Ashe hesitated.
"Of course, if she wishes it."
"But I don't know that she will wish it. She is not very fond of me," said Kitty, doubtfully. "Yes, I would like to stay with Lady Tranmore. But will your cousin be there?"
"Miss Lyster?"
Kitty nodded.
"How can I tell? Of course, she is often there."
"It is quite curious," said Kitty, after reflection, "how we dislike each other. And it is so odd. You know most people like me!"
She looked up at him without a trace of coquetry, rather with a certain timidity that feared possible rebuff. "That's always been my difficulty," she went on, "till now. Everybody spoils me. I always get my own way. In the convent I was indulged and flattered, and then they wondered that I made all sorts of follies. I want a guide—that's quite certain—somebody to tell me what to do."
"I would offer myself for the post," said Ashe, "but that I feel perfectly sure that you would never follow anybody's advice in anything."
"Yes, I would," she said, wistfully. "I would—"
Ashe's face changed.
"Ah, if you would—"
She sprang up. "Do you see "—she pointed to some figures on a distant path—"they are coming back from church. You understand?—nobody must know about my sister. It will come round to Aunt Lina, of course; but I hope it'll be when I'm gone. If she knew now, I should go back to London to-day."
Ashe made it clear to her that he would be discretion itself. They left the bench, but, as they began to ascend the steps, Kitty turned back.
"I wish I hadn't seen her," she said, in a miserable tone, the tears flooding once more into her eyes.
Ashe looked at her with great kindness, but without speaking. The moment of sharp pain passed, and she moved on languidly beside him. But there was an infection in his strong, handsome presence, and her smiles soon came back. By the time they neared the house, indeed, she seemed to be in wild spirits again.
Did he know, she asked him, that three more guests were coming that afternoon—Mr. Darrell, Mr. Louis Harman, and—Mr. Geoffrey Cliffe? She laid an emphasis on the last name, which made Ashe say, carelessly:
"You want to meet him so much?"
"Of course. Doesn't all the world?"
Ashe replied that he could only answer for himself, and as far as he was concerned he could do very well without Cliffe's company at all times.
Whereupon Kitty protested with fire that other men were jealous of such a famous person because women liked him—because—
"Because the man's a coxcomb and the women spoil him?"
"A coxcomb!"
Kitty was up in arms.
"Pray, is he not a great traveller?—a very great traveller?" she asked, with indignation.
"Certainly, by his own account."
"And a most brilliant writer?"
"Macaulayese," said Ashe, perversely, "and not very good at that."
Kitty was at first struck dumb, and then began a voluble protest against unfairness so monstrous. Did not all intelligent people read and admire? It was mere jealousy, she repeated, to deny the gentleman's claims.
Ashe let her talk and quote and excite herself, applying every now and then a little sly touch of the goad, to make her still run on, and so forget the tragic hour which had overshadowed her. And meanwhile all he cared for was to watch the flashing of her face and eyes, and the play of the wind in her hair, and the springing grace with which she moved. Poor child!—it all came back to that—poor child!—what was to be done with her?
At luncheon—the Sunday luncheon—which still, at Grosville Park, as in the early Victorian days of Lord Grosville's mother, consisted of a huge baronial sirloin to which all else upon the varied table appeared as appurtenance and appendage, Ashe allowed himself the inward reflection that the Grosville Park Sundays were degenerating. Both Lord and Lady Grosville had been good hosts in their day; and the downrightness of the wife had been as much to the taste of many as the agreeable gossip of the husband. But on this occasion both were silent and absent-minded. Lady Grosville showed no generalship in placing her guests; the wrong people sat next to each other, and the whole party dragged—without a leader.
And certainly Kitty Bristol did nothing to enliven it. She sat very silent, her black dress changing her a good deal, to Ashe's thinking, bringing back, as he chose to fancy, the pale convent girl. Was it so that she went through her pious exercises?—by-the-way, she was, of course, a Catholic?—said her lessons, and went to her confessor? Had the French cousin with whom she rode stag-hunting ever seen her like this? No; Ashe felt certain that "Henri" had never seen her, except as a fashion-plate, or en amazone. He could have made nothing of this ghost in black—this distinguished, piteous, little ghost.
After luncheon it became tolerably clear to Ashe that Lady Grosville's preoccupation had a cause. And presently catching him alone in the library, whither he had retired with some official papers, she closed the door with deliberate care, and stood before him.
"I see you are interested in Kitty, and I feel as if I must tell you, and ask your opinion. William, do you know what that child has been doing?"
He looked up from his writing.
"Ah!—what have you been discovering?"
"Grosville told you the story last night."
Ashe nodded.
"Well—Kitty wrote to Alice this morning—and they met. Alice has kept her room since—prostrate—so the Sowerbys tell me. I have just had a note from Mrs. Sowerby. Wasn't it an extraordinary, an indelicate thing to do?"
Ashe studied the frowning lady a moment—so large and daunting in her black silk and white lace. She seemed to suggest all those aspects of the English Sunday for which he had most secret dislike—its Pharisaism and dulness and heavy meals. He felt himself through and through Lady Kitty's champion.
"I should have thought it very natural," was his reply.
Lady Grosville threw up her hands.
"Natural!—when she knows—"
"How can she know?" cried Ashe, hotly. "How can such a child know or guess anything? She only knows that there is some black charge against her mother, on which no one will enlighten her. How can they? But meanwhile her mother is ostracized, and she feels herself dragged into the disgrace, not understanding why or wherefore. Could anything be more pathetic—more touching?"
In his heat of feeling he got up, and began to pace up and down. Lady Grosville's countenance expressed first astonishment—then wavering.
"Oh—of course, it's very sad," she said—"extremely sad. But I should have thought Kitty
