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Constance had begun to grow alarmed, and watched for an opportunity of imploring Mrs. Bury to tell her whether Aunt Mary were really very ill.

Mrs. Bury laughed, and confided to her a secret, which made her at once glad, alarmed, and important.

p. 140‘Oh, and is no one to know?’ said little Constance, with rosy cheeks.

‘Not till leave is given,’ said Mrs. Bury.  ‘You see there is still so much risk of things going wrong, that they both wish nothing to be said at present.  I thought they had spoken to you.’

‘Oh no.  But—but—’ and Constance could not go on, as her eyes filled with tears.

‘Is there special cause for anxiety, you mean, my dear?  Hardly for her, though it was unlucky that she was as unknowing as you, and I don’t see how she is to be taken over these roads into a more civilised place.  But I shall stay on and see them through with it, and I daresay we shall do very well.  I am used enough to looking after my own daughters, and nobody particularly wants me at home.’

‘That’s what Aunt Mary meant by saying you were so very good!’

‘Well, it would be sheer inhumanity to leave them to themselves, and the mercies of Ratzes, and there seems to be no one else that could come.’

‘I’m glad I know!’ said Constance, with a long breath.  ‘Only what shall I do if any one asks me about her?’

‘Say she had a nasty fall, which makes it undesirable to move her just yet.  It is the simple truth, and what you would have naturally said but for this little communication of mine.’

‘I suppose,’ said Constance, in a tone Mrs. Bury did not understand, ‘it will be all known before my Christmas holidays?’

‘Oh yes, my dear, long before that.  I’ll write to you when I have anything to tell.’

p. 141For which Constance thanked her heartily, and thenceforth felt a great deal older for the confidence, which delighted as well as made her anxious, for she was too fond of her uncle and aunt, as well as too young and simple, for it to have occurred to her how the matter might affect her brother.

After seeing much more on her road than she had done before, and won golden opinions from her escort for intelligence and obligingness, she was safely deposited in the train for Colbeam, without having gone home.

She had made up her mind to pass Sunday at her boarding-house, and was greatly surprised when Lady Adela called on Saturday to take her to Northmoor for the Sunday.

‘Now tell me about your uncle and aunt,’ the good lady began, when Constance was seated beside her.  ‘Yes, I have heard from Mrs. Bury, but I want to know whether the place is tolerably comfortable.’

‘Mrs. Bury has made it much better,’ said Constance.  ‘And it is so beautiful, no one would care for comfort who was quite well.’

‘And is your uncle well?  Has he got over his headaches?’ she asked solicitously.

In fact, the absence of Lord and Lady Northmoor had done more than their presence to make Lady Adela feel their value.  She was astonished to find how much she missed the power of referring to him and leaning on his support in all questions, small or great, that cropped up; and she had begun to feel that the stick might be a staff; besides which, having imbibed more than an inkling of the cause p. 142of detention, she was anxious to gather what she could of the circumstances.

She was agreeably surprised in Constance, to whom the journey had been a time of development from the mere school girl, and who could talk pleasantly, showing plenty of intelligence and observation in a modest ladylike way.  Moreover, she had a game in the garden which little Amice enjoyed extremely, and she and her little Sunday class were delighted to see one another again.  It resulted in her Sundays being spent at Northmoor as regularly as before, and in Amice, a companionless child, thinking Saturday brought the white afternoon of the week.

p. 143CHAPTER XXI

THE HEIR-APPARENT

‘My Dear Addie,