gave us—lost the little spirit they had when you fed them, and only grew lazy.”

“Oh, Kate, for shame!”

“The shame is not mine; it was he said it.”

“How sad you make me by saying these things.”

“Well, but we must own, Ada, he was right! I was—no, I won’t say happier, but fifty times as merry and light-hearted before I came here; and though gathering brushwood isn’t as picturesque as making a bouquet, I am almost sure I sang over the one, and only sighed over the other.”

Ada turned away her head and wiped the tears from her cheeks.

“Isn’t it a hopeful thing to try and make people happy?”

“But papa surely wished, and he believed that you would be happy,” said Ada, with something almost reproachful in her manner.

“All because he hadn’t read that little German fable of the Two Fairies—the one who always did something and failed, and the other who always promised and promised; watering the little plant of Hope, as he calls it, and making believe that the fruit would be, one day, so sweet and so luscious as no lips had ever tasted before. And it’s strange, Ada,” added she, in a graver tone—“it’s strange, but when I was out upon the mountains watching the goats, rambling all day alone in the deep heather, how I used to think and think! O dear! what wonderful things did I not think would one day come to pass—how rich I should be, how great, and, best of all, how beautiful! How kings and great people would flatter me, and make me grand presents; and how haughty I should be to some, and how gracious to others—perhaps very humble people; and how I’d amaze every one with all I knew, and they’d say, ‘Where did she learn this? How did she ever come to know that?’”

“And would that be happiness, Kate?”

“Would it not?”

“Then why not have the same dreams now?”

“Because I cannot—because they won’t come—because life is too full—because, as we eat before we are hungry, and lie down before we are tired, one’s thoughts never go high enough to soar above the pleasures that are around them. At least, I suppose that’s the reason; but I don’t care whether it is or not; there’s the carriage—I hear it coming. And now for such a jolly day in that glorious old garden, with the fountains and the statues, and

Do you know the rest?”

“No, I don’t. I never heard it.”

“It goes on, a something about

Isn’t that a Snob’s Paradise?—that’s what it’s called, Ada.” And away she went, singing a “Tyrol, tra la, la lira!” with a voice that seemed to ring with joy.

Ada called to her to come back; but she never heeded, and fled down the garden and was soon lost to view. Meanwhile, the carriage had reached the door, and as Ada rushed forward to greet it, she stepped back with dismay, for, instead of Sir Within’s spruce britschka, it was an old post-chaise, from which descended the well wrapt-up figure of Mr. M’Kinlay.

“Delighted to see you, Miss Ada; how you’ve grown since I was here—quite a young woman, I declare!” The last words were in soliloquy, for Ada, not aware that he had seen her, had betaken herself to flight to acquaint Mademoiselle of his arrival.

“Glad to see you again, Sir, in these parts,” said Rickards, as he caught up the smallest item of the luggage by way of assisting the traveller. “You had a pleasant journey, I hope, Sir?”

“So-so, Rickards—only so-so. It’s not the time of year one would choose to come down amongst the Welsh mountains; bitterly cold it was this morning early.”

“We’ll soon warm you, Sir; come into the dining-room. You haven’t had breakfast, I’m sure.”

“Nothing—not as much as a cup of tea—since four o’clock yesterday.”

“Dear me, Sir, I don’t know how you bear it. It’s what I remarked to Sir Gervais. I said, ‘There’s Mr. M’Kinlay, Sir,’ said I, ‘he goes through more than any young gentleman in the grouse season.’”

“Well, I’m not so very old, Rickards—eh?”

“Old! I should think not, Sir—in the very prime of life; and I declare, of an evening, Sir, with your white waistcoat on, I’d not guess you to be more than—let me see——”

“Never mind the figure. Ah, this is comfortable; capital old room, and a good old-fashioned fire-place.”

While the lawyer held his half-frozen hands to the fire, Rickards drew a little table close to the hearth, and, with the dexterity of his calling, arranged the breakfast-things. “A hot steak in one moment, Sir, and a devilled kidney or two. Excuse me, Sir, but I’d say a little mulled claret would be better than tea; mulled, Sir, with just one table-spoonful of old brandy in it—Mr. Grenfell’s receipt.”

“No man should know better, Rickards.”

“Ah, Sir, always sharp—always ready you are, to be sure!” And Rickards had to wipe his eyes as he laughed at the repartee.

“And how do you get on here, Rickards?” said M’Kinlay, in a tone evidently meant to invite perfect confidence, and as evidently so interpreted, for, though the door was closed, Rickards went over and laid his hand on it, to assure himself of the fact, and then returned to the fireplace.

