Their ring at the bell was answered by a tall footman, whose gorgeous appearance made Mary blush for her own splashed stockings and her father's threadbare coat. But he was affable, though "not sure that his master was at home," and on hearing that they came on business, he gave them over to a still more sublime personage out of livery, who, having taken Mr. Mackworth's card, conducted them through a small carpeted hall and long passage, and left them in the library.
CHAPTER IV.
It seemed to Mary Mackworth as if she had suddenly entered a different world: a world of soft carpets and sweet perfumes, and warm summer air: the sort of world which such creatures as Cilla ought naturally to inhabit, but which was quite out of keeping with her own muddy boots and dank cloak, and with the untidy state to which the winter wind had reduced her bonnet and hair. She was glad to see a mirror in which she could arrange those fluttering ribbons and rebellious locks. A very few touches made her feel tidy again, so she rested quite content, though not at all aware that she was looking much more than tidy, and that her three miles uphill walk, through wind and cold, had given a glow to her gipsy colouring, and a brightness to her clear dark eyes, which made her, for the moment, quite sparklingly pretty.
Her father walked to and fro, admiring and approving.
"Very nice! very nice! Thorough good taste this man must have. All new and fresh, and yet grafted so cleverly on the style of the old place, that there is no jarring in the fitness of things. And all the old books here, I see, and well cared for now! Not as it used to be in Hathaway's time, when it was enough to break one's heart to see the way in which they were used."
His speech, which was almost a soliloquy, broke off as the door opened, and Mary started to her feet and well-nigh exclaimed aloud with surprise, as she found herself face to face—not with the portly middle-aged banker whom she had expected to see,—but with her unknown friend, the hero of the Hansom cab!
The recognition was mutual, for he started and coloured almost as vehemently as Mary; while the curate, at a total loss to account for these manifestations, stared from one to the other in blank astonishment.
Mary was the first to recover self-possession. "I am very glad to see you," she said, holding out her hand. "Papa, this is the gentleman I told you of, who was so very kind to me when I was caught in the snow."
"I am very glad to have this opportunity of thanking you," said Mr. Mackworth, "and I must apologise too for paying you a business visit on Sunday: but I considered it a case of necessity. I think Mr. Langley advertised some days ago for a parcel which, I fear, must have been lost on the occasion when you were so good-natured to my daughter."
"Yes, I did advertise," said the gentleman. "I am Mr. Langley," he added with a smile, as he saw that both father and daughter looked bewildered. "I advertised and offered a reward. Five hundred pounds."
"The reward will not be necessary," said Mr. Mackworth, as he put his hand in his breast-pocket. "I beg your pardon," he added, hesitating, "perhaps I ought to ask you to describe the contents."
"Ten notes of one thousand pounds each. I can't tell you the relief of getting them back. Thank you a thousand times! It is much more than my carelessness deserves."
The curate held his tongue: if he had spoken his thoughts, he would have said "Just so!" Perhaps his face expressed something of the kind, for when the banknotes had been counted over and locked up, Mr. Langley attempted an apologetic sort of explanation.
"You mustn't suppose that I was such a fool as to leave the money in the cab while I went in at Grueby's," he said; "I thought it safer in my hand than in my pocket, and I had just put it on the seat before getting in when the sudden snow-storm attracted my attention,—and"—he hesitated.
"And then you were so kind as to take pity on me," said Mary, and the curate smiled as he murmured some commonplace about virtue not being its own reward.
"And now, Mary, my dear," he said to his daughter, "we had better be setting off homewards; it is getting dusk already, and we must be back for our evening service."
"Oh! no," said the banker, warmly; "do pray take a cup of tea before you go; my sister will be extremely glad to make your acquaintance. And you must really let me send you home in the brougham. I don't generally have it out on Sunday, really," he added, as he read some disapproval of the ready offer in the curate's face; "but this is an exceptional case—you said so yourself, and I do hope you will let me have the pleasure of sending you back in it."
