Mr. Pike was evidently not in a genial mood.
Mirrable reached home to find the countess-dowager in a state more easily
imagined than described. Some sprite, favourable to the peace of
Hartledon, had been writing confidentially from Ireland regarding Kirton
and his doings. That her eldest son was about to steal a march on her and
marry again seemed almost indisputably clear; and the miserable dowager,
dancing her war-dance and uttering reproaches, was repacking her boxes in
haste. Those boxes, which she had fondly hoped would never again leave
Hartledon, unless it might be for sojourns in Park Lane! She was going
back to Ireland to mount guard, and prevent any such escapade. Only in
September had she quitted him--and then had been as nearly ejected as a
son could eject his mother with any decency--and had taken the Isle of
Wight on her way to Hartledon. The son who lived in the Isle of Wight
had espoused a widow twice his own age, with eleven hundred a year, and a
house and carriage; so that he had a home: which the countess-dowager
sometimes remembered.
Lord Hartledon was liberal. He gave her a handsome sum for her journey,
and a cheque besides; most devoutly praying that she might keep guard
over Kirton for ever. He escorted her to the station himself in a closed
carriage, an omnibus having gone before them with a mountain of boxes,
at which all Calne came out to stare.
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