CHAPTER XIII.

L’HOMME INCOMPRIS.

Elsley went on, between improved health and the fear of Tom Thurnall, a good deal better for the next month.  He began to look forward to Valencia’s visit with equanimity, and, at last, with interest; and was rather pleased than otherwise when, in the last week of July, a fly drove up to the gate of old Penalva Court, and he handed out therefrom Valencia, and Valencia’s maid.

Lucia had discovered that the wind was east, and that she was afraid to go to the gate for fear of catching cold; her real purpose being, that Valencia should meet Elsley first.

“She is so impulsive,” thought the good little creature, always plotting about her husband, “that she will rush upon me, and never see him for the first five minutes; and Elsley is so sensitive—­how can he be otherwise, in his position, poor dear?” So she refrained herself, like Joseph, and stood at the door till Valencia was half-way down the garden-walk, having taken Elsley’s somewhat shyly-offered arm; and then she could refrain herself no longer, and the two women ran upon each other, and kissed, and sobbed, and talked, till Lucia was out of breath; but Valencia was not so easily silenced.

“My darling! and you are looking so much better than I expected; but not quite yourself yet.  That naughty baby is killing you, I am sure!  And Mr. Vavasour too, I shall begin to call him Elsley to-morrow, if I like him as much as I do now—­but he is looking quite thin—­wearing himself out with writing so many beautiful books,—­that Wreck was perfect!  And where are the children?—­I must rush upstairs and devour them!—­and what a delicious old garden! and clipt yews, too, so dark and romantic, and such dear old-fashioned flowers!—­Mr. Vavasour must show me all over it, and over that hanging wood, too.  What a duck of a place!—­And oh, my dear, I am quite out of breath!”

And so she swept in, with her arm round Lucia’s waist; while Elsley stood looking after her, well enough satisfied with her reception of him, and only hoping that the stream of words would slaken after a while.

“What a magnificent creature!” said he to himself.  “Who could believe that the three years would make such a change!”

And he was right.  The tall lithe girl had bloomed into full glory’ and Valencia St. Just, though not delicately beautiful, was as splendid an Irish damsel as man need look upon, with a grand masque, aquiline features, luxuriant black hair, and—­though it was the fag-end of the London season—­the unrivalled Irish complexion, as of the fair dame of Kilkenny, whose

  “Lips were like roses, her cheeks were the same,
  Like a dish of fresh strawberries smother’d in crame.”