CHAPTER XXII.
ASKING THE RECTOR.
Perhaps Lady Hartledon had never in all her life been so much astonished
as when she reached Hartledon, for the first person she saw there was her
mother: her mother, whom she had believed to be in some remote district
of Ireland. For the moment she almost wondered whether it was really
herself or her ghost. The countess-dowager came flying down the steps--if
that term may be applied to one of her age and size--with rather
demonstrative affection; which, however, was not cordially received.
"What's the matter, Maude? How you stare!"
"_Is_ it you, mamma? How _can_ it be you?"
"How can it be me?" returned the dowager, giving Maude's bonnet a few
kisses. "It _is_ me, and that's enough. My goodness, Maude, how thin you
look! I see what it is! you've been killing yourself in that racketing
London. It's well I've come to take care of you."
Maude went in, feeling that she could have taken care of herself, and
listening to the off-hand explanations of the countess-dowager. "Kirton
offended me," she said. "He and his wife are like two bears; and so I
packed up my things and came away at once, and got here straight from
Liverpool. And now you know."
"And is Lady Kirton quite well again?" asked Maude, helplessly, knowing
she could not turn her mother out.
"She'd be well enough but for temper. She _was_ ill, though, when they
telegraphed for me; her life for three days and nights hanging on a
shred.
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