E-text prepared by Andrew Templeton, Juliet Sutherland, Graeme Mackreth,
and Project Gutenberg Distributed Proofreaders
by
Author of "Robert Elsmere," "Lady Rose's Daughter,"
"The Mating of Lydia," etc.
Frontispiece in Colour by C. Allan Gilbert
[Illustration: Deeply regret to inform you your husband reportedwounded and missing]
'Shall I set the tea, Miss?'
Miss Cookson turned from the window.
'Yes—bring it up—except the tea of course—they ought to be here atany time.'
'And Mrs. Weston wants to know what time supper's to be?'
The fair-haired girl speaking was clearly north-country. She pronouncedthe 'u' in 'supper,' as though it were the German 'u' in Suppe.
Miss Cookson shrugged her shoulders.
'Well, they'll settle that.'
The tone was sharp and off-hand. And the maid-servant, as she wentdownstairs, decided for the twentieth time that afternoon, that shedidn't like Miss Cookson, and she hoped her sister, Mrs. Sarratt, wouldbe nicer. Miss Cookson had been poking her nose into everything thatafternoon, fiddling with the rooms and furniture, and interfering withMrs. Weston. As if Mrs. Weston didn't know what to order for lodgers,and how to make them comfortable! As if she hadn't had dozens of bridesand bridegrooms to look after before this!—and if she hadn't giventhem all satisfaction, would they ever have sent her all thempicture-postcards which decorated her little parlour downstairs?
All the same, the house-parlourmaid, Milly by name, was a good dealexcited about this particular couple who were now expected. For Mrs.Weston had told her it had been a 'war wedding,' and the bridegroom wasgoing off to the front in a week. Milly's own private affairs—inconnection with a good-looking fellow, formerly a gardener at Bowness,now recently enlisted in one of the Border regiments—had caused her totake a special interest in the information, and had perhaps led her toput a bunch of monthly roses on Mrs. Sarratt's dressing-table. MissCookson hadn't bothered herself about flowers. That she might havedone!—instead of fussing over things that didn't concern her—just forthe sake of ordering people about.
When the little red-haired maid had left the room, the lady she dislikedreturned to the window, and stood there absorbed in reflections thatwere not gay, to judge from the furrowed brow and pinched lips thataccompanied them. Bridget Cookson was about thirty; not preciselyhandsome, but at the same time, not ill-looking. Her eyes were large andstriking, and she had masses of dark hair, tightly coiled about her headas though its owner felt it troublesome and in the way. She was thin,but rather largely built, and her movements were quick and decided. Hertweed dress was fashionably cut, but severely without small ornament ofany kind.
She looked out upon a beautiful corner of English Lakeland. The house inwhich she stood was built on the side of a little river, which, as shesaw it, came flashing and sparkling out of a lake beyond, lying in broadstrips of light and shade amid green surrounding fells. The sun wasslipping low, and would soon have kindled all the lake into a whitefire, in which its islands would have almost disappeared. But, for themoment, everythi