him with a grateful smile, and Bayle was content.
There was a pleasant little supper that was announced unpleasantly just as Miss Heathery had consented to sing again, and was telling the assembly in a bird-like voice how gaily the troubadour touched his guita-h-ah, as he was hastening home from the wah.
“Supper’s ready,” said a loud, harsh voice, which cut like an arrow right through Miss Heathery’s best note.
“Now you shouldn’t, Thisbe,” said Mrs Luttrell in tones of mild reproach; but the reproof was not heard, for the door was sharply closed.
“It is only our Thisbe’s way, Mr Bayle,” whispered Mrs Luttrell; “please don’t notice it. Excellent servant, but so soon put out.”
She nodded confidentially, and then stole out on tiptoe, so as not to interrupt Miss Heathery, who went on – “singing from Palestine hither I come,” to the end.
Then words of reproof and sharp retort could be heard outside; and after a while poor Mrs Luttrell came back looking very red, to lean over the curate from behind the sofa, brooding over him as if he were a favourite chicken.
“I don’t like finding fault with the servants, Mr Bayle. Did you hear me?”
“I could not help hearing,” he said smiling.
“She does provoke me so,” continued Mrs Luttrell in a soft clucking way, that quite accorded with her brooding. “I know I shall have to discharge her.”
“She does not like a little extra trouble, perhaps. Company.”
“Oh, no; it’s not that,” said Mrs Luttrell. “She’ll work night and day for one if she’s in a good temper; but, the fact is, Mr Bayle, she does not like this engagement, and quite hates Mr Hallam.”
Bayle drew his breath hard, but he turned a grave, smiling face to his hostess.
“That’s the reason, I’m sure, why she is so awkward to-night, my dear – I beg pardon, I mean Mr Bayle,” said the old lady colouring as ingenuously as a girl, “but she pretends it is about the potatoes.”
“Potatoes?” said Bayle, who was eager to divert her thoughts.
“Yes. You see the doctor is so proud of his potatoes, and I was going to please him by having some roasted for supper and brought up in a napkin, but Thisbe took offence directly, and said that cold chicken and hot potatoes would be ridiculous, and she has been in a huff ever since.”
Just then the door opened and the person in question entered, to come straight to Mrs Luttrell, who began to tremble and look at the curate for help.
“There’s something gone wrong,” she whispered.
“Can I speak to you, please, mum?” said Thisbe, glaring at her severely.
“Well, I don’t know, Thisbe, I – ”
“Let me go out and speak to Thisbe, mamma dear,” said Millicent, who had crossed the room, divining what was wrong.
“Oh, if you would, my dear,” said Mrs Luttrell eagerly; and Thisbe was compelled to retreat, her young mistress following her out of the room.
“That’s very good of her, Mr Bayle,” said Mrs Luttrell, with a satisfied sigh. “Millicent can always manage Thisbe. She has such a calm, dignified way with her. Do you know she is the only one who can manage her Aunt Trampleasure when she begins to murmur. Ah, I don’t know what I shall do when she has gone.”
“You will have the satisfaction of knowing that she is happy with the man she loves.”
“I don’t know, Mr Bayle, I – Oh dear me, I ought to be ashamed of myself for speaking like this. Hush! here she is.”
In effect Millicent came back into the room to where her mother was sitting.
“Only a little domestic difficulty, Mr Bayle. Mamma, dear, it is all smoothed away, and Thisbe is very penitent.”
“And she will bring up the roast potatoes in the napkin, my dear?”
“Yes,” cried Millicent, laughing merrily, “she has retracted all her opposition, and we are to have two dishes of papa’s best.”
“In napkins, my dear?” cried Mrs Luttrell eagerly; “both in napkins?”
“Yes, mamma, in the whitest napkins she can find.” She glanced at Christie Bayle’s grave countenance, and felt her heart smite her for being so happy and joyous in his presence.
“Don’t think us childish, Mr Bayle,” she said gently. “It is to please my father.”
He rose and stood by her side for a moment or two.
“Childish?” he said in a low voice, “as if I could think such a thing of you.”
Millicent smiled her thanks, and crossed the room to where Hallam was watching her. The next minute supper was again announced – simple, old-fashioned supper – and Millicent went out on Hallam’s arm.
“You are going to take me in, Mr Bayle? Well, I’m sure I’d rather,” said Mrs Luttrell, “and I can then see, my dear, that you have a good supper. There, I’m saying ‘my dear’ to you again.”
“It is because I seem so young, Mrs Luttrell,” replied Bayle gravely.
“Oh no, my dear,” said Mrs Luttrell innocently; “it was because you seemed to come among us so like a son, and took to the doctor’s way with his garden, and were so nice with Millicent. I used to think that perhaps you two might – Oh, dear me,” she cried, checking herself suddenly, “what a tongue I have got! Pray don’t take any notice of what I say.”
There was no change in Christie Bayle’s countenance, for the smile hid the pang he suffered as he took in the pleasant garrulous old lady to supper; but that night he paced his room till daybreak, fighting a bitter fight, and asking for strength to bear the agony of his heart.
Volume One – Chapter Twelve.
James Thickens is Mysterious
“I think, previous to taking this step, Sir Gordon, I may ask if you and Mr Dixon are quite satisfied? I believe the books show a state of prosperity.”
“That does us credit, Mr Hallam,” said Sir Gordon quietly. “Yes, Mr Dixon bids me say that he is perfectly satisfied – eh, Mr Trampleasure?”
“Quite, Sir Gordon – more than satisfied,” replied Mr Trampleasure, who was standing with his hands beneath his coat-tails, balancing himself on toe and heel, and bowing as he spoke with an air that he believed to be very impressive.
“Then, before we close this little meeting, I suppose it only remains for me to ask you if you have any questions to ask of the firm, any demands to make?” Hallam rose from behind the table covered with books and balance-sheets in the manager’s room of the bank, placed his hand in his breast, and in a quiet, dignified way, replied:
“Questions to ask, Sir Gordon – demands to make? No; only to repeat my former question. Are you satisfied?”
“I did reply to that,” said Sir Gordon, who looked brown
