at
here, at all events, the confidences were not mutual, for Isabella
Gayerson was a woman in a thousand in her power of keeping a discreet
counsel. I, who have been intimate with her since childhood, can boast
of no great knowledge to this day of her inward hopes, thoughts and
desires.

The meetings, it would appear, took place more often at Hopton than in
Isabella's home.

"I like Hopton," she said to Lucille one day, in her quiet and
semi-indifferent way. "I have many pleasant associations in this
house. The squire was always kind to me."

"And I suppose you played in these sleepy old rooms as a child," said
Lucille, looking round at the portraits of dead and gone Howards,
whose mistakes were now forgotten. "Yes."

Lucille waited, but the conversation seemed to end there naturally.
Isabella had nothing more to tell of those bygone days. And, unlike
other women, when she had nothing to say she remained silent.

"Did you know Mr. Howard's mother?" asked Lucille presently. "I have
often wondered what sort of woman she must have been."

"I did not know her," was the answer, made more openly. It was only in
respect to herself that Isabella cultivated reticence. It is so easy
to be candid about one's neighbour's affairs. "Neither did he--it was
a great misfortune."

"Is it not always a great misfortune?"

"Yes--but in this case especially so."

"How? What do you mean, Isabella?" asked Lucille, in her impulsive
way. "You are so cold and reserved. Are all Englishwomen so? It is so
difficult to drag things out of you."

"Because there is nothing to drag."

"Yes, there is. I want to know why it was such a special misfortune
that Mr. Howard should never have known his mother. You may not be
interested in him, but I am. My mother is so fond of him--my father
trusted him."

"Ah!"

"There, again," cried Lucille, with a laugh of annoyance. "You say
'Ah!' and it means nothing. I look at your face and it says nothing.
With us it is different--we have a hundred little exclamations--look
at mother when she talks--but in England when you say 'Ah!' you seem
to mean nothing.."

Lucille laughed and looked at Isabella, who only smiled.

"Well?"

"Well," answered Isabella, reluctantly, "if Mr. Howard's mother had
lived he might have been a better man."

"You call him Mr. Howard," cried Lucille, darting into one of those
side issues by which women so often reach their goal. "Do you call him
so to his face?"

"No."