“Pretty well, Sir, pretty well. The governess will be meddling—these sort of people can’t keep from it—about the house expenses, and so on; but I don’t stand it, nohow. I just say, ‘This is the way we always do, Mam’sel. It’s just thirty-eight years I’m with the master’s father and himself.’ Isn’t that a pictur’ of a steak, Mr. M’Kinlay? Did you ever see sweeter fat than that, and the gravy in it, Sir? Mrs. Byles knows you, Sir, and does her best. You remember that game-pie, Sir, the last time you was here?”

“I think I do, and you told her what I said of it; but I don’t like what you say of the governess. She is meddlesome—interferes, eh?”

“Everywhere, Sir, wherever she can. With George about the hothouse plants and the melon-frames, with Mrs. Byles about the preserves, a thing my lady never so much as spoke of; and t’other day, Sir, what d’ye think she does, but comes and says to me, ‘Mr. Rickards, you have a cellar-book, haven’t you?’ Yes, ma’am,’ says I; ‘and if the young ladies wants it in the schoolroom to larn out of, I’ll bring it in with pleasure.’ Wasn’t that pretty home, Sir, eh?”

“And what did she say to that?”

“She whisked about this way”—here Mr. Rickards made a bold pirouette—“and said something in high Dutch that I feel sure wasn’t a blessing.”

“Tell me one thing, Rickards,” said the lawyer, in a lower tone, and with the air of a complete confidant. “What’s this little game she’s playing about that Irish girl, writing to my lady that she’s a genius, that she can do this, that, and t’other, and that you’ve only to show her a book, and she knows it from cover to cover?”

“And don’t you see what it is, Sir?” said Rickards, with one eye knowingly closed; “don’t you see it, Sir?”

“No, Rickards, I do not.”

“It’s all the way that little sarpent has of comin’ round her. Of all the creatures ever I seen, I never knew her equal for cunning. It ain’t any use knowing she’s a fox—not a bit of it, Sir—she’ll get round you all the same. It’s not an easy thing to get to the blind side of Mrs. Byles, I promise you. She’s a very knowledgeable woman, lived eleven years under a man-cook at Lord Wandsford’s, and knows jellies, and made French dishes as well as Monsieur HonorÉ himself. Well, Sir, that imp there winds her round her finger like a piece of packthread. She goes and says, ‘Byles’—she doesn’t as much as Mrs. Byles her, the way my lady would—but ‘Byles,’ says she, ‘if ever I come to be a great lady and very rich, I’ll have you to keep my house, and you shall have your own nice sittin’-room, and your own maid to wait on you, and a hundred a year settled on you for your life.’ I vow it’s a fact, Sir, wherever she heard of such a thing, but she said ‘settled on you for life;’ and then, Sir, she’ll sit down and help her with the strawberry-jam, or the brandy-peaches, or whatever it is, and Mrs. Byles says there wouldn’t be her equal in all England, if she only took to be a still-room maid.”

“And can she humbug Mr. Rickards? Tell me that,” asked the lawyer, with the leer of an old cross-examiner.

“Well, I do think, Sir, she can’t do that. It’s not every one as could.”

“No, Rickards; you and I know how to sleep with one eye open. But what does she mean by all this cunning—what does she intend by it?”

“There’s what I can’t come at, nohow, Sir; for, as I say, what’s the good of plotting when you have everything at your hand? She hasn’t no need for it, Mr. M’Kinlay. She has the same treatment here as Miss Ada herself—it was the master’s orders.”

“It puzzles me, Rickards: I own it puzzles me,” said the lawyer, as, with his hands deep! in his pockets, he took a turn or two in the room.

“They say, Sir, it’s the way of them Irish,” said Rickards, with the air of a man enunciating a profound sentiment; but M’Kinlay either did not hear, or did not value the remark, for, after a pause, he said, “Its just possible, after all, Rickards, that it’s only a way she has. Don’t you think so?”

“I do not, Sir,” replied he, stoutly. “If there wasn’t more than that in it, she wouldn’t go on as I have seen her do, when she thought she was all alone.”

“How so? What do you mean?”

“Well, you see, Sir, there’s a laurel hedge in the garden, that goes along by the wall where the peach-trees are, and that’s her favourite walk, and I’ve watched her when she was there by herself, and it was as good as any play to see her.”

“In what respect?”

“She’d be making believe all sorts of things to herself—how that she was a fine lady showing the grounds to a party of visitors, telling them how she intended to build something here and throw down something there, what trees she’d plant in one place, and what an opening for a view she’d made in another. You’d not believe your ears if you heard how glibly she’d run on about plants and shrubs and flowers. And then suddenly she’d change, and pretend to call her maid, and tell her to fetch her another shawl or her gloves; or she’d say, ‘Tell George I shall not ride to-day, perhaps I’ll drive out in the evening.’ And that’s the way she’d go on till she heard the governess coming, and then, just as quick as lightning, you’d hear her in her own voice again, as artless as any young creature you ever listened to.”

“I see—I see,” said M’Kinlay, with a sententious air and look, as though he read the whole case, and saw her entire disposition revealed before him like a plan. “A shrewd minx in her own way, but a very small way it is. Now, Rickards, perhaps you’d tell Miss Heinzleman that I’m here—of course, not a word about what we’ve been talking over.”

“You couldn’t think it, Sir.”

“Not for a moment, Rickards. I could trust to your discretion like my own.”

When Mr. M’Kinlay was left alone, he drew forth some letters from his pocket, and sought out one in a small envelope, the address of which was in a lady’s writing. It was a yery brief note from Miss Courtenay to himself, expressing her wish that he could find it convenient to run down, if only for a day, to Wales, and counsel Mademoiselle Heinzleman on a point of some difficulty respecting one of her pupils. The letter was evidently written in terms to be shown to a third party, and implied a case in which the writer’s interest was deep and strong, but wherein she implicitly trusted to the good judgment of her friend, Mr. M’Kinlay, for the result.

“You will hear,” wrote she, “from Mademoiselle Heinzleman the scruples she has communicated to myself and learn from her that all the advantages derivable from my brother-in-law’s project have been already realised, but that henceforth difficulties alone may be apprehended, so that your consideration will be drawn at once to the question whether this companionship is further necessary, or indeed advisable.” She went on to state that if Sir Gervais had not told her Mr. M’Kinlay would be obliged to go down to the cottage for certain law papers he required, she would have scarcely ventured on imposing the present charge upon him, but that she felt assured, in the great regard he had always expressed for the family, of his ready forgiveness.

A small loose slip, marked “Strictly private and confidential,” was enclosed within the note, the words of which ran thus: “You will see that you must imply to Mademoiselle H. that she has written to me, in the terms and the spirit of my letter to her, and in this way pledge her to whatever course you mean to adopt. This will be easy, for she is a fool.

“I cannot believe that all the interest she assumes to take in K. is prompted by the girl’s qualities, or her aptitude to learn, and I gravely suspect she has my brother-in-law’s instructions on this head. This plot, for plot it is, I am determined to thwart, and at any cost. The girl must be got rid of, sent to a school, or if no better way offer, sent home again. See that you manage this in such a way as will not compromise yourself, nor endanger you in the esteem of

“G. C.”

This last line he re-read before he enclosed the slip in his pocket-book, muttered to himself the words, “endanger you in the esteem of Georgina Courtenay.”

“I wonder what she means by all this?” muttered he, as he folded the loose slip and placed it within the recess of his pocket-book. “The whole scheme of educating this girl was never a very wise one, but it need not have called up such formidable animosity as this. Ah, Mademoiselle, I am charmed to see you looking so well; this mountain air agrees with you,” said he, as the governess entered. “I have come down to search for some documents Sir Gervais tells me I shall find in his desk, here, and will ask you to let me be your guest for twenty-four hours.”

Mademoiselle professed the pleasure his visit would confer, and in an interchange of compliments some time was passed; at length, Mr. M’Kinlay, as if suddenly remembering himself, said, “By the way here is a note I have just received from Miss Courtenay; I think you may as well read it yourself.”

The lawyer watched her face keenly as she read over the letter, and saw clearly enough, in the puzzled expression of her features, that she was trying to recal what she could have written in her last letter to Rome.

“Sonderbar, es ist sonderbar: it is strange, very strange,” muttered she, evidently lost in doubt, “for in my letter of this morning from Lady Vyner, she says that we shall probably soon be sent for to Italy, for that her mother has a great longing to see Ada; and yet there is no hint whatever about Kate.”

“Does she mention that she expects Miss O’Hara to accompany you?” asked he.

“She does not say so; her words are, ‘Do not feel startled if my next letter will call you to us, for her grandmother is most anxious to see Ada;’ and then she goes on to say what different routes there are, and where Sir Gervais could meet us.”

“I think I understand the reserve,” said Mr. M’Kinlay, with an air of much wisdom; “her Ladyship addresses herself to one question solely, and leaves all outside of it to be dealt with by others. It is for us—for you, Mademoiselle, and I, to think of what is to be done with Miss O’Hara.”

“What is there to be done but take her with us?—without, indeed, you were to send her home again,” said she, with some agitation in her voice.

“That is the whole question, Mademoiselle; we must think over it carefully, and, first of all, I must examine certain papers here, which will explain what are the legal claims of this young lady, and who are her guardians; for I remember, though Mr. Grenfell was to have acted, and, indeed, his name was written in pencil, Sir Gervais changed his mind, and thought of another trustee. For all these matters I shall want a little time, and perhaps it will not be asking too great a favour if I were to beg, to let me have my whole day to myself in the library, and the churlish privilege of being alone.”

The governess acceded politely to his proposal, not sorry, perhaps, to have a short interval to herself for consideration over the question before her, and still better pleased, too, that the girls were not destined to lose the long wished-for delight of a day at Dalradern